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glared at his mom, then said, “Mrs. Desmond, with all due respect, I don’t have a dog in this fight.”

      “Dogs? Who’s talking about dogs? This is about hairstyles!”

      His point exactly, which apparently he wasn’t going to be allowed to make between his mother’s inherent sympathy and her hopes for a potential client.

      “I was just going to lunch.”

      “Fine. Then you can stop by Clarissa’s on your way over to the Burger Barn.”

      “Mrs. Desmond, I’m not agreeing to take your case.”

      “Okay, but once you see this new hairdresser, you’ll know exactly what I mean. Her hair is as red as the volunteer fire department’s new truck! She’s not one of us. I don’t know where she’s from, but it’s not around here, that’s for sure.”

      Which made James wonder what a fire-engine-red-haired, innovative stylist was doing in Brody’s Crossing, Texas.

      A few minutes later, with Mrs. Desmond gone and his mother nibbling on a tuna salad sandwich at her desk, James grabbed his jacket and headed for the Burger Barn, which was across the street from Clarissa’s House of Style. Eat first, ask questions later. He would not be lured into the beauty shop out of curiosity. That type of behavior could get him in trouble—with himself, if not anyone else.

      But when he walked by Clarissa’s, he glanced into the big picture window. Just to see if they were open and working. He squinted against the bright December sunlight, wondering if his eyes could be trusted.

      He stopped on the uneven concrete sidewalk and stared as the petite hairdresser brushed and used a blow dryer on someone older—he couldn’t tell who from this angle.

      Wow. The newcomer’s hair really was as red as the fire truck. Her bright green sweater ended just shy of her belly button, which twinkled with a tiny bit of silver or gold. Her jeans were tight in all the right places. Several long strands of beads swung as she wielded the blow dryer. Overall, she looked as if she were a Christmas elf making mischief inside Clarissa’s shop.

      He approached the door, all thoughts of burgers gone.

      Chapter Two

      Scarlett looked up from fighting Myra Hammer’s tight perm as the door to the shop opened. Holy schmoly. What was a man—especially a man who looked like this one—doing here? Surely there was a barbershop in Brody’s Crossing where the young and preppy got their already neat hair cut. Not that she minded looking at six feet of trim, hunky, thirty-something male, dressed in pressed chinos, a blue plaid button-down shirt and a brown leather jacket. His belt matched his polished boots, and his nails appeared clean and trimmed. She just couldn’t imagine what he wanted in the very pink House of Style.

      “May I help you?” she asked, since Venetia was in the back mixing up color for her client, and Clarissa was off to the café for lunch with “the girls,” as she called her friends.

      “You must be the new stylist,” the dark-haired hunk said with a smile. “The one who’s ‘not from around here.’”

      “Yep, that would be me.”

      “I’m James Brody,” he said, handing her a card from his jacket pocket. “My office is down the street, across from the bank, next to the little park with the fountain.”

      “Not that you’re doing us much good,” Myra Hammer interjected. “Won’t even do what we ask you to do.”

      Scarlett frowned and looked at the card. “An attorney? Sorry, but I don’t need an attorney. Now, if you were a mechanic, we could talk business.”

      “Actually, I was hoping you’d have a moment to speak to me.” He looked down at Myra, and Scarlett got the impression he was working to keep his expression neutral. “In private.”

      “I’m busy now. I’ll be finished in ten minutes.”

      “Maybe,” Myra said. “I want my hair with a wave, but no little curls. I can’t stand those little curls.”

      Then why did you get a tight perm? Scarlett felt like asking, but didn’t. “Ten to fifteen minutes.”

      “I can grab a burger and come back in fifteen minutes. Unless you’d like for me to wait and we can get something together. If you haven’t eaten yet.”

      He was asking her out to lunch? How odd. He didn’t even know her. “That’s nice, but…”

      “You might as well go to lunch with him,” Myra interjected. “He’s rich, powerful and single.”

      “Now, Myra, you know I’m not getting rich in this town,” Brody answered. “And I’m hardly powerful.”

      “You’re a Brody, aren’t you?” Myra looked up at Scarlett. “Town’s named after his family.”

      “Oh, I hadn’t made the connection.”

      “That was generations ago. They owned a ranch, like most everyone else around here.”

      “You could be rich if you’d sued that grocery store. I could have gotten sick on bruised bananas.”

      “But you didn’t, because you had enough sense not to eat the bananas, and therefore we didn’t have a case.”

      “So now I have to eat bad bananas to get my due!”

      “I didn’t say that,” James Brody replied, then sighed. “And besides, I came in to see…I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

      “I forgot to tell you. It’s Scarlett.”

      “Scarlett…?”

      “Just Scarlett, unless you’re from the licensing board or health department or insist on seeing my license.”

      “That bad, hmm?”

      She nodded. “My mother has a warped sense of humor.”

      “Sorry to hear that.” He shifted from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable—but why? Because he stood in a beauty salon, or because he’d just asked her out to lunch? “So, Scarlett, do you want to get a burger?”

      She could definitely use all the free meals she could get, since her car engine, as the snaggletoothed chicken crate man had prophesized, was “blown.” But no, she couldn’t have lunch. She had another client coming in after Myra was finished with her wave, no tight curls.

      “Sorry, but I can’t. I’m booked up until after two o’clock. If you want to talk, I’ll work you in.”

      “Well, if that’s the best you can do, I’ll accept your offer to see me between appointments,” he replied, and added a dimpled smile, which proved just how perfectly preppy—and okay, charming—he really was.

      “Just remember you can’t trust lawyers,” Myra said.

      “It’s good to see you, too, Myra,” Brody replied without the dimple, then gave Scarlett another slight, all-suffering smile. “I’ll see you in a few.”

      “I’ll be here.” As soon as the door closed behind him, Scarlett wondered just exactly what she’d agreed to do…and if she should have held out for the free lunch.

      “HI,” JAMES BRODY SAID, as he walked into the salon fifteen minutes later, on the dot. Scarlett finished putting away styling products into a rolling cart. She dropped a comb in sterilizing solution and turned to face him. “How was your burger?”

      “Same as always. I eat there every day, except Chamber of Commerce monthly luncheons and the occasional meeting with a client.”

      Scarlett thought that sounded extremely boring, but she held her tongue. His eating habits were none of her business. Although he was here, making something his business. But what?

      Venetia

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