Shay waited on the edge of her seat, fascinated. She hadn’t seen Connor without a beard since they were in high school. Back when they’d met, he’d been a sweet, awkward kid with hair the color of a copper penny. Over the years, his hair had darkened to a deep auburn. His skin was fair, but not milky white. His nose was a straight specimen of masculine perfection. His gray eyes were deep-set and downturned—a fraction lower at their outer edges—which lent him a pensive look that suited him. He was a thinker more than a talker. Observant.
She hadn’t decided to axe the beard because it was unattractive. It was about an inch long and well kept. She’d decided to axe it because her intuition was telling her he had a stunning jawline under there. More than that, though, she suspected he hid behind the beard. He’d asked her to enhance what was already there, so that Molly would see him. This seemed like the clear first step.
The beard fell away in strips. When he finished, Brad patted on aftershave that smelled of sage. Then he sat Connor upright and went to work with flashing scissors on Connor’s hair, which was thick with a bit of curl.
She was very proud of her first decision as his dating consultant because Connor’s smooth cheeks revealed a strong, classic, V-shaped chin.
Brad kept some length on the sides of Connor’s hair, and slightly more length on top. What began to emerge was exactly the hairstyle effect she’d envisioned—tousled and casual, yet neat enough to enhance Connor’s gift-from-God bone structure.
Shay and Brad carried on a conversation while Connor regarded himself in the mirror with a bemused expression. He held his body with stillness and patience.
She’d always liked Connor Bryant. In fact, she dared anyone not to like him. He was relaxed and genuine, the sort of person who lowered your blood pressure. Shay’s decisive personality gelled with his thoughtful one, making the vibe between them effortless.
They’d spent years in art classes together when they were growing up. During that season, she’d appreciated having him as a friend but hadn’t experienced any teen girl bolts of attraction. Then he’d gone away to school and quite a bit of time had passed. When she’d finally seen him again, she’d realized with a startled clang that Connor Bryant had grown into himself. He was more assured. Taller. Mature. Handsome.
In the years since, their interactions had—for her, anyway—been undergirded with a subtle buzz of possibility. However, she’d given that possibility no room to grow. She’d been with Nate for years. And now, Connor was into Molly.
Brad stepped back, signaling that his work was done.
Shay met Connor’s eyes in the mirror. “What do you think?” she asked.
“I like it.”
“You’re so good-looking!”
“Nah. Brad’s an excellent barber.”
Humble Connor clearly did not grasp the magnitude of his appeal. She waved an arm from his head to his toes. “You’re an extraordinarily good-looking man. Isn’t he, Brad?”
“Extraordinarily,” Brad answered wryly.
When Connor didn’t reply, she gave him a belligerent expression that said, Speak!
“Thank you,” he said. And then, “How much do I owe you?” to Brad.
Once the bill and tip had been paid, they made their way to the giant fir tree erected in the center of the town square. Shay noticed with smug satisfaction that numerous women shot Connor double-takes or surreptitious glances.
The parade now complete, The Vine Church choir sang O Christmas Tree from a small stage. Spectators formed a dense ring around the tree. She and Connor found a vantage point behind a family with enough kids to fill a minivan.
“You mentioned earlier that you haven’t dated a lot lately,” she said. In fact, now that she thought about it, she couldn’t recall him having a girlfriend at all since his return to Misty River. “Any particular reason?”
“My heart wasn’t in it.”
“Why?”
“I guess because I’ve liked Molly for a while now. Everyone else seems like a runner-up.”
Earlier, Shay had called Molly a lucky girl. She’d meant it. Connor would make an excellent boyfriend. “I’m feeling more and more invested in the task of preparing you to date Molly. What should we tackle next?”
“My wardrobe?”
“Yes! I could meet you Wednesday afternoon.”
“Done.”
The mayor came on stage. After making a few remarks, she began the countdown to the lighting of the tree. “Ten, nine . . .” The voices of the crowd joined in. “Five, four.” Louder. “One!”
Thousands of lights flashed on, illuminating the tree. Icicle lights. Tiny red lights. White twinkle lights. The crystal star on top glinted. Red-and-white-checked ribbon accented some of the boughs. Others held old-fashioned wooden ornaments or clusters of the same fruit-and-nuts combo that decorated the downtown greenery.
The crowd released a collective, “Ahhhh,” of wonder. The high school band played “Jingle Bells.”
“Shay?”
She turned her chin to him in answer and discovered that he was already looking at her. Light from the tree bathed the clean angles and contours of his face.
“Thank you very much for helping me with this.”
He’d single-handedly turned what had been a bummer of a day, thanks to Nate the Disappointment, into a satisfying evening. “Trust me when I say that helping you really has been and will continue to be my pleasure.”
• • •
“I don’t let myself eat lasagna Monday through Saturday,” Connor’s mom said to him the following day. “But it’s Sunday, praise the Lord. I allow myself lasagna on Sundays.”
Accustomed to her food issues, Connor nodded as he cracked open the oven to check the cooking progress on the lasagna he’d purchased for their dinner. Almost done.
“I can’t wait.” She began unloading the dishwasher. “All that ricotta. The spicy meat. The curvy edges of the noodles.” She groaned happily.
The winter sun set early, so the kitchen’s windows framed dark views of their neighborhood. It was plenty bright inside, though. In addition to the recessed lighting, his mom had lit a lamp on the counter and a battery-powered one on the table.
He assisted with the dishes as she continued to sing lasagna’s praises.
For reasons he didn’t understand, she’d chosen to live in a tug-of-war between her deep affection for food and her desire not to gain weight. She was not a petite person, but who cared? She was beautiful as she was. Tall and striking, with a knack for dressing in layers of clothing. She wore her graying strawberry-blond hair in a short style that suited her kind face.
She looked great at the age of sixty and he’d have liked for her to make peace with food so that she could enjoy it for as long as possible before ALS affected her ability to eat and swallow. But, so far, the tug-of-war showed no signs of stopping.
“I’m not planning to eat more than eight ounces of lasagna,” she was saying. “I’ll whip up a side salad and fill up on that.”
Mom had been the rock of his childhood after Dad left the family when Connor was seven. Penny Bryant was dependable, supportive, and unselfish, which was why the day he’d learned she had Lou Gehrig’s disease had been the worst of his life. He’d known just enough about the condition to react with horror. The research he’d done following their phone conversation had deepened his dread. ALS was a heartbreaking, dehumanizing way to die.