Page 113 of Sweet Ruin

“Galina,” Kane says. “This is Delilah.”

She gives me a wide smile. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, madam. Would you like to sit?”

As I take a seat in the chair she offers me, Kane hangs the garment bag on a hook by the mirror and sets the shoebox on the couch. “I’ll be downstairs.”

“You’re not staying for this part?”

His eyes rake over me.

Slowly.

Heat surges beneath my skin.

“You’ll come down when you’re ready.”

He pulls the door shut behind him.

With him gone, it’s just me and this nice, albeit unfamiliar woman.

Galina turns my chair a few degrees toward the light, tips my chin with one bangled hand, and says, “Good bones. We do soft.” Then she goes rummaging in a train case the size of a toolbox. I get a minute to myself in a bulb-ringed mirror I did not ask for.

Okay, Delilah. Pep talk. Go.

You are not on a date. You are at work.

This is a shift like any other, except the uniform is a slinky ballgown and your work colleague is a green-eyed giant who melted your deadbolt and has a knack for pinning you in corners while he whispers depraved promises in your ear.

Why are we doing this?

Because of how hard I’ve worked to bring my bakery to life. Remember how happy you were the day you got the mixers? That was pure, unfiltered joy.

Remember when the walk-in went on the fritz and you almost lost the sourdough starter, and you and Priya spent a whole weekend babysitting it back to life?

Hell, remember Priya? She loves you unconditionally, and she’s got a little girl who needs her mama to keep bringing home the bacon.

You’re doing this for them.

And for yourself, too. You deserve a fresh start. Away from Connor and Vivian and all the other harpies who keep trying to drag you down into their respective circles of hell.

You can do this.

Galina returns, gives me one more reassuring smile, and then gets to work. She takes the pins out of my hair without asking and lets it fall, then combs it out with her fingertips.

She doesn’t talk much, which I appreciate more than I can say, because I just need a moment to recalibrate right now.

She sections my hair with clips and starts at the back with a big round brush and the dryer, rolling each piece under and holding it there until it cools.

Then she goes through it with a curling iron, wide barrel, wrapping and dropping and never touching the ends.

When she’s done, she flips me upside down, shakes everything out with her fingers, and mists it with an almond-scented spray. It comes out looking like beach waves that took no effort at all.

I’m starting to think Galina might be a witch.

For my face, she starts with a moisturizer that she warms between her palms first. Then a foundation she mixes on the back of her hand, dabbed on with a sponge instead of brushed.

She does concealer under my eyes in a triangle. Cream blush high on the cheeks, patted in with her ring finger. Brown liner smudged along the top lashes only, no wing, then two coats of mascara with a tissue tucked under my lower lashes so nothing prints.

Last is the lip. She skips red and picks a brownish rose, lines it, fills it, blots it on a tissue, and does it again.