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him. “All right, Ginger, grab a bite but don’t let this scoundrel keep you too long. Lindy and Kyle want to talk to you about their hair ideas for tomorrow.”
    “Looking forward to it,” Ginger said, turning to the buffet with a backward glance at Tom. How did he know?
    She filled her plate and set it on the counter two seats down from Tom, who nursed a frosty root beer. “Are there any more of those?”
    “At your service.” He hopped up, rounded the bar, and pulled a cold soda bottle from the fridge. He twisted off the top and slid it toward her. “On the house.”
    She laughed, covering her mouth with her smooth left hand.
    “Wow, I got a laugh out of you.” Tom came around the bar and took the stool next to her, relaxing with his elbows on the bar.
    “Don’t act so surprised.”
    “But I am. I didn’t know I possessed the power.”
    “Very funny.” She lifted the soda bottle and took a hearty swig of sweetness. “Sorry about the other day . . .”
    “I get it. Caught you off guard.”
    Making sure her sweater sleeve covered her hand, Ginger split apart a fluffy yeast roll, the kind her Gram used to make when she was a kid. She popped a steaming piece in her mouth.
    “What? No butter?”
    She smiled, shaking her head, relaxing a bit. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, Tom Wells made her comfortable. He made her want to be a better person. “My grandma made rolls like these for holiday dinners and birthdays when I was growing up. They were so good they didn’t need butter. We’d eat them plain or maybe with homemade black raspberry jelly.” Her voice faded. Those times ended right after Ginger turned thirteen. A year after the fire. An aneurysm claimed Gram’s life when she was only sixty.
    “My grandma made dumplings.” Tom shook his head, humming. “Best thing you ever put in your mouth.” He peered at her. “But the same thing happened to us. She died and so did the tradition.”
    “I keep telling myself I’ll learn how to do it but—”
    “Life gets in the way.”
    Ginger set her roll down and reached for her napkin. “Thank you.” She nodded toward the sofa and fireplace. “For that.”
    “Bridgett can be a little obtuse.”
    “Apparently you’re . . . What’s the opposite of obtuse?”
    “Bright, smart, intelligent, handsome, sexy.”
    Ginger choked, wheezing a laugh, pressing the back of her hand against her lips. She finished swallowing her roll, washing it down with a nip of root beer. “Someone doesn’t think well of himself.”
    He grinned. “I like hearing you laugh.”
    “Yeah, well . . .” Ginger shifted around in her stool and adjusted her scarf, making sure it was in place, covering her flaw. Under the heat of his gaze, she felt exposed and transparent, as if he could see the things she longed to hide.
    “They’ve been talking about you.” Tom gestured to the women on the sofa with his root beer bottle. “Apparently Bridgett hired some world-renowned photographer for the weekend and they are counting on you to work your wonders.”
    “Women like to feel beautiful. Especially in photos. Double especially for a wedding.”
    “You say that like you’re not one of them .”
    His words and the tenor of his voice confirmed her suspicion. He read her, saw through her. Ginger tore anothercorner bite from her roll. “I say it like it’s true. Don’t read anything into it. Women like to be beautiful and men prefer them that way.”
    “I suppose so.” He turned his root beer bottle with his fingers, glancing toward her. “But there’s two kinds of beautiful.”
    “Only two?” She peeked at him and forced a relaxing exhale. He’s just being nice, Ginger.
    “Touché.” His soft laugh tapped a buried memory of sitting in the library, trying to get him to study calc problems for a quiz instead of doodling caricatures of Mr. Bickle. “I was thinking of outside beauty and inside beauty.”
    “What of all the layers and nuances in between?”
    “Touché