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clue?
    “Maybe it’s my hair.”
    “Maybe it’s the fact that you call them leggings instead of pants .”
    No, it was the fact that Hank knew how terrible she was at Hank’s favorite sport.
    “Forget her,” Gwynne said. “Your hair is beautiful. If anyone around here has problematic hair, it’s me. My hair is a mess.”
    “It’s not a mess. I like it.” It did look a little hedge-clipper-gone-wild, but it was cute.
    “Please. I got mad at my hair last night and hacked at it.”
    Abby looked again. She could tell it was different, but it didn’t look terrible. “Going for the uneven look?”
    Gwynne rearranged her hair into more spikes. “I may have been a little impulsive.”
    “It just needs a few days to settle in. Think of it as edgy.” That was the thing about being impulsive—you had to have a positive attitude or it was all over. Even if the impulse involved scissors and already-short hair and anger you didn’t seem to want to talk about with the friend you just had lunch with.
    “ A few days to settle in ? I love that you’re trying to make me feel better, but that is the worst white lie I’ve ever heard. Did you see the back?” Gwynne turned her head to show her the ragged cut that did, frankly, look a lot less intentional. “I have an appointment for tomorrow morning to get it evened out. They might have to shave that part.”
    “I’m sure it’s salvageable.”
    Gwynne clasped her hands behind her head and leaned back in her chair. “I’m not worried about it. I can’t see the back, anyway, and no one else cares what I look like.”
    She cared enough to get it fixed, though.
    “Plus I came up with this great line about how it’s edgy,” Gwynne said. “Totally convincing.”
    “You didn’t use it on me.”
    “I didn’t use it because you seem like the kind of woman who would see through my B.S.”
    “I don’t have to if you do it for me,” Abby pointed out.
    “I like you.” Gwynne unclasped her hands and rubbed the choppy hair at the back of her head. “You don’t happen to own a red pushup bra, do you?”
    Abby opened her mouth in disbelief. Of course she didn’t own a pushup bra, because there was no need to push anything up any farther than it already was. Not that Gwynne needed to know that. Besides, Gwynne was kidding—it wasn’t a real question and she didn’t expect a real answer. If Bruce the guitar guy had said it she’d be pissed, but with Gwynne, it was harmless. She just hoped she wasn’t blushing.
    “Was there anything about this woman you liked besides her bra?”
    “One or two things.” Gwynne gave a self-deprecating smile. “But she didn’t see through my B.S.”
    * * *
    The next time Abby saw Gwynne at work, someone had done some magic on her hair and turned it into a shorter version of her previous pixie cut that drew attention to her stunning, androgynous bone structure. She hadn’t gotten close enough to see what the hair stylist did to the back, but she figured if she waited, she’d eventually get a chance to check it out without being obvious.
    Or she could just ask, and hope that Gwynne didn’t take it as an invitation to flirt with her.
    Or hope that she did.
    “Welcome to Sea Salt,” Gwynne was saying in a warm, professional tone.
    Abby continued to play her harp while Gwynne offered the guests—a stressed-out mother and a five-year-old boy—a glass of grapefruit-lime spring water that Abby had sampled earlier and voted much tastier than the cucumber water. The boy eyed the mint leaves floating in the glass and jerked away.
    The mother corralled him into her arms. “My son has intestinal parasites that won’t go away. A friend of mine said you do faith healing—”
    Gwynne’s face clouded over. “Energy healing.”
    “She said you were able to help her son.”
    “I’m sorry, I don’t—”
    “You have hands that heal. You cleared up his psoriasis when doctors could do nothing.”
    Gwynne’s polite smile shut down. “I