“Yep. Can’t dance onstage without glitter.” She followed him into the bathroom, and he gazed at the riotous curls framing her face. Hmm. “Umm, does Mom use a special hair tie or something?”
“You can use these.” She gave him a bunch of silky pink ribbons and a contraption outfitted with fake diamonds and a bunch of claw teeth that snapped open. He wished he’d paid more attention to how a woman fixed her hair. He was only familiar with bobby pins and scrunchies.
But he’d handle it. It was just hair. He gathered all the loose strands into a fist, and twisted the bundle twice to keep it together. Then, using his other hand, he opened the claw thing and slid it on in the center of her head. He wrapped the pink ribbon twice around the bump and tied it with a bow. A grin split his lips. “Done. Want me to spray you now?”
Her green eyes—which looked much more like gold, and a lot like his—widened in horror. “It’s crooked. And there’s a big bump. It needs to be smooth. And if I do my pirouette, it won’t hold.” She demonstrated, bouncing once in the air, and he watched an array of curls merrily escape the knot and spring back around her face.
“I’ll try again. Don’t worry, we’ll get it.”
He tried again. And again. On the fifth attempt, they were both hopped up on nerves and beginning to panic. “Use the curling iron!” she suggested. “Mama says sometimes the strands need to be straightened to get it in a tight bun.”
His throat dried up, but he nodded. “Sure. Curling iron. Where is it?”
Becca pulled the weapon out of the closet. “Here, I’m not allowed to plug stuff in.”
He set it up, refusing to be intimidated by a tool that was hot pink. He was a builder, for God’s sake. He used power tools on a regular basis. He could handle a curling iron.
But hair was very different than houses. The silky, springy curls bounced away when he tried to grasp them between the two segments, and they slid off on a merry chase. He burned his finger twice, and his stomach was in knots about possibly burning Becca. Precious minutes ticked by.
“The pink ribbons don’t work. Does your mom have rubber bands anywhere?”
“All the hair stuff is here.” She pulled open the top middle drawer, and numerous items sprung forth. Hair bands, headbands, clips, barrettes, ribbons, and even a damn scrunchie. He grabbed a simple rubber band in pink and prayed hard he could do this. Finally he managed to get the strands in a tighter type of bun with the band, then he added the clip thing. The pink ribbons were casualties.
Becca announced it was acceptable.
His shoulders sagged in relief.
“Now the sparkle,” she instructed.
He grabbed the can, shook it madly, and began spraying. A cloud of sparkles burst from the hose and exploded around them, drenching them in shimmery pink crystals. Becca’s mouth fell open. “You weren’t supposed to shake it,” she whispered.
Tristan looked in the mirror. It was as if he’d been dipped in a vault of sparkles. They shone from his hair, reflected off his suit, and clung to his face. He looked like a deranged princess.
Their gazes met in the mirror with horror.
Then they both laughed.
Tristan had never laughed so hard in his life. The ridiculousness of the entire situation struck him full force, and Becca clung to him, bent over, as tears rolled down her face. A sense of pure joy filled him at her reaction and the open way she was able to view the situation.
Just like Sydney.
When they calmed down, he hurried her into the car, and he followed his GPS to the dance hall. Already the parking lot was a madhouse, with little girls in tutus gripping their mothers’ hands, carrying bags and large bouquets of flowers.
“Were we supposed to bring anything?” he asked. “Flowers or something?”
“No. Daddies bring flowers for their girls sometimes after they dance,” she said matter-of-factly. “Sometimes Mama picks me up sunflowers. I like them. They’re happy.”
A pang hit deep. “I like sunflowers, too. Okay, let’s do this.”
They walked into the hall, where chaos reigned, girls chattered madly, and moms filled the empty spaces in tight clusters. “Do you know where to go?” he asked. “Do you need me to check in with your teacher?”
Becca raised her hand and waved to a little girl across the room. “No, I’m okay. My friend Lyndsey is over there—her mom will help me. You need to get a seat—Mama says it gets crazy in there, and she likes to be in the front row.”
“Got it. Okay, break a leg.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“Never mind. Good luck. You’ll be great, and your mom will be here soon.”
“Thanks, Tristan!”
She skipped over to her friend. Ignoring the pointed looks he got owing to his sparkle incident, he headed down the aisle and grabbed the last two seats on the end. Lowering himself into one of them, he shrugged off his jacket and laid it on the other. Relief coursed through him. He’d done it. They’d had some hiccups, but Becca was dressed and here on time, and he had seats in the front row.
“Excuse me? You can’t save that seat.”
He looked up. A woman with dark blond hair, heavily lined eyes, and bright red lipstick stood over him. She was dressed in an expensive cream sweater set, with oatmeal pants, and had a ton of sparkly gold jewelry dripping from every bare inch of skin. Her perfume was expensive and too obvious.
He was used to dealing with all types of personalities in his business, so he shot her a charming smile. “Oh, I’m saving it for one of the girls’ mothers. She had a flat tire, so she wasn’t able to get here in time.”
She gave him a tight smile. “It’s still against the rules. No saving seats for anyone in the family. It’s not fair. I’ll need to sit there.”
He made sure he kept the smile on his face. “I understand the rules, but this is a unique circumstance. I’m sure the teacher will agree this time it would be okay to hold one seat.”
“Not in the front row,” she retorted. “You can save her a seat in the back. You only get the front if you’re here in person.”
His gaze narrowed. So did hers.
“Sydney Greene-Seymour had an emergency. Do you know her? And her daughter, Becca? I’m sure Sydney will be appreciative of your flexibility—it really is an emergency.”