Chapter 1
Rosie Delgado’s hands fluffed, snipped, styled, and gestured, conducting the beautiful chaos of Sparkle & Shear like a maestro born with scissors instead of a baton. Hair spray hung thick in the air as scissors snipped in rhythm with the chatter and laughter. Cuts for a Cause packed her salon wall-to-wall with bodies, radiating heat and anticipation, and the scent of shampoo mingled with coffee from the pot she’d brewed at dawn.
“Mrs. Winslow, you are going to stop traffic with this bob.” Rosie spun the chair with a flick of her wrist, the wheels squeaking against the floor as the elderly woman faced the mirror. “Ed won’t know what hit him.”
The woman’s weathered face crinkled, eyes brightening beneath her freshly trimmed bangs. “Oh, you always say the sweetest things.”
“Not sweet—accurate.” Rosie winked and unsnapped the cape with a theatrical flourish that sent a cascade of silver-white clippings drifting to the floor. They joined the growing mosaic of browns, blondes, and grays beneath her aching feet. Seven hours of standing had knotted the muscles along her spine, but Mrs. Winslow’s smile made it worthwhile.
The bell above the door jingled against glass, and Rosie’s gaze flicked to the entrance. The temperature in the salon dropped as Sheriff Tom Langston filled the doorway, his uniform starched crisp against broad shoulders. His presence rippled through the crowd—conversation volume dipped, women patted their hair, men straightened as if by reflex.
Tom didn’t scan the room. He assessed it. His eyes tracked methodically from exit signs to electrical outlets to the overcrowded seating area, one hand resting lightly on his belt near his badge. His jaw set in that particular way that carved lines beside his mouth. The salon shrank around him, as if suddenly aware it might be breaking seventeen different safety codes.
“Well, look who’s here to protect and serve!” She called out over the hum of blow dryers and chatter, unable to resist poking at his serious demeanor. “Did someone report dangerous levels of fabulousness?”
Several customers laughed. Tom didn’t. His mouth remained a flat line as he moved toward her, careful not to bump into the chairs crowding the space.
“Ms. Delgado.” His voice sounded like gravel wrapped in velvet. “Your permit only covers fifteen people inside at once. I count twenty-three.”
Rosie ran her fingers through a client’s hair, separating sections for highlights. “I know, I know. But it’s for the children’s hospital, Tom. And I’ve got most of the waiting crowd on the sidewalk. Weather’s perfect for it.”
His gaze tracked from her face to her fingers separating the client’s hair, lingering a fraction too long on the sparkly rings catching light as she worked. “The sidewalk is public property. Your event can’t block pedestrian traffic.”
“Hence why I expanded the waiting area into the pocket park.” She gestured with her chin toward the window where people clutched coffee cups and chatted on the small patch of green beside her salon. “Mayor approved it yesterday. I have the email.”
A muscle ticked at the corner of his mouth, pulling the scar on his jaw slightly. Might have been a suppressed smile. Might have been annoyance. With Tom, distinguishing the two was like trying to read braille through mittens.
“You always have an answer, don’t you?” His voice remained level, the same steady baritone he used whether saying “good morning” or reading Miranda rights.
“One of my many charms.” Rosie flashed her brightest smile, the one she reserved for particularly stubborn cases. “Since you’re here, might as well get that haircut you’ve been putting off. On the house.”
He ran a hand over his cropped dark hair. “I’m fine.”
“Oh, come on. Live dangerously. I promise not to give you a mohawk.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Unless you ask nicely.”
For a heartbeat, his eyes brightened—amusement sparking and disappearing behind the professional mask as quickly as it had appeared. Rosie noted it like a rare bird sighting, something to document and remember.
“I’m here on official business,” he said, Adam’s apple bobbing once as he swallowed. “Crowd control.”
“You’re babysitting glitter.” Rosie spun back to her client, thin brush balanced between nimble fingers as she painted bleach onto another section. The sharp chemical smell mixed with the fruity scent of her client’s shampoo. “There’s lemonade on the counter if you’re thirsty. Made it fresh this morning.”
Tom positioned himself by the far wall, shoulders squared against floral wallpaper, boots planted shoulder-width apart. Even without watching, Rosie tracked his presence by the way conversation ebbed near him, by the weight of attention he commanded without speaking. She caught his reflection in the mirror—motionless while stylists bustled, children fidgeted, and blow dryers roared around him.
Half an hour later, Rosie finished her client’s highlights and directed her to the processing area. She glanced around her salon, mentally tallying the day’s proceeds. Almost three thousand dollars for the children’s hospital. Not bad for a small-town fundraiser.
Her phone buzzed with a text. Jeff from next door: Big SUV blocking my delivery entrance. Red Ford with Westview plates. Can you handle before I call it in?
She sighed. Always something. “Mia, can you take over the front desk? I need to go prevent a neighborly meltdown.”
Stepping outside, Rosie squinted as May sunlight stung her eyes after hours under fluorescent glare. The heat pressed against her skin, a stark contrast to the air-conditioned salon. A truck blocked the narrow alley serving as Jeff’s loading zone, its oversized tires cutting off half the passage.
A shadow fell across her path as a solid wall of khaki uniform appeared at her shoulder.
“Problem?” Tom’s voice rumbled close to her ear.
Rosie jumped, bangles jangling against her wrist. “Warn a girl before you ninja up next to her!”
His face remained impassive, though his eyes tracked the hand she’d pressed to her chest, following the rapid rise and fall of her breathing before looking away. “Your expression changed when you checked your phone.”
She pointed to the SUV. “That beast is blocking Jeff’s deliveries. He’s about five minutes from going full Hulk.”
Tom nodded once and moved past her, crossing the street with unhurried strides. Rosie found herself trailing him, curious to see the sheriff in action—even for something as mundane as a parking dispute.
A middle-aged woman approached the SUV, arms laden with shopping bags. Tom intercepted her with a polite “Ma’am” that somehow managed to stop her in her tracks.
Rosie couldn’t hear their conversation from where she stood, but she watched the tableau unfold. Tom speaking, gesturing minimally. The woman’s defensive posture gradually relaxing. She nodded, climbed into her vehicle, and backed out of the alley.
The whole exchange took less than two minutes.
“How do you do that?” Rosie asked when he returned. “I’d have gotten an earful about how there were no signs and she was ‘just shopping for a minute.'”
Tom shrugged. “People generally want to do the right thing if you give them an easy out.”
“Is that your secret sheriff philosophy? Give people dignified exits?”
His eyes met hers, steady and unreadable. “Something like that.”
They walked back to the salon together, concrete warm through the thin soles of her flats. Rosie quickened her pace to match his longer stride, silver bangles jingling against her wrist with each step. His boots hit the pavement in measured beats beside her fluttering rhythm.
“You know what this fundraiser needs?” Words tumbled from her lips to fill the silence stretching between them. “Face painting. Temporary tattoos. Something for the kids.”
“More glitter. Just what the town needs.” But his voice softened at the edges, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward—a microexpression most people would miss.
“Everything’s better with glitter, Sheriff.” She bumped her elbow against the solid warmth of his arm, the contact brief but electric. “Even you might look good with a little sparkle.”
The almost-smile flattened, his eyes shifting back to scan the storefronts. “I doubt that.”
Back inside, a wall of noise and heat hit them—blow dryers humming, scissors snipping, voices competing over the salon’s peppy playlist. Rosie’s eyes caught movement by her station—a toddler reaching for a curling iron teetering on the edge of her counter, its cord dangling.
She darted forward, her body moving before her mind registered danger. One hand closed around the child’s soft middle while the other swept the hot metal safely away, the heat singeing her fingertips.
“Whoa there, adventure man!” She transferred the squirming weight to his wide-eyed mother, the scent of baby shampoo clinging to her hands. “Hot things stay on high shelves, okay? Those silver tubes aren’t toys.”
When she straightened, she found Tom watching her. Not with his usual calculated assessment, but with focused attention that missed nothing—the slight wince as she flexed her burned fingers, the easy way she’d defused the mother’s embarrassment. His gaze held hers with an intensity that stripped away her performance, peeling back the sparkle to see the woman beneath.
“Rosie!” Mia’s voice cut through the moment like scissors through hair. “Mrs. Carpenter’s asking for you specifically!”
Rosie spun toward the voice, her professional smile sliding back into place, fingers smoothing down her bright top as if arranging armor.
The afternoon unfolded in a kaleidoscope of haircuts, laughter, and donation checks slipped into the decorated box by the register. Rosie floated between stations, her fingers brushing shoulders, her memory supplying names of children and grandchildren and recent surgeries. Fifteen years in Bayshore Cove had taught her the currency of personal details—how asking about someone’s orchid collection or remembering a child’s soccer tournament created connections that translated to loyalty, to business, to not being forgotten herself.
Twice she caught Tom’s reflection in the wall of mirrors. Both times he remained anchored to his spot, one shoulder against the wall, weight evenly distributed between both feet. While stylists wiped sweat from their foreheads and clients fanned themselves with magazines, his uniform stayed crisp, as if the heat dared not wrinkle him.
During a rare lull, Rosie twisted a paper cup under the lemonade dispenser and carried it across the salon. “You’re allowed to sit down, you know. The town won’t implode if those boots leave the floor for five minutes.”
Tom accepted the cup, fingertips brushing hers in the exchange. “I’m good where I am.”
“Of course you are.” She rolled her eyes, earrings catching light with the movement. “Heaven forbid anyone catch Sheriff Langston showing a human weakness like sitting.”
He sipped the lemonade. His throat worked as he swallowed, and the tight line of his shoulders eased a fraction. “This is good.”
“Secret recipe.” Rosie leaned against the wall beside him, weight shifting off her blistered heels. The wall felt cool through the thin fabric of her blouse. “Fresh mint from my garden and a dash of honey instead of sugar. Takes the edge off without killing the tartness.”
Tom angled his body toward her, his attention narrowing from the room to just her face. Something flickered in the depths of his dark eyes that made her pulse jump. “You consider details most people wouldn’t notice.”
The observation carried unexpected weight—coming from a man who observed everything and revealed nothing.
“Details matter.” Rosie fought the urge to fidget under his scrutiny, fingers instead smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her skirt. “They’re what make people feel seen without having to ask for it.”
His eyes lingered on her face longer than usual. Rosie resisted the urge to touch her hair or check for mascara smudges. Instead, she held his gaze, a quiet challenge in a day full of noise.
“Ms. Delgado!” A woman called from across the room. “We’re ready for you!”
“Duty calls.” Rosie pushed off from the wall. “Try not to arrest anyone while I’m busy, Sheriff.”
The hint of a smile flickered again at the corner of his mouth. “No promises.”
As the day wound down, customers began to trickle out, taking with them lighter heads and emptier wallets. Rosie’s cheeks ached from smiling, her voice had developed a raspy edge, and her feet throbbed in her impractical but adorable silver flats. Worth it, though, for the stack of checks and cash in the donation box.
The last client departed with effusive thanks and promises to tell everyone about the event. Rosie sagged against the reception counter as the door swung shut, finally allowing her body to acknowledge its exhaustion.
“That,” she announced to the empty salon, “was a success.”
“Seems like it.”
She startled, spinning around to find Tom still there, arms crossed over his chest. She’d assumed he’d left with the crowds.
“Aren’t you off duty by now?” Her voice came out softer than intended.
“Crowd control includes making sure everyone leaves safely.” He uncrossed his arms and took a step toward the door. “You did good today. The hospital will appreciate it.”
The simple praise warmed her more than it should have. “Thanks for keeping us all in line.”
“That wasn’t happening no matter what I did.” Was that actual humor in his tone? Before she could be sure, he nodded once. “Lock up properly.”
“Yes, sir.” Rosie gave a mock salute.
Tom paused at the door, hand on the frame. For a moment, Rosie thought he might say something else—something beyond the professional courtesy and minimal conversation that defined their interactions. The air between them felt charged with possibility, like the moment before lightning strikes.
Instead, he simply nodded again and stepped outside. The bell jingled cheerfully in his wake.
Rosie moved to the window, tracing Tom’s progress across the street. Golden afternoon light caught in his dark hair, highlighting strands of silver at his temples she’d never noticed before. Each step landed with precision—heel to toe, shoulders squared, no energy wasted in unnecessary movement.
Against the backdrop of cheerful storefronts and colorful spring planters, he stood out like a shadow—a solitary figure moving through the town while remaining separate from it. Sheriff Tom Langston, solid and reliable, but sealed behind glass. The lines beside his mouth deepened as he checked his watch, a gesture so controlled it seemed rehearsed.
What would his face look like softened by genuine laughter? Did his voice change when he spoke without the weight of his title? Did anyone ever see Tom Langston with his guard down—cooking dinner, or humming along to music, or simply breathing without scanning for threats?
Rosie pressed her palm against the cool glass, leaving behind a smudge of sparkles from her nail polish. She traced the outline of his cruiser as it pulled away, taillights glowing red in the lengthening shadows. What did he return to each night? An empty house with everything in its place? A silence punctuated only by the ticking of a clock?
She turned back to her salon, footsteps echoing in the sudden emptiness. Hair clippings crunched beneath her shoes. Glitter caught the fading light, turning ordinary floor tiles into a galaxy of tiny stars. Somewhere beneath all that rigid control was a man whose hands might be gentle when they weren’t directing traffic, whose voice might soften when saying words that mattered.
Not that she specifically wondered about Tom Langston. Rosie Delgado wondered about everyone—that was her job in Bayshore Cove. To connect. To brighten. To remember birthdays and coffee orders and make everyone feel valued without expecting the same in return.
She grabbed the broom from the supply closet, the wooden handle smooth and familiar in her palm. The bristles scraped against the floor as she swept, the rhythm filling the emptiness that pressed against her eardrums now that the day’s noise had evaporated. Her humming bounced off bare walls that had vibrated with laughter hours earlier.
Her phone chimed from the counter—three separate texts about drinks at The Lighthouse. Any other night, she’d reapply her lipstick and show up with stories and laughter. Tonight, her smile muscles ached from overuse, and the thought of performing Rosie Delgado: Town Sparkplug for one more hour made the space between her shoulder blades knot with tension.
Instead, she’d climb the narrow stairs to her apartment above the salon, peel off these clothes that smelled of hairspray and other people’s expectations, and stand under hot water until her skin turned pink. She’d wrap herself in the soft robe no one ever saw, curl into bed with a book instead of plans, and wake to become again the woman everyone invited but no one thought to check on when the party ended.
But first, she extracted the donation box from beneath the counter. The bills needed counting, the checks recording, a social media post crafted with exactly the right amount of exclamation points to celebrate everyone’s generosity without seeming desperate for validation.
Her fingers separated bills with practiced efficiency, but her mind returned to that moment when Tom’s eyes had held hers. She wouldn’t mention that in her post—how the most observant man in town had looked at her like he’d discovered something worth understanding. That memory she’d keep private, tucked away like the butterfly earrings her grandmother left her—something precious to touch when the spotlight dimmed and the silence pressed too close against her skin.