I don’t take my eyes off the scene rolling past. “I tried that earlier, and you complained about the hot wind mussing your hair. Remember?” We’d just come out of the Holland Tunnel, popping straight up in the middle of the Theater District, and I’d nearly jumped out of my seat from excitement.

Brenna makes a noise of smothered agreement. “We’ll go exploring later. In fact, speaking of mussed hair, how do you feel about a makeover?”

The question pulls me from my window, and I sit back against the plush leather seat of our hired limo. “As in we have some sort of Princess Diaries, dude takes a pot of wax to my eyebrows and a weed whacker to my hair moment?” I laugh faintly. “Am I that bad?”

“No, of course not.” Brenna’s cool gaze travels over me as if she’s inspecting a derelict house in need of rehab. “But every girl can do with a bit of sprucing up now and then. Especially if she’s going to be in the press.”

Press? My stomach takes an unruly tumble. “You don’t need sprucing,” I point out, ignoring the angry antics of my innards.

She shrugs, not even causing a wrinkle in the scarlet red suit painted on her. “I’ve had my makeover.”

“If that’s the result, sign me up.”

“Really?” Her eyes glint, and it’s only half evil.

It’s my turn to shrug. “You think I’m going to complain about some shopping, a day in a hair salon, and a massage? Just because I don’t usually do those things doesn’t mean I don’t like them.”

“I never said anything about a massage.”

“Oh, there will be massages. Mani-pedis, too.”

“I like the way you think, Liberty.”

We share a grin, and then she’s on the phone making plans. When she finishes, she eyes me again.

I refuse to fidget. “You’re looking at me like I’m a lump of clay.”

“Just waiting for me to mold,” she agrees with a nod. She arches a finely plucked brow.

“Nothing too outrageous. I still want to look like me. Only…better.”

She chuckles. “I understand completely. We’ll bring out the best version of you.”

“And then get massages.”

“That’s the real carrot, isn’t it?”

“Yep. I’m all over it like a starved bunny.”

Even though she’s smiling slightly, her gaze turns cool and cautious. “You realize Killian wants to pay for this.”

“I figured. If he’s offering, I’ll accept.”

Brenna sits back, crossing her legs. How she manages to make that look sexy and casual is beyond me. At this point I have a girl crush. “You know,” she says, “I expected you to resist Killian footing the bill. Cry independent woman and all that.”

“In the course of a month, Killian has torn apart my lawn with his bike, thrown up all over my favorite shirt, and eaten my food almost daily. I wasn’t too happy about the first two, but feeding him was my pleasure. I’m guessing this is Killian’s pleasure. Refusing a gift he’s offering would be petulant. And I sure as hell don’t have the money for what you have planned.”

“You’re slightly odd, you know that?”

“Says the pot to the kettle. Now tell me, is that your natural hair color or did you get it done at the salon we’re going to?”

The limo turns up Fifth Avenue, and a shaft of sunlight slides through the windows. Brenna’s red-gold hair gleams brightly. “Only my stylist knows, hon. But I do have some ideas for you.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I’m going to enjoy this,” she says with satisfaction.

Five minutes later, the limo pulls up in front of a salon. We’re whisked into a lounge area that is cordoned off from the main salon. There, a ridiculously gorgeous woman with brilliant pink hair, wearing what has to be the perfect little black dress, offers us a beverage.

I look around with wide eyes as I sip my chai-matcha tea—honestly, they must have a barista on staff. The space is all white, so pristine it seems to glow.

Lady Pink returns within a minute. “If you ladies will follow me.”

“They’re ready for me?” I slant Brenna a look. “Did you have an appointment already set up?”

Brenna matches my stride. “Of course I did. I’m a planner.”

“And I am apparently predictable.”

“Hardly.” Brenna’s sleek ponytail sways with a shake of her head. “Besides, if I needed to reschedule, they’d work around me. Even you have to realize the power Killian’s name wields.”

“At a salon?”

Brenna smirks. “Do you know how important that man’s damn hair is? That close crop you did on him nearly broke the internet.”

I can only gape.

“I know,” she says, amused. “Young girls were crying over the loss of his beloved flowing locks, as if it signified the coming of the apocalypse.”

“I was under the impression his hair was overgrown.”

That snags her attention. “It was. But he usually wears it chin-length. You really didn’t know who he was when you met?”

I resist the urge to squirm under her stare. She might not look very much like Killian, but clearly their interrogation skills were inherited from the same ancestors. “He was the last person I expected to find on my lawn. I guess my brain never connected any dots.”

My sneakers slap against the concrete stairs as the salon hostess guides us up to the next level. She looks down her nose at my Chucks but apparently knows better than to risk more than that. I shake my head and pull my attention back to Brenna.

“But honestly, the only place I might have seen Killian is on an album, and he isn’t on a single Kill John cover. None of them are. Why is that?”

“In the beginning, it was a statement. No pretense, just music. Now it’s tradition.” She waggles her perfect brows. “Of course it also helps add to their mystique and unattainability. But that was my doing.”

I’d guess Killian doesn’t care about that one whit, but she appears so proud that I nod.

My stylist is Lia, who immediately begins running her fingers through my hair while peering at me in the mirror. Until now, haircuts for me have been taking the scissors to my split ends. Who knew someone massaging my scalp and simply playing with my hair would be so relaxing. But my lack of styling clearly shows, because Lia and Brenna start discussing their plan of attack.