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Molly swung open the acrylic door to the nail salon. She brushed her black bangs to the side, overlooked the place.

The walls were blindingly white. A row of stations—loveseats with buckets in front—were against the far wall. Two looked to be occupied out of the ten. The salon was quiet, smelled clean of polish.

After giving the salon an once-over, Molly daintily strode to the front desk, her high-heels clunked against the tile floor. Her lively strut caused her black skirt to sway just above her knees.

A man stood up from behind the counter to welcome her. He had dangerously dark features with bright blue eyes, a strong jaw. "Hello. I'm Bryce. How can I help you?"

"Yes. I would like to get a pedicure," Molly said.

"And, which would you like?"

"The, um, voodoo, is it?" Molly said, unsure.

Bryce stopped, looked up. He heightened a brow.

"Ah. She was probably fuckin' with me." Molly waved off the comment. "Just make it a French ped—" ...

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