How to Get Ainsley Bishop to Fall in Love With You by T. M. Franklin

of Curl Up & Dye, rays of early morning sunlight glinting off the glittery letters. Ainsley’s aunt had given the okay for Ainsley to cut my hair, but we had to meet before the salon opened—and before I had to be at the senior center for work—so we’d agreed on eight o’clock. On a Saturday morning.
    Not that I was complaining, but after a sleepless night—did I mention Ainsley was going to have her hands in my hair? —I desperately needed the triple mocha I’d picked up on the way. I sipped at it, trying to settle my churning stomach, and clutched the matching drink I’d bought for Ainsley in my other hand.
    I didn’t even know if she liked coffee, but I figured getting it wrong was better than showing up empty-handed. Or one-handed. With only one mocha. Whatever.
    The collar of my shirt was a little damp from my wet hair—I’d washed it twice and used some of my mom’s conditioner just to be safe—and I shivered a little, although whether from the my hair or nerves, I couldn’t be sure.
    “Okay. Get a grip,” I muttered to myself, taking another sip of coffee before I headed for the door. I peered over the Closed sign at the empty interior and knocked lightly on the glass, coffee sloshing out of the hole in the lid with the movement.
    “Crap!” I stepped back to avoid dribbling it on my jeans and scrubbed at the mocha puddle with the bottom of my shoe. The door opened a second later, and I strategically placed my sneaker over the coffee spot, aiming an innocent smile at Ainsley.
    “Morning!” I said brightly.
    She glanced pointedly at the cups in my hands. “How many of those have you had already?”
    “Oh.” I lifted one hand, then the other, forgetting for a moment which one was mine. “Just the one. Or part of one. I brought one for you.” I thrust the full mocha toward her. “I hope you like chocolate and whipped cream.”
    A smile lit her face as she reached for the coffee. “Who doesn’t? Thanks, Oliver.” She wrapped her hands around the cup, closing her eyes for a second with a sigh of pleasure.
    “Sorry,” she said with a sleepy smile. “It’s so nice and warm.”
    “Yeah, well. You know. Coffee. It’s . . . hot,” I said helpfully.
    She rolled her eyes and took a sip and stepped back from the door. “Come on in. My aunt’s in the back doing inventory, but she said we can use her station.” She looked back to find me gazing around with wide eyes. “Don’t tell her you brought me a coffee, okay? I’m kind of not allowed.”
    “Not allowed to drink coffee?”
    “It’s not the coffee, it’s me,” she said, quiet like she was confiding a secret. “I always spill it. Always. I’m not usually a klutz, but hot drinks are like my . . .” She waved the hand holding the cup and it sloshed a little out of the top.
    “Kryptonite?” I suggested, eyes on the foam poking out of the lid.
    “Yes!” She gestured toward me with the cup and a little coffee splashed out, narrowly missing her shoes—neon orange with black stripes today. “Crap. See what I mean?” she muttered, grabbing a few paper towels and wiping up the spill.
    I took the opportunity to take in my surroundings.
    “Yeah,” Ainsley said as she stood up and tossed the towels in the trash. “My aunt kind of likes pink.”
    I laughed. “I guess so.”
    Everything was varying shades of pink—the walls, the linoleum floor, the furniture—I even noticed as I sat down that the combs, brushes, blow dryer, and curling irons lined up on the shelf below the mirror were a matching Pepto-Bismolish shade.
    Ainsley carefully set her coffee cup on the shelf before grabbing a pale pink cape out of a drawer beneath it. She flicked it open, and it billowed around me before settling on my shoulders. “Don’t worry,” she said as she fastened it around my neck. “It won’t affect your masculinity.”
    “I wasn’t worried,” I said. Of course, my voice cracked.
    Ainsley laughed distractedly as she ran her fingers