Author's Preface
Chantell Lovelace fell in love with the barber's chair. Its red leather seat and back stood out against the drab expanse of tat scattered across the lawn.
Mr. Jenkins had passed away four weeks earlier, and his daughter was holding a yard sale. By all accounts, he had been a hoarder. From newspapers dating back to 1924 to an early iPod, he seemed to have collected a little bit of everything.
"You like antiques?" Holly's voice interrupted her thoughts. "I've seen you eyeing that chair for ten minutes now."
"I do. I think it'll look great in the school play," Chantell answered.
"Ooh, what play?"
"Well, I wanted to do a barbershop quartet, but the kids changed my mind."
"To what?"
"Sweeney Todd. And this chair is just perfect."
Holly laughed, "Well, for fifty dollars, it's yours."
"Fifty?" Chantell's voice pitched up a practiced octave. "Fifty, Holly? Come on, look how long your father had it."
"Um, I don't know. I don't even remember him buying it."
"Well, tell you what. I'll give you thirty."
"Nice try, Chant. Good acting, but the lowest I'll go is fifty."
"Thirty-five."
"Forty-five."
"Forty."
"Forty-one fifty."
"Forty-one."
"Deal."
Holly wiped her dusty hands on her jeans and gestured toward the red monster sitting on the turf. "Great. It's all yours. Now, how are you getting it out of here?"
---
Chantell gripped the heavy, chrome-plated armrest and gave it a firm tug. The chair didn't budge an inch. It was a beast of solid cast iron and thick steel, rooted into the grass as if Mr. Jenkins had planted it decades ago.
"It has castors, right?" Chantell asked, leaning her full weight against the headrest.
"Not a chance," Holly smirked, folding her arms. "Dad brought that in on a hand truck twenty years ago, and I'm pretty sure it weighed more than he did."
"So how did you get it on the lawn" Chantell asked
"Not sure, to be honest" Holly answered scratching her head.
Chantell squatted down, grabbing the base near the hydraulic foot pedal. She pumped the lever once a low, mechanical sigh hissed from the cylinder, raising the seat an inch before grinding to a halt. Sweat broke out across her forehead as she tried to tilt the frame onto its rim. The red leather creaked, and the iron footrest sank an inch deeper into the damp lawn.
"I don't suppose that fourty one dollars covered home delivery?" Chantell gasped, wiping a stray lock of hair from her face.
"Not a chance" Holly stood watching Chantelle struggle to move the large heavy chair with another slight chuckle "I tell you what" Holly turned to the other side of the lawn where a tall lean man was haggling with an old woman over a mobility scooter "Ian... Ian" Holly screeched across the yard. The man didn't even look up, he was too busy exchanging words with the old womans husband.
"IAN!"
The shout finally cut through the argument.
The tall man turned, his expression somewhere between irritation and mild amusement. He muttered something to the elderly couple before slipping his hands into the pockets of his black jeans and sauntering across the lawn.
Chantell glanced up.
Then she forgot what she was doing.
Ian was tall and lean, with the kind of build that came from keeping active rather than spending hours admiring himself in a gym mirror. His faded black T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, its sleeves revealing tattooed arms. More ink disappeared beneath the fabric, climbing toward his neck. His dark hair was a deliberately untidy mess, falling across his forehead, and a silver ring glinted in one ear.
There was something effortlessly rebellious about him. Black boots, worn jeans, a battered leather jacket thrown over one shoulder, and an expression that suggested the world was generally full of idiots, but he was willing to tolerate them for a while, Chantell swallowed.
Good grief.
She really hoped he was Holly brother.
This man striding towards them, looked he looked like he'd walked straight out of Chantell's private daydreams.
"What's up?" Ian asked, his voice low and relaxed.
Holly pointed toward the barber's chair. "Chantell bought Dad's old chair, and now she can't get the bloody thing off the lawn."
Ian looked at the chair, then at Chantell, who suddenly found the grass fascinating.
"Is that right?"
"It's heavier than it looks," Chantell managed.
"Most things are."
"Im not"
"What"
"What?"
"Did you say something" Ian asked
Chantell realised she must of blurted out what she was thinking "no" she lied.
He gave her a crooked grin.
Her knees promptly reconsidered their commitment to keeping her upright.
Holly looked from her brother to Chantell. A slow, wicked smile spread across her face.
"Oh, for God's sake," she muttered.
"What?" Ian asked.
"Nothing." Holly folded her arms, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "Chantell, this is Ian. My idot older brother."
Holly had a brother.
Holly had a brother.
Ian held out a hand. "Nice to meet you, Chantell."
She stared at his hand for half a second too long before taking it. His palm was warm, his grip firm without being crushing. There was a faint callus across his fingers, and his forearm tightened slightly as he shook her hand.
"Likewise," she said, hoping her voice sounded normal.
It didn't. It came out about half an octave higher than usual.
Ian raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Holly, unfortunately, had known Chantell long enough to recognize the symptoms.
"Right," she said brightly. "Now that you've both met, perhaps Ian could help you with your chair."
"It's not my chair," Chantell blurted.
Both siblings looked at her.
She glanced at the red leather monstrosity. "Well, it is. I mean, obviously. I bought it."
Ian's crooked grin returned. "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone you've already fallen out with it."
He turned toward the chair and shrugged off his leather jacket, tossing it over the garden table.
Chantell watched him roll up his sleeves.
Oh, this was going to be a very long attractive afternoon.
Ian rolled his sleeves to his elbows and approached the chair. "Right, let's have a look at this thing."
He gripped the chrome-plated armrests, bent his knees, and gave a sharp tug.
Nothing happened.
He frowned and tried again, this time getting a better grip beneath the seat. The muscles in his forearms tightened as he pulled, but the chair remained firmly planted in the lawn.
"Huh."
Chantell bit the inside of her cheek.
Ian straightened, rubbed his hands together, and circled the chair, inspecting its heavy iron base.
"Where the hell did your dad get this thing?" Chantell asked
"Couldn't tell you," Holly replied. "It's been here for as long as I can remember."
Ian crouched down once more and tried to lift one side of the base. For a moment, the iron shifted, tearing a small clump of turf from the ground before dropping back with a heavy thud.
Ian sat back on his heels. "Right. Well that's a bastard."
Chantell pressed her lips together, desperately trying not to smile.
Ian glanced at her. "Something funny?"
"No."
"You're smiling."
"I'm not."
"You definitely are."
"It's just nice to see someone else having trouble with it."
He gave her a look, then laughed under his breath. "Fair enough."
Holly folded her arms. "So, Mr. Big Strong Punk, what's the verdict?"
Ian shot his sister a withering look. "My verdict is that Dad apparently bought a barber's chair made for the bloody Titanic."
"Can you move it?"
"Can you shut up?"
Holly grinned. Chantell laughed, and Ian looked back at her. His expression softened into that same crooked smile.
Her stomach did an absolutely ridiculous little flip.
This was becoming a problem. A very attractive problem, admittedly, but a problem all the same.
"I tell you what," Chantell said, fishing for her car keys. "I'll go and bring my truck around. If we all lift, we should be able to move it."
"Sounds like a plan," Ian said.
"Okay." Chantell smiled at them both. "Ten minutes, okay?"
"Okay," the siblings said in unison.
As Chantell walked away, she glanced back at Ian. His floppy hair fell across his forehead as he turned towards the lawn, his attention returning to the little old lady he'd been talking to earlier.
Chantell sighed inwardly. Those eyes really weren't helping.
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