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Carlisle paused in reaching for the door handle and glanced over his shoulder. Another stylist on the other side of the room from Merry’s station was waving him over. He hesitated only a second before joining the unknown woman.
“Don’t give up on her,” she said, her eyes almost pleading.
“On Merry.” The middle-aged stylist shot a quick glance toward the front of the salon before continuing. “Since she’s been seeing you, she’s come alive again, even if she’d never admit it. She’s scared herself now though.”
Was Merry afraid of him? Did she believe his attentions toward her insincere?
“If you care for her at all—and I can see you do—don’t let her push you away. I’m just saying.” The woman pointed to the door and gave him a gentle push toward it.
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