MORE THAN PLANS

Full House

The flat iron hissed as Nyelle Laurent ran it slowly from root to end, leaving another section of silky black hair falling against her client's back.

"Don't move," she warned.

"I didn't move."

"You absolutely moved."

"I breathed."

"You breathed with your whole head."

Imani laughed, immediately earning a sharp look through the mirror.

"See? Now you're doing it again."

"Girl, you've been doing my hair for three years. If you haven't learned how to work around me by now, that's your problem."

Nyelle rolled her eyes and reached for her comb.

Sunlight poured through the blinds of the room her parents had converted into a salon for her almost two years ago. What had once been a spare bedroom now looked nothing like one. A large illuminated mirror covered most of one wall, with Nyelle's styling chair positioned in front of it. Shelves held rows of products organized by purpose, not brand, because according to Nyelle, pretty organization didn't mean shit if she couldn't find edge control when she needed it.

A hooded dryer occupied one corner. Towels sat folded neatly beside the small shampoo station her father had paid to have installed. Her certificates hung framed on the wall alongside a simple gold sign bearing the name she'd chosen for her business.

NYELLE LAURENT
HAIR ARTIST

It wasn't a traditional salon.

But it was hers.

And more importantly, it kept clients out of the rest of the Laurent household.

Usually.

Nyelle separated another thin section of Imani's hair when she heard the front door open downstairs.

She ignored it.

Her mother had gone out earlier, but Solange Laurent treated locking doors like an optional feature when somebody was home. It was probably her.

Then came a heavy thud.

Nyelle stopped.

Imani's eyes lifted toward hers in the mirror.

"What was that?"

"I don't know."

Another thud.

Then footsteps.

Heavy ones.

Nyelle's eyebrows drew together.

Those weren't her mother's footsteps.

A moment later, a tall figure passed the open salon doorway carrying two duffel bags.

Nyelle stared.

The figure disappeared.

She slowly lowered the flat iron.

"No fucking way."

"What?"

Before Nyelle could answer, Nasir Laurent reappeared in the doorway.

Twenty-seven years old, six feet of audacity, and apparently moving back into their parents' house.

He wore gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, with his car keys hanging from one finger. A duffel bag remained slung over his shoulder.

Nyelle looked at him.

Nasir looked at her.

Neither spoke.

Then his eyes shifted to Imani.