It was amazing what a great haircut could do.  Alison Kimball-Smith walked into the ScissorShack looking like a 17-year-old who’d lost her pom-poms. Two hours later, she breezed out the door, with a bounce to her step and a twinkle in her eye, admiring her reflection in every store window she passed. Her new “do” was swingy, and sassy, and chic.  It gave her cheekbones, it gave her lift, it gave her…confidence.

She should have chopped it off years ago!

Now all she needed was a new name to go with her new look.  Alison sounded mousy and dull.  She needed something hip, something that matched her new Uptown-Girl look. Ali, she thought, nodding the next time she saw her own reflection. Her image nodded back, as if approving of her choice. A new name for a new woman.

If she hadn’t been so delighted with her transformation, she might not have noticed the man trailing at a discrete distance behind her.

She narrowed her eyes and scrutinized him in each shop window she passed—broad shoulders and slim hips, angled lines that emphasized rather than hardened his features, and hair tousled just enough to be sexy. He was dressed casually, with a debonair flair that made Argyle look like Armani. Certainly not the type of man who’d ever given her a second glance. Even a really great haircut couldn’t make that much of a difference.

Was he following her?  He didn’t look at all like a stalker. Not that she had any idea what a stalker might look like. Either way, a girl couldn’t be too safe. She circled the block, trying to shake him, but he kept pace. He was following her! 

What should she do? The old Alison would have ducked into a restaurant and hidden until the coast was clear. But the new and improved Ali was a feisty, take-charge kind of woman with great hair. 

And pepper spray.

She reached into her purse and closed her hand around the slim canister, then spun around to face him, stopping in her tracks. The abrupt movement caught him by surprise, and he nearly ran into her, his eyes wide with surprise as she took an assertive stance and confronted him. “Are you following me?” she demanded.

He stammered and ducked his head, jamming his hands into his pockets. “No. Not really.”

“Not really? How do you not really follow someone?” She tapped her foot, waiting for an answer. Her grip loosened on the pepper spray. He sure didn’t look dangerous. He looked like a schoolboy caught scribbling naughty words on the blackboard.

“Well?” she asked. Feistiness had gone to her head. Alison would never have confronted someone this way, but Ali was bold. Ali could face down an entire army of sexy stalkers if she had to.

Mr. Handsome/Stalker let out a resigned sigh, deflating like a balloon with a slow leak. “Okay,” he said. “I admit I was following you. “He held up his hands defensively before she could whip out the pepper spray. “But it’s not what you think.”

“Why don’t you tell me just exactly what it is, and I’ll decide.” She pursed her lips, determined not to let the slow, husky drawl of his voice cloud her judgment.

If possible, he looked even more sheepish. “I was lost,” he admitted.

“Lost? What do I look like, a tour guide?”

“No, no.” He rushed to explain. “See, it’s my first day in the City and I’m subletting an apartment from my friend, Brent Faraday. He was my roommate in college and he’s. . .well, never mind. The thing is, I don’t know my way around town yet and I could have sworn the apartment building was in this direction, but…”

“I still don’t see where I come in,” she interrupted, relaxing just a little. “Why didn’t you just ask someone for directions?”

The look he gave her clearly stated that the thought had never entered his mind.  “It’s a guy thing,” he said with a shrug.  “We don’t ask for directions.”

“No, you just follow strange women around.” 

He grinned.  “You don’t seem so strange.”

She tried to look stern, but his grin was infectious, and she had to fight down a shivery little lump in her throat.

“So why follow me?  It’s not as if I’m wearing a map with a little arrow saying ‘You Are Here’.”

He stepped closer and grinned.  “It was your shirt.” 

She blushed, remembering that she’d thrown on her favorite T-shirt this morning–a clingy little siren-red number that said, “Instant Gratification Takes Too Long.”  She shook her head, still not making the connection. 

He explained quickly. “I couldn’t help but notice it this morning in the elevator. You were leaving the apartment building the same time I was.” He tipped his head, his eyebrows raised questioningly. “Remember?”

She didn’t. But now the pieces were coming together. Of course, it could be a ruse. He might still be a serial killer—a serial killer with a great line and broad shoulders and warm, honest eyes that reminded her of drizzled caramel.

“I saw you stop and check your mailbox in the lobby,” he said. “So I knew you lived in the same building.”

She nodded, waiting.

“I decided to go for a walk and check out the neighborhood.  I thought I could find my way back,” he said. “But somehow, I got turned around. I was standing on the corner trying to decide which direction to turn when I saw you come out of that shop a few blocks back. I recognized the shirt.” He shrugged. “I figured if I followed you long enough you’d eventually lead me home.” 

It made sense, in a wacky kind of way. She hadn’t transformed into an irresistible femme fatale after all, but was simply a trail of breadcrumbs in a conspicuous T-shirt.  

She narrowed her eyes, giving him one more test. He’d said he recognized her from this morning—or at least he’d recognized her shirt.  But this morning she’d looked completely different, hadn’t she? Even if what he was saying was true, nobody would mistake the new, self-assured Ali for the mousy little Alison who’d checked her mail this morning.

“But I got my hair cut,” she said. “I don’t even look the same.”

He eyed her hair, a tiny line creasing his forehead. “Oh yeah.  It’s cute.”

Cute?  “I look completely different!” she argued. “How could you be sure it was me?” She stopped.  Maybe she wasn’t so different after all if a complete stranger recognized her on the street. Maybe the new and improved Ali was just a figment of her imagination. 

“Well, to be honest,” he said. “I wasn’t looking at your hair.” That heart-stopping grin lit up his face again. “But I’d recognize your smile anywhere, even without the T-shirt.” 

She raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he stammered. “You must think I’m a nutcase.”

She didn’t think that at all. She thought he was endearing. She turned, hiding the smile on her face, and walked away. When he didn’t follow, she called back over her shoulder, “You coming or not?”

He exhaled a quick burst of relief, quickly falling into step beside her. 

“What apartment are you subletting?” she asked.

“Apartment 6-D,” he replied, then introduced himself. “My name is Mark Dawson and I’ll be your neighbor for the next six months—until my lease runs out.”

She felt a quick stab of disappointment. Only six months?

“I’m hoping by then to have found my own place,” he continued. “Maybe something will open up in the same building. It’s convenient and I already like the neighborhood.”

“It’ll be even more convenient once you’ve mastered finding your way back again.”

He chuckled and her stomach took a tumble. She smiled inwardly, liking the way their strides matched, the way his voice sent tiny shivers down the nape of her neck, the way he felt warm and safe and comfortable walking beside her.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he said.

“Alison,” she replied automatically. 

He smiled, and when he repeated her name, it didn’t sound mousy or dull or plain.  It sounded perfect. Who needed a new persona when the old one was doing just fine? 

Besides, old or new, Alison was having an absolutely great hair day.