Karma Sullivan didn’t know who was shouting inside her swank, full-service beauty salon, Beauty by Karma, but she was going to find out. Balancing the books would have to wait. Her customers were probably having a spirited discussion about sex and relationships, but things had obviously gotten out of hand. It sounded as if World War Three had broken out on the main floor, and since nothing mattered more to Karma than maintaining the elegance and dignity of her salon, she dropped her pen on the April spreadsheets, and shot to her feet.

Her gaze fell on the mahogany desk across the room, and her shoulders sagged. Karma could only wonder where Jazz was. She’d met Jazmine “Jazz” Figueroa at cosmetology school six years earlier, and they’d bonded over their love of fashion, pop culture, Idris Elba movies and exotic cuisine. Hiring the gregarious esthetician to be the manager of her beauty salon was a no-brainer. Karma enjoyed working alongside her bestie, and thought they made a formidable team. Unfortunately, her happiness had been short-lived. Jazz used to be a model employee, who gave a hundred percent to Beauty by Karma, but these days she came to work late, spent more time on her cell than with clients and left early. And when Karma spoke to Jazz yesterday about her concerns she’d mumbled an apology, then quickly changed the subject.

A deep, husky voice filled the air, yanking Karma out of her thoughts and back to the present. What in the world? Has everyone lost their minds? Beauty by Karma was a ritzy, high-end salon in the Hamptons, not a barbershop in the hood, and she wasn’t going to let anyone ruin the peaceful ambience. Since the salon’s grand opening, Karma had worked tirelessly to get her business off the ground, and her efforts had paid off. She had A-list clients, a successful beauty blog millennials couldn’t get enough of and tens of thousands of social media followers.

Yanking open her office door, she marched down the hallway, her lush, purple-hued tresses cascading around her shoulders. She’d paired her short, off-the-shoulder sundress with gold accessories, and even though she’d gained weight while vacationing with her girlfriends in the Cayman Islands in January she felt beautiful in the flowy, Gucci dress. Still, she was starting The Raw Food after her birthday. Yesterday, she’d received an email from the Hamptons Women’s Association informing her she’d been nominated for the Businesswoman of the Year award, and Karma had been so excited she’d danced around her office. Wanting to look fit and fabulous for the July banquet, she’d hired a personal trainer, and was going to eat healthy for the next three months even if it killed her. And it would. Karma loved junk food, drank wine every night with dinner and was a self-proclaimed chocoholic. The last time she’d exercised Obama was still in office, and when her trainer suggested Karma take an aerobics class five days a week she’d burst out laughing. It was going to be hard going to the gym and changing her poor eating habits, but Karma was determined to get in shape.

Classical music was playing in the background, but it did nothing to soothe her mind. Karma loved hip-hop music, could rap with the skill and finesse of Yeezy, but since her customers preferred Bach to Kanye West, that was what they listened to during business hours.

Entering the salon, a smile curled her lips. The grand opening was eighteen months ago, but every time she entered the shop she felt a rush of pride. Beauty by Karma was her “baby,” the only thing that mattered to her. Decorated with comfort and luxury in mind, the space had chandeliers dripping with crystals, cushy designer chairs and exquisite African artwork. Glass vases filled with colored roses beautified the twenty-five-chair salon, and black-and-white photographs of her celebrity clients were hanging on the mauve walls.

There was a buzz in the air, and when Karma saw the chocolate hottie standing at the reception desk, she understood why every woman in the salon—including the cosmetic heiress, a trophy wife and a marketing executive—were licking their lips and fanning their faces.

Someone whistled, and Karma overheard a Broadway actress murmur in Spanish, “¡Señor, si tuviera un hombre que se pareciera a eso en casa, nunca dejaría la casa!” A giggle tickled her throat. I agree, she thought, hiding a smirk behind the stoic expression on her face. You’re right! If he was my man I wouldn’t leave the house, either!

Her legs wobbled, as if they were about to give way, but she didn’t lose her footing on the gleaming, hardwood floor. Caught off guard by her physical attraction to the man with the chiseled face and muscled body, she couldn’t think or speak. Was at a loss for words. Shocking, considering Jazz had affectionately nicknamed her Yabbermouth the day they met, but when

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