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“So you’re still mad at me.”
She continues typing away. “Mad? No. Not in the least. If you’ll excuse me, I really want to finish these notes so I don’t have to stay late today.”
I ignore her request and pull out the chair across from her. “I’ll explain what happened Sunday night if you’d like me to.”
Her jaw clenches. “No need. As I said, there’s no more arrangement. Therefore, no need for you to clarify. Why don’t you and I just keep our distance until Noah gets back, shall we?”
“If that’s what you want.”
Finally she looks at me. “It’s what I want.”
I know she’s acting tough and putting up her best defense, but I see her in ways she can’t imagine. I see the subtle shift of her jaw. The quick glance down at my mouth. The color that rushes to her cheeks.
She’s a liar.
“Okay then, Natalie—though I suppose I’ll still see you at the fundraiser. You are going, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
“And you wouldn’t mind if I brought a date?”
“Don’t you dare,” she hisses.
I stand to exit the room, having accomplished my goal. “Save a dance for me.”
I can’t be certain, but I think she whispers “Over my dead body” as I walk away.Chapter ElevenNatalie“So what kind of look are we going for tonight?” the stylist asks as he picks up my hair to get a feel for its texture.
“Sex pistol,” I say confidently. No smile or teasing wink.
His gaze flits up to meet mine in the mirror, his eyes as wide as dinner plates.
He drops my hair and cough-sputters. “Did you just say what I think you said?”
“Yes. I want you to pull out all the stops. My goal tonight is to melt his heart.”
“I don’t even know whose heart we’re talking about, but I am fully on board.” He turns his head to look over his shoulder and projects his voice so it carries across the small salon. “Tracy, can you crank some Reba McEntire? We have a revenge makeover happening over here.”
Lindsey, who’s sitting in the chair beside mine and getting her makeup done first, throws me a conspiratorial thumbs-up. I’ve told her bits and pieces of what’s been going on. Not the full story, because that’s slightly embarrassing and impossible to explain, but she knows I want Connor rocking back and forth in a corner at the fundraiser, out of his mind with lust.
I haven’t seen my dress yet, which is probably for the best because I’d likely chicken out. It’s hanging in a garment bag on the coat rack by the front door of the salon beside Lindsey’s. We’ll head over to the event straight from here.
The stylist gets to work parting my hair and applying product. Then he picks up a thin curling iron and starts giving me what I can only describe as Shirley Temple ringlets. I panic. He sees my reaction and shakes his head, applying pressure to my shoulders as if worried I’m about to press a button that will violently expel me from his chair.
“Trust me. We do these curls first, let them set, and then I brush them out. It’s how you get those old Hollywood waves, what I call heartbreaker curls.”
Apparently, he knows exactly what he’s doing, because when I turn back to face the mirror forty-five minutes later, I look like I’m about to walk the red carpet at the Oscars. He’s pinned the right side of my hair back behind my ear, leaving that side of my face and neck exposed. Then, he swept the curls over to the other side so they fall in delicate waves over my left shoulder.
He stands behind me, proud of his work.
“Now, don’t move. Tracy will come over to do your makeup.”
Lindsey and I swap stylists, and Tracy agonizes over the exact right shades to apply to my face. “You have great skin, so we don’t need to do much there, just a little somethin’-somethin’ to enhance what you’ve already got. How do you feel about colorful lipstick?”
Lindsey pipes up. “Her dress is black, if that helps.”
“Perfect.”
When I say these two stylists took my task to heart, I mean it. Later on, when we walk out of that salon and head out onto the sidewalk to slide into our waiting car, I feel sexier than I’ve ever felt in my life. I feel like a woman with prowess and fire burning in her veins.
I almost feel bad for Connor.
My dress is black, which I thought meant it would be demure, but Lindsey failed to mention the details that put it squarely in the daring category. The stretchy material forms to my body. The high neckline, long sleeves, and fitted bodice are paired with a scooped open back that plunges to the base of my spine and ties with a bow on top of my shoulder blades. The tight skirt flairs like a trumpet below my knees and cascades down to the floor. Even with all these details, Lindsey insists the dress is perfectly acceptable.
