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“What do you do at night…besides bake?”
“Sit in my favorite armchair, listen to music. Watch cable if a good movie’s on.”
“While waiting by the phone.”
He shifted in his seat. “No.”
“Where’s the phone?”
“Next to the armchair.” Okay, she was smart. Uptight, but smart.
“You’re too available,” she said quietly. “People don’t respect someone who’s at their beck and call.” Her eyes softened, their pewter color shifting to a soft gray, and he wondered if she had firsthand experience in this area.
She took a sip of her coffee and set it down. “We need to make you more…unattainable.”
Kimberly jotted a note on the application, then put down her pen. “I have an approach that would work excellently for you. I’ve used it before with men and they’ve all ended up married to the woman of their fantasies within a year. I call it my Bad Boy Makeover.”
He frowned. He knew it. These regimented types always loved the bad boys. “I don’t want to be bad.”
“Wasn’t The Phantom bad?”
“He was known for defeating evil, saving the woman.”
“We’ll be doing something similar. Women eat it up. You’ll have to turn the ringer off on your phone because so many of them will be calling you.” She opened a drawer. “Let me get my notes, explain in a bit more detail.”
She extracted a navy-blue folder. “Here we go!” she said, opening it. “Step one,” she read. “Look like a bad boy. Step two, act like a bad boy. Step three, make women melt. Step four, kiss her ’til she whimpers. Step five, love her ’til she screams. Step six, pick ‘the One.’”
He blinked, digesting the stream of words, all punctuated with bad-boy this and that. He’d once dated a woman who loved writing “Honey-Do” lists, which had struck him as odd considering all she needed to do was ask him for help and he’d be there.
But this success coach’s bad-boy list was stupid. A perversion of a honey-do list. If you want a honey, do this. And this. What was step five? Love her ’til she screams? This edgy, armored broad thought she was going to teach him how to do that?
Was she freaking crazy?
He tapped his finger on the chair of the arm, figuring he could be out of her office and back on the street in ten strides.
Last chance for love, buddy.
He cleared his throat, rubbed a spot on his forehead. “And, uh, these work?”
“I’ve had an eighty-five percent success rate. Like I said, women love bad boys.” She leaned forward, a seductive look softening her features.
And for a moment, he saw something he liked in her. Something tender, almost needy. The opposite of everything she plastered on her earnest, coiffed self. And in that moment, he had a flash of understanding about this woman. Just as she externally made over others, she’d done so with herself.
And he wondered what was so soft, so vulnerable inside that she’d built this fortress of a person.
“I can make you over in three months,” she said.
Three months? In ninety days, he finally might have the one thing that had eluded him all these years. A loving partner, someone with whom to share his life, his dreams. A woman he could coddle and pamper and love for the rest of his life.
But a makeover?
Celine wailed about never finding love again.
“I’ll do it,” said Nigel.
2
Step one: Look like a bad boy
“LOOK LIKE A BAD BOY,” Nigel muttered to himself the next morning, giving his head a slow shake. He thought back to all the times he’d made one of his three kid sisters go back to her room and change clothes that were too tight, too low cut, too short before leaving the house. How many times had he reprimanded them, “Dressing bad isn’t good.” Who knew those words would come back to haunt him.
Come to find out, once you were grown-up, dressing bad was good.
But he still wouldn’t change a thing about how he treated his kid sisters, despite their eye rolling and occasional pouts. With their father working swing shift at the factory, their big brother, Nigel, had often had to play “Dad.”
Even their boyfriends did as he told.
And not just because Nigel was merely the big brother.
He was just plain big.
By twenty, he was six-five, two-hundred-and-eighty pounds of rock-hard muscle thanks to his daily workouts and amateur wrestling schedule. The brave young men who dated his sisters were more than willing to let Nigel be the law of the land. If he said to have his sister home by midnight, the kid pulled up in the driveway at 11:50.
Speaking of time, Nigel glanced at the wall clock again. This shop for tall men, aptly named Tall Threads, had a clock on the wall shaped like a pair of extra-long pants, with suspenders for hands. The shorter suspender pointed at nine, the longer at three.
Nine-fifteen.
Maybe he could scare teenage kids into being on time, but apparently it didn’t work with Ms. Kimberly Logan.
Yesterday, he’d thought she was joking when, while escorting him out after his interview, she’d announced she’d meet him at Tall Threads at 9:00 a.m. the following morning. She explained it’d be their first “success coach” meeting where they’d shop for bad-boy clothes.
He’d laughed.
She hadn’t.
With a pinched “this is serious” look, she reminded him that twenty percent of his fee, as outlined in the contract he’d signed, was allocated for miscellaneous expenditures.
Which, in this case, meant clothes to build his bad-boy image.
He had the urge to ask if she shopped someplace special to build her uptight-woman image, but had bitten his tongue. Not only because his mother had drilled it into him to never insult a lady, but also because once he’d made a commitment, he stuck to it. His siblings had the same trait; the roots from witnessing their parents’ living commitment to their faith, their marriage, their children. They’d soon be celebrating their fortieth wedding anniversary, a milestone Nigel wished for himself, someday.
“Look like a bad boy,” he muttered to himself for the nth time. If his mother knew he’d gone to these lengths, she’d cross herself and say at least a dozen Hail Marys.
Through the store display window, he suddenly saw Kimberly striding purposefully down the sidewalk, dressed in a classy but strict-looking pantsuit. Bright red, which surprised him. She seemed the kind of woman to stick with cooler colors to match that attitude of hers.
Sunlight glinted off her hair, making the blond appear almost white. As she walked, she talked on a cell phone, the fingers of her free hand gesturing emphatically.
The woman was a whirlwind. He wondered if she ever relaxed…or even knew how to.
She glanced at her wristwatch, visibly jumped and quickly ended the call. Then she checked her reflection in the window, tucking a stray hair into another variation of that bun-thing she called a hairdo. After a quick adjustment to her jacket, she plastered on a smile and sailed into the store.
He shook his head. The lady has perfected her grand entrance. Having been a professional wrestler, grand entrances were something he knew a thing or two about and she certainly had hers down.
Blinking rapidly, she approached a salesclerk and began talking animatedly.
Taking in a fortifying breath, Nigel sauntered up to her. She did a double take, then replastered on that manufactured smile.
“Nigel! I apologize for being late. I had a morning meeting—”
“Let’s get this over with.” He’d already heard her “I had a morning meeting” speech yesterday. Just because he’d made a commitment to this shopping gig didn’t mean he had to be good-natured about it.
“Bad mood?”
“Goes with the bad boy.”
She looked surprised.
“It was a joke.”
“Oh. Right.” Scarcely missing a beat, she resumed issuing instructions to the clerk, a middle-aged guy with thinning hair and a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin.
“And some of those stretchy T-shirts,” Kimberly said, her voice rushing over words, “any color but pink. And you have leather jackets, right?”
“I’m not wearing a leather jacket,” Nigel interjected.
The clerk cocked an eyebrow at Kimberly as though to say “Do I listen to him or you?”
She gave him an authoritative nod. He sauntered away.
Kimberly leaned toward Nigel. “I’m only asking you to try a few on,” she said under her breath. “Besides, if you check out the price tags, this place is very reasonable.”
“That’s not the issue.” Nigel had handled his pro-wrestling earnings well. Tack on his subsequent earnings from endorsements and coaching, he never worried about money. He opened his mouth to say more about not wanting to drape himself in leather when her perfume snagged his attention.
He recalled the spicy scent from yesterday. But today, he picked up a trace of something extra. Something hot and languid, like a drop of summer.
The scent seemed too exotic compared to the rest of her strict look, which made Nigel wonder if she was like one of those hothouse orchids. Elegantly beautiful, but needing a humid environment in which to thrive.
“Vegas isn’t a leather-jacket kinda town,” he said, finally gathering his thoughts. “Men wear sport shirts, linen jackets.”
“Leather equates to sex. Besides, it’s only February. Still cool enough to wear one.”
Sex. Not that he hadn’t heard the word before. Or didn’t give it as much, if not more, respect than he did money. But to hear this exotic orchid say the word so matter-of-factly was like hearing Queen Elizabeth cuss.
“I thought…” he backpedaled, grappling to remember what he’d been thinking before “sex” entered the picture “…this was about getting a date, not getting…” laid. Maybe she could casually say “sex” as though it were a refreshing after-dinner mint, but he didn’t talk that way. Maybe it was a dying art, but a man watched his language and his behavior around ladies.
“Hopefully one leads to the other,” she added, filling in the missing blank.
“I like to wait for the…other.”
“Well, that’s certainly your prerogative,” she answered, raising one shapely eyebrow. “But my business is to sell you, and trust me, sex sells. And by that I mean, we’re working on you oozing sex, flashing enough testosterone to bring women to their knees. Figuratively speaking, of course.”
He stared at those red lips that uttered things like “sex” and “knees.” They were still moving but he’d stopped listening. Had he ever before seen such a perfectly shaped mouth? Outlined and glossed as though it was an art object and not a living, pulsing piece of her body. Funny, she talked so straightforwardly about bad boys and sex and “figurative” whatevers, but he didn’t detect the source of her own passion.
Had to be hidden deep somewhere under that fire-engine red suit.
“So what do you think?” she said.
He lifted his gaze to meet her gray eyes. “I’ve never worn a leather jacket before,” he murmured, fairly certain that the response would fit just about anything she’d been saying.
“You wore a leather Speedo.”
Not this again. “As The Phantom. Not me.”
“Like he’s not part of you.”
“Like he was a character, somebody I made up.” His voice hardened. “I’m getting tired of resurrecting The Phantom every time we meet.” If she brought up that commercial again, he’d walk.
Their gazes locked for a long moment. Over the speakers a singer crooned the old Dylan tune “Tangled Up In Blue,” wailing about a man keepin’ on, like a bird that flew, tangled up in blue.
That’s me, thought Nigel. Tangled up in this, committed to this. My best bet is not to fight it, but flow with it if I want to find true love.
She seemed to pick up on his thoughts because her face relaxed a bit, her mouth mimicking a smile.
“We haven’t even said hello and we’re already off on the wrong foot,” she said, her voice taking on a syrupy quality. She extended her hand. “Hello.”
He hadn’t noticed her watch yesterday. Ornate. Silver. Were those diamonds? Either she had a moneyed beau or she bought this bauble for herself. He voted for the latter. Only women who made big bucks could afford such luxuries, which meant she’d successfully played matchmaker to many “life dates.”
Which meant those people were, at this moment, happily attached—maybe even married—to their soul mates.
Which meant it was in his best interests to stick with the program. Even if he felt tangled up in blue.
He took her hand, which disappeared into his. “Hello.”
“We’re getting silly over a jacket.”
When she turned her head slightly, he noticed she wore only one earring. Fancy watch, but only one earring. There was no beau in her life. Not a live-in one, anyway. Because a loving man would stop her before she rushed out the door missing an earring, or anything else for that matter.
And a really good man would grab this bundle of energy on her way out the door and plant a kiss on those luscious red lips so they didn’t look too perfect.
“The leather jacket is about first impressions, that’s all,” the glossy red lips continued. “And first impressions are the most important thing in the dating scene. Actually, the most important thing in any scene. Anyway, the dating scene is a buyer’s market and we’re making you into a salable product. Once you’re off the shelf, you’ll have plenty of time to let the woman of your dreams—your life date—get to know the real you, see into your heart, and fall in love with you and only you—”
Her voice caught, and he sensed she’d just revealed more than she’d intended. Someone hadn’t loved her, only her?
“You know what?” she asked, rushing on, “I think you’ll need a new, bad name to go along with the your new, bad look.”
He frowned. “I thought this meeting was about my looking like a bad boy, not taking the name of one.”
“Yes, but wouldn’t it have been silly to have named the Eiffel Tower ‘that big pointy structure’?”
