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A dozen thoughts crashed over Devon at once, immobilizing him.
Jenny had overheard his recent phone conversation with her aunt, Vickie Heath. And even though Jenny hadn’t heard both sides, somehow she’d guessed the woman’s intentions correctly. Which probably had something to due with the fact that Vickie had shown up at the airport to confront Devon the day he’d arrived to take his children home.
Not caring that her niece and nephews were huddled together within earshot, Vickie had claimed he was an unfit parent. A selfish recluse who planned to deny Jenny and her brothers the life of privilege and opportunity that Ashleigh, their mother, had wanted them to have.
If Devon remembered correctly, Vickie had also thrown the words worthless bum into the mix.
Until Vickie’s phone call, he’d assumed his former sister-in-law’s tirade at the airport was simply a release of the stress and grief over Ashleigh’s untimely death. Never in a million years had he dreamed that his ex-wife’s sister planned to contest the placement of the children.
His children.
Somehow Jenny had gotten wind of Vickie’s intentions and decided that if a judge had to choose a parent, it wasn’t going to be the guy with unfashionably long hair and faded blue jeans who didn’t appear to have a steady job.
Devon stifled a groan. By bringing Caitlin McBride, an image consultant who had a professional relationship with Twin City Trends, to their door, Jenny had complicated the situation instead of helping it. All it would take was a few careless words from Jenny or the boys and he’d have reporters camped out on the sidewalk.
Devon wasn’t about to sign his family up for that three-ring circus again.
Lord, it took so long to get the kids back. To be a family. I don’t want to lose them now.
Even as Devon sent up the silent appeal, he couldn’t think of one thing to say to Jenny that wouldn’t allow Caitlin further access to their family business. It was bad enough she’d heard the reason that prompted Jenny’s contest entry; there was no telling what Caitlin would do if she knew the rest of the story.
Their eyes caught and held over Jenny’s head.
It was time to show the lady the door. Again.
“Ms. McBride—”
She didn’t let him finish.
“One of the contest rules is that the person chosen for the makeover must be over eighteen. But because of Jenny’s well-written essay we made an exception,” Caitlin interrupted, aiming a warm smile in his daughter’s direction. “I stopped by today to congratulate you, Jenny, and let you know your entry took second place. My assistant will be sending you a gift certificate for a style analysis from IMAGEine.”
Devon gaped at Caitlin as she rose to her feet and held out her hand. To his daughter.
“Congratulations. It was nice to meet you, Jenny. And you, Mr. Walsh.”
Automatically, Devon followed her lead and extended his hand, too. After a slight hesitation, Caitlin pressed her fingers against his. He expected her touch to be as cool as her eyes, but instead the brief touch sparked a current that jump-started a part of his heart he’d thought lay dormant.
Maybe that was the part of the reason Devon didn’t realize the truth until later on in the day, when he replayed the unusual conversation that had taken place in the parlor.
Caitlin McBride wouldn’t have bothered to set up an appointment to meet with them if Jenny had come in second place. They would have received a polite letter of congratulations, accompanied by the gift certificate she’d mentioned, and that would have been the end of it.
Jenny had won the contest.
But for some mysterious reason, Caitlin had walked away.
“You have a warm skin tone, so that means you want to choose clothing from this color palette.” Caitlin spread some swatches out on the table for her client to look at. “Something on the order of this gold satin would be perfect for the dress you’ve been looking for to wear to your anniversary party.”
“I don’t know.” Maxine Butterfield fidgeted with the enormous jade elephant dangling from a gold chain around her neck. “What about pink? People always compliment me when I wear pink.”
Caitlin resisted the urge to demand names and phone numbers. “I’ll drape a piece of this fabric around your shoulders and you’ll see what I’m talking about.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Caitlin saw the light on the telephone blink out a rapid SOS from Sabrina Buckley.
“Excuse me a moment, Mrs. Butterfield.”
Maxine smiled and immediately reached for a swatch of pink suede as Caitlin walked back to her desk.
“Sabrina, I’m with a client right now so—”
“He’s here.” Sabrina cut her off with an excited whisper.
“Who’s here?”
“Him.”
“You have to be a little more specific.”
“Him. Mr. Makeover. From the contest. You know…the guy you said has awesome cheekbones. Devon Walsh.”
“He’s in the office?” Standing next to your desk? Listening to every word you just said about awesome cheekbones?
And it wasn’t even Monday.
“He wants to see you.”
Caitlin’s heart skipped a beat. Over the past week, she’d tried to put the whole episode with the Walsh family out of her mind. It hadn’t been easy. Because for some odd reason, in the rare moments when Caitlin’s thoughts weren’t focused on her clients, they kept returning to Devon Walsh like a compass needle irresistibly drawn to the north. And she couldn’t forget the stricken expression on his face when Jenny told him why she’d entered him in the contest.
We’ll be able to stay with you.
Caitlin firmly pushed the memory aside. IMAGEine was her business, she reminded herself, not the Walsh family.
“He just poured himself a cup of coffee.” Sabrina kept up a whispered play-by-play. “Now he’s looking at the before-and-after photos on the wall.”
And he can still hear every word you’re saying.
“Tell Mr. Walsh that I’m booked solid for the next three weeks but if you check my calendar, you might be able to pencil him in after the etiquette class a week from Wednesday.”
“He said he doesn’t need an appointment.”
Caitlin blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Of all the nerve. Only her immediate family, consisting of her father and her sisters, Evie and Meghan, had permission to bypass standard office protocol.
“Everyone needs an appointment.”
“He said he doesn’t need an appointment because he has a gift certificate.”
A gift certificate.
The one she’d asked Sabrina to drop in the mail the day after she’d been at the Walsh’s. The one she’d promptly forgotten about because she assumed it would end up lining the bottom of an iguana cage.
“Is this a chocolate factory, Sabrina?”
“Ah…” Sabrina hesitated a fraction of a second. “No?”
“So a gift certificate from IMAGEine isn’t the equivalent of a golden ticket from Willy Wonka, is it?”
“Are you talking about the original or the remake? Because I heard there were some differences, and I saw the one with Johnny Depp but missed the first one with that other guy so I’m not sure—”
“Sabrina.”
“Right. He needs an appointment. But he—”
Caitlin heard Maxine laugh gleefully as she unearthed a bright raspberry, chiffon swatch from the summer color palette. “Just a second, Sabrina. Mrs. Butterfield…look at that attractive pumpkin-and-black houndstooth check.”
Maxine’s double chin wobbled, warning Caitlin she’d already lost ground.
“He says he doesn’t mind waiting,” Sabrina rushed on.
“Fine. I’ll be done in an hour. If Mr. Walsh doesn’t want to set up an appointment, I can spare five minutes after that.”
“Oh.” Sabrina’s upbeat tone deflated like a balloon animal in a room full of preschool children.
“Is something wrong?”
“It’s just that I have a date for dinner tonight, remember? If you add in rush-hour traffic, a shower and twenty minutes to fix my hair, I’ll be late. And you always stress how important it is to be punctual….” Sabrina’s voice trailed off into a hopeful silence.
Caitlin suppressed a smile. Hoisted with her own petard. “I’ll close up tonight.”
On time, Caitlin thought as she hung up the phone. She was confident Devon would view an hour spent in the reception area, with nothing to read but fashion magazines, with the same enthusiasm he’d have while waiting in a dentist’s office for a root canal.
The longer Devon waited for Caitlin to make an appearance the more he questioned his sanity.
If the glossy style magazines artfully fanned out on chrome-and-glass-topped tables hadn’t convinced him that he didn’t belong there, the wall of pictures featuring IMAGEine’s clients should have sent him running from the building. The photos provided all the proof he needed that Caitlin’s entire business centered around the warped philosophy that the only thing that really mattered was what a person looked like on the outside.
Because a First Impression Lasts…
The words, stenciled in gold letters below the IMAGEine logo on the wall, made Devon wonder why Caitlin hadn’t put her business’s tagline around a full-length mirror.
If it hadn’t been for Jenny, he wouldn’t be here at all.
Unfortunately, it had been his daughter’s turn to pick up the mail the day the letter arrived with IMAGEine’s return address stamped in the corner.
Jenny had immediately tracked him down and extracted the gift certificate with an enthusiasm Devon hadn’t seen since she and the boys had moved in with him. But when Devon had hemmed and hawed about actually exchanging the gift certificate for a free style analysis—whatever that was—Jenny’s copper-brown eyes had darkened with concern.
“You have to use it, Dad. You’re the one who’s over eighteen. Ms. McBride’s feelings will get hurt if you don’t.”
And because he cared about his daughter’s feelings, he’d given in. Jenny didn’t have to know that he planned to give Ms. McBride the gift certificate back and suggest she give it to someone else.
Someone who needed it.
“Mr. Walsh?”
Devon looked at Sabrina Buckley, wondering if Caitlin’s assistant ever spoke above a whisper. Studies did prove that a stressful work environment took a toll on a person.
“It’s two minutes to five. I have a date tonight and it takes twenty minutes to straighten my hair with a flat iron so I’m going to scoot out now.”
Whatever a flat iron was, it didn’t sound like something that should be used in the same sentence as hair. But what did he know?
“Have fun.”
Sabrina flashed a charming smile as she gathered up her things. When she reached the door, she paused and looked back. “It’s a shame you’re too busy to be in our makeover contest, Mr. Walsh. You do have really great cheekbones.”
“Thanks.” I think.
The young woman slipped out of the office, and Devon tilted his head thoughtfully.
It’s a shame you’re too busy to be in our makeover contest.
So that was the spin Caitlin had put on the situation. And it affirmed that his original suspicion had been right. For some inexplicable reason, she had let him off the hook.
When the door behind the reception area opened a few minutes later an elderly woman, dressed from head to toe in lavender, emerged and made a beeline for the exit. Muttering something about swatches and pumpkins.
She spotted Devon and pointed her finger at him. “Don’t let her push you around,” she muttered. “Everybody looks good in pink.”
Devon closed his eyes.
Tell me why I’m here, Lord?
When he opened them again, the first thing Devon saw was Caitlin. She swept into the room with the easy, unaffected grace of a ballet dancer. Clutching both of her shoes in one perfectly manicured hand while she tugged her hair free from a gold clip with the other.
Devon grinned.
She needed to change her logo. First impressions didn’t always last.
Chapter Four
She had to be dreaming.
Or hallucinating.
Those were the only explanations Caitlin could come up with when she saw Devon Walsh in a casual slouch next to the coffee station, his lean frame and tousled dark hair a striking contrast against the ivory and apricot wallpaper.
Caitlin ignored the sudden, erratic thumping of her heart and let her professional instincts kick into gear.
With a practiced eye, her assessment began at the scuffed loafers on Devon’s feet and went from there. Jeans so faded they looked more white than blue. The loose, uneven hem of his black fisherman’s sweater proved he hadn’t followed the proper washing instructions on the label: Hand Wash, Dry Flat. He’d pushed the sleeves up to his elbows, revealing corded forearms still tanned a golden brown from the summer sun.
But somehow, dark-eyed, unshaven and slightly rumpled, Devon Walsh still managed to spark the strangest feeling that he was the type of man a woman would run to for protection, not away from.
And if that unwelcome thought hadn’t been enough to throw off Caitlin’s balance, the slow smile Devon aimed in her direction momentarily stripped away her ability to speak.
