Made to be His (The Archer Family #1)

by Allison Gatta

  She was approachable. Plus, she had the benefit of knowledge other women didn't. After growing up with two brothers and her dad for company, she understood men better than other women. Hell, she was practically one of the boys... Didn’t anyone find that sexy?

  She was perfectly respectable just the way she was.

  Besides, it wasn’t like Logan was exactly the pinnacle of fashion, either. He’d had frosted tips far longer than they were in fashion, and she’d once seen him sporting a non-ironic Hawaiian shirt. Even she knew those were clear fashion mistakes.

  So, it was settled.

  She was definitely, unequivocally not going.

  She scrolled through her phone, desperate to find his number, but when she dialed, a cool female voice informed her that the line had been disconnected. Great.

  She plopped down in front of the computer and opened up her browser. The odds of finding his number on the Internet were unlikely, but not impossible. But, when her homepage loaded, she sat back and sighed, momentarily sidetracked from her mission.

  The huge sports publishing company hosting last night’s gala had apparently made quick work of plastering pictures all over the Internet. There, on her front page, was Logan, smiling warmly at the camera, some beautifully disinterested woman clinging to his side.

  Andy clicked on the link beneath and scrolled through the gallery, flipping quickly past a photo of Shay and Matt looking perfectly quaffed on the red carpet. When she was almost to the end, she nearly stopped looking—convinced she’d have never wound up in a picture, but then there she was.

  In the picture, Logan stood tall, all shaggy brown hair and strong, broad shoulders, his huge palm wrapped around her shoulder. Then there was her—at least a foot shorter, baggy clothes and messy hair, despite all of her best efforts. She looked like an out-of-work 1980’s secretary, and the two of them together were a beyond ridiculous pairing. She looked like she was half a second from asking for his autograph.

  Beneath the photo were some words and averages about Logan’s performance in the last season and, as always, the mention of his part in Matt's accident, but all the words had blurred together where she'd been concerned. There wasn’t even a mention of her or the company, no notion of his potential as a client. She may as well have been invisible.

  And the fact that she wasn’t made it all the worse.

  Her stomach twisted and she jumped from the computer chair. So, she wasn’t exactly photogenic. That was okay. You didn’t have to be beautiful to succeed in business.

  But you have to be gorgeous to be with Logan…

  Ugh, where had that come from? The image of his beautiful, statuesque date ran through her mind and she shook her head. Logan was a dream—no, he had been a dream. Now, he was nothing. A friend. She didn’t actually want to be with him.

  She wanted to be with him the way women wanted to be with Johnny Depp or Brad Pitt. It was a nice thought, but it simply wasn’t realistic. It was just a silly fantasy.

  Brushing the thought away, she stood in front of her mirror and smoothed her shirt. It was an old jersey her brother had given her, but it was a favorite. Ultra comfortable and easy to wash. Her jeans were faded and ripped at the hem, but they fit well. They didn't dig into her skin or ride ridiculously low. She looked good. Average. Casual.

  She didn't need a makeover, no matter what Logan or the Internet said.

  But then there was the thought of him, standing in front of the store, waiting for her.

  She couldn’t just leave him stranded, so she picked up her car keys from the beat-up wooden table next to the front door and made her way to the Jeep.

  Going at all was a bad decision; she knew that much already. But she had no other option. She’d simply have to drive down the street, park next to his ludicrously bright yellow Mustang, and let him know that she would help him if he needed it, but she wasn’t going to be privy to whatever jollies he got from giving her a makeover.

  And besides, how was she supposed to feel about his thinking she needed a makeover in the first place? Why didn’t he just—

  She shook her head. No, the less she said, the better.

  She would say her piece, leave, and then the whole thing would be behind them. Easy as that. And maybe, just maybe, she’d finally be able to put aside that weird, swirly thing her heart did when she looked at him, too.

  Yeah, right…

  The ride was blissfully—and somehow painfully—short, and when she saw the dreaded yellow Mustang, she popped her car into park beside it and steeled herself for the inevitable.

  Logan was leaning against the hood, his dark wash jeans slung so low on his hips that she could just make out the top of his rust-colored boxers. Not that she was looking.

  When she pulled in, he hardly looked up from his phone, opting instead for an impassive nod.

  Good. Maybe he doesn’t want to be here, either. This might just be easier than I thought.

  Of course, she should have known better. Before she'd even made it around the front of the car, he was talking. “You’re determined to make this job difficult, aren’t you?"

  “I—” She opened her mouth, then closed it again. He’d hardly so much as flicked a glance her way, and apparently that was enough to find her lacking?

  If she were in her right mind, she would spin on her heel and leave. Logically, what he said didn't matter—the only thing that mattered was maintaining her ever-dwindling supply of dignity.

  But, even with her goodbye on the tip of her tongue, her brain stammered on his words and she started spluttering. "Logan, I— Wait, what did you say?"

  He glanced up at her, though he still slouched lazily against his car. “I tried to get one of the makeup girls from one of the magazines to come along and help you, but apparently she can’t be bothered.”

  “She’s probably still bothered about the fact you never called her back.”

  “How did you—?” He slid his phone into his back pocket.

  She rolled her eyes. “You never call them back.”

  “Oh, come on, Andy. I’ve changed since college.” He scoffed.

  “So you never actually dated her?”

  “Well I…We might have gone out a time or two. Very casually.”

  “Oh, then you did call her back?” She lifted an eyebrow.

  He set his full mouth in a hard line. “We’re not here to discuss me, are we?”

  Andy laughed. “That’s what I thought.”

  "Look, it doesn’t matter. We don’t need her. I grew up with sisters, and I can fix you up in no time, even wearing that. Ready?"

  When she didn’t answer, he caught her forearm with a surprising gentleness, and this time when they touched, there was no fabric to shield her from the spark of electricity that jolted her to the core.

  She opened her mouth, determined to find the goodbye she’d come so prepared with, but apparently it had left. In its place was a nervous energy that swelled in her stomach and bubbled up her throat. He was touching her. Her.

  Protest washed away, and instead of turning up her nose and spouting off facts about the health benefits of make-up-free skin, she was walking through the swanky shop’s chrome doors as if she were weightless.

  She had to stop this. This wasn't her, this weird, thoughtless compliance. It wasn’t like a man had never touched her before. She’d had boyfriends. Even a lover or two.

  But then again, none of them had been Logan. Not even close.

  "You okay there?" His voice broke through the fog of her thoughts, and she finally pulled away from his grasp. Still, she was too aware of the heat flooding her cheeks, of the way his keen brown eyes appraised her. She had to find something, anything, to focus on.

  The clothes. Maybe if they talked about clothes for a while she could pretend that she wasn't imagining what he’d look like without any.

  "I like this." She grabbed the hanger nearest to her without looking.

  Which, as it happened, was a mistake.

 
The concern in Logan’s eyes turn to something softer—something that made them shine with laughter.

  And then she looked down to find that, in her hand, she held the world's tiniest, most see-through teddy.

  Her life was flashing before her eyes. At her funeral, people would say, "Did you hear what happened to Andy?" "Oh yes, died of humiliation. We always saw it coming, though. Even when she was a girl." Then they'd tsk and put her in the ground.

  In fact, that might be preferable. The ground seemed like a cold solace compared to the magma-like heat rushing to her cheeks while Logan grinned at her like he’d gotten to open his Christmas presents a day early.

  “I, uh—” She moved to put the set back on the rack, but he grabbed her hand.

  A mocking smile played across his full, stupidly beautiful lips. “No need to be shy. I agree. It’s good to start with the basics. Hang on to that.”

  She swallowed her argument along with her pride. Clearly, he meant for her to walk around the place with the sheer lace dangling from the hanger, like her own personal Scarlet Letter.

  To make matters worse, as far as she could tell, the shopping bags were all glittery and see through--as if to draw more attention to the items within.

  No, thanks.

  "Actually, I think this one's from last season. I'll look a little later." She set the hanger back without giving it another glance.

  "If you insist." He shrugged, and without warning, he pulled the band from her ponytail.

  Along with the snap of elastic came the bristling whoosh of her hair cascading around her face. An errant strand poked her in the eye and she teared up.

  She moved to swat the lock away, but he caught her wrist and shook his head.

  "Don’t touch it. I’m trying to get an assessment. You know, it's not half bad like this."

  "Is that supposed to be a compliment?" Her fighting spirit was finally, blissfully reemerging. If only he'd stop touching her, maybe she could rack up enough sense to back out of this deal like she'd intended in the first place.

  "Just a fact," he said. Then he wove his fingers between her locks, lightly brushing her scalp before finally parting her brown waves to the right. "Much better."

  "I probably look like a newscaster."

  "Maybe, but that would require a cheery attitude to go along with the hairdo. I don’t think you’re in much danger of that." He offered her a half smile, and for some reason the flipping in her stomach moved up to her heart. It turned over and over in her chest, and when his fingers brushed her forehead and pushed her ragged bangs to the side, the organ damn near quit beating.

  "Now for clothes," he said.

  "Right, well, I don't really have the budget for a new wardrobe. With the business starting and—"

  "Don't worry about that. My idea, my expense."

  She blinked. "I can't let you—"

  "Part of the deal. If you don't like it, you can walk away."

  There it was. She'd been trying to find an excuse to head out since she'd left her house, and he'd handed her one on a silver platter.

  But then…

  The picture from the gala flashed in her mind. Logan, tall and rugged and handsome as ever. And her, dowdy and awkward.

  If she went on like this—if she left—what would she be heading back to? Living the rest of her days in Shay’s shadow. An entire afternoon without Logan…

  “I…I’ll pay you back,” she choked out.

  Mercifully, Logan chose to ignore her as he turned and led her deeper into the store, passing under giant crystal chandeliers as they went. As if the upscale clothes weren't bad enough, every wall in the place was mirrored.

  "Here we are." Logan gestured toward a platform of mannequins, all dressed in tiny bits of sequined fabric. She thought—no, prayed—that the outfits were supposed to be bikinis, but at this time of year it was none too likely.

  “If I showed that much skin, I…” She what? She couldn’t even imagine it. Mostly because the last time she’d been that publically naked, she’d still had an umbilical chord attached.

  “Oh, relax. They aren’t all skimpy. Besides, it might do you some good to show a little skin. You might even get a boyfriend out of it.”

  She glared at him. “How do you know I don’t already have a boyfriend?”

  “Well, if you do, you haven’t told your brother about it.”

  “That’s not outside the realm of possibility.” She sailed past the too-thin statues and bee lined for the clearance rack. “I don’t have to tell Matt everything about my life.”

  “You don’t have to, but you do.” Logan pulled the pair of beige slacks she’d been examining away from her. "Now, if you’re done trying to make up stories, I'm going to ask you to slowly step away from the clearance rack."

  "You can save a fortune if—"

  He held up his hand to silence her. "Your shopping privileges have been revoked. You are obviously not to be trusted. I'm going to pick out clothes and you're going to try them on. That's the deal."

  "I should get veto power on—"

  "No. You do what I say. End of story." He stared down at her, and though she narrowed her eyes back at him, she knew she’d lost the fight.

  "I'm going to take that as agreement. You stay here." He turned his back without waiting for her reply. Not that she blamed him. If their past interactions were anything to go by, the smart money was on a fight flaring up if they stayed in the same place for too long.

  Faster than she would have thought, he returned with a pretty saleswoman whose arms were laden with—

  No.

  "I refuse." She swallowed hard and stepped back, but a hanger from the rack behind her dug into her skin. She sidestepped it and put her hands out in front of her. She wasn’t going to wear them. He couldn’t make her.

  "I gave you the chance to leave. You agreed to stay. This is the deal." He took the clothes from the saleswoman and thrust the hangers toward her.

  "There should have been clearer stipulations. Those”—she pointed at the mound of fabric—“are fashion's version of oppression. They are man’s way of keeping women down."

  No way. No way in hell was she wearing a dress. Her knees had not seen the sun since the early nineties and she was more than okay with that.

  "I'll strip you and make you try them on if I have to." His expression was a little too serious for her liking. Worse was the way her body responded to the suggestion. Like it was volunteering for him to try.

  “Should I see if I can find something more—“ the saleswoman started, batting her long lashes at Logan with something a little more than enthusiastic customer service, but he cut her off.

  “I think we’re just fine. Thanks.”

  A strange pleasure rushed through Andy at his curtness. Apparently, the woman noticed, too, because her simper ebbed the slightest bit. Pressing her lips together, the sales lady—whose nametag said ‘Pam,’ added, “Actually, sir, now that I’m looking, I’m not sure we’ve got the right size. The hips are a little—“

  “It’s the right size. Trust me,” Logan said.

  Pam glanced from Logan to Andy, disbelief coloring her too-sharp cheekbones. Andy could practically read the other woman’s thoughts—“Are they together?” Based on her contorted expression, it was the most abhorrent question she’d had to ask herself in a long, long time.

  Apparently professional to the core, Pam asked, “Right, well, would you like me to show you to the dressing rooms, then?”

  “Please.” This time, he didn’t even look at her. His gaze was full of steely determination and all of it was centered on Andy.

  Her heart thudded harder under his scrutiny, and it wasn’t until he started off that she noticed the woman was already trotting ahead of them, her ass swaying pointedly with every step she took.

  So much for professionalism, apparently.

  “I bet the size is wrong. We should probably check—“ Andy tried, but Logan only glanced over his shoulder and offered her an eye rol
l.

  “I’ve seen enough dress labels on my floor to guess what size you are.”

  Logan smirked as she padded into her newfound cell, but stopped the door from closing. Leaning in, he added, "You're to come out and show me each outfit. Or no dice."

  "I have to show you the outfit or you're not going to force me to wear them? Those are some pretty big dice, chief."

  “Just do it,” he said, then closed the door with a little snap.

  Moment of truth. Maybe she could snake under the stall all Mission-Impossible-like and get out of it? But even as she calculated her escape route, she was pulling her jersey over her head and making sure not to look at her naked body in the mirror. She'd had enough humiliation and self-loathing today to last her a lifetime, and it wasn't even noon yet.

  She held up the first dress, expecting something slinky or sparkly, and was surprised to find that it was plain: a light sort of sea foam green, with a flared skirt and a heart-shaped cut out on the back.

  With a deep breath, she muscled into it only to find that it was…

  Well...nice. Weirdly so. And airy, too.

  She surveyed herself in the mirror, and her heart dropped into her shoes. No way was she going to let Logan see her in this. In fact, screw anyone seeing her like this She ran her hands down the dress and shook her head. The cotton might have been comfortable and the design was simple, but the thing was so fitted that there was no angle of her body it tried to hide. Her boobs stared at her like they were asking for attention.

  She grabbed her oversized jersey from the crumpled pile on the floor and covered the top part of the mirror. Save for her calves and Reeboks, she was completely invisible to herself.

  Good enough.

  "I'm sick. Can't come out." She coughed. "You should actually probably go. I feel pretty contagious."

  "Don't be a baby," his deep voice called back.

  "I'm only worried about you. See, I don’t want you to—"

  "Come out, Andy, or I'll rip the door off the hinges myself."