Made to be His (The Archer Family #1)

by Allison Gatta

  She'd lied. Trying on the dress had been the easy part.

  This? This was the real moment of truth.

  * * *

  The door swung open and his breath caught.

  Like Invasion of the Body Snatchers meeting Pretty in Pink, there was no way in hell the woman in front of him was Andy Archer. Andy Archer had mousy brown hair, boxy shoulders, and an attitude big enough to cover the whole of California.

  This woman? She had curves in all the right places. Her shoulders were delicate, accentuated by her creamy white skin. This woman was hot.

  Beyond hot, really.

  How had he never noticed Andy's incredible figure? Her round, perky breasts and her narrow waist? He'd known she was about average height, but with her legs exposed, he saw now just how lean and trim the muscles there were. Like she was made to wear heels, even in her dirt-smeared Reeboks.

  "I've changed my mind," she said, pulling on the hem of the dress. "I look ridiculous. I can't do this."

  "You look great. You just need practice." He cleared his throat, suddenly very aware of how difficult it was not to stare at her chest. "Try the next one."

  She disappeared behind the door without another complaint and he headed back onto the sales floor. She probably wouldn’t notice he was gone, and even if she did, the time apart would be worth it. He had to get his head on straight.

  Both of them.

  It was only the shock of her transformation that made his heart beat faster when he saw her, nothing else. The thrill of a job well done. Like winning a game or hitting a homerun. It had nothing to do with Andy. Even if she looked good now, she was still Andy.

  Ball-busting, sports-obsessed Andy. She was practically a guy, for crissake.

  Before today, most of their conversation had involved statistics and techniques. The fact that she sort of, maybe, looked like a girl now didn't change the fact that if he ran into her on the street, he was much more likely to ask her to grab a beer than to go on a date.

  He headed back to the dressing rooms and almost as soon as he parked in front of her door again, it opened. And so the onslaught of his inner torment began. Dress after dress, she stalked out and emphasized new parts of her body he'd never noticed before. Her toned arms, her flat stomach, her round ass.

  By the last dress, he was certain of two things: first, she had been born to show off her body. And second? Planning a day alone together had been a very, very bad idea.

  There was no questioning that his job had been well done, but the pulse in his groin every time that dressing room opened had nothing to do with that success and everything to do with the way she twirled around and showed off that incredible figure. The way her green eyes shined. The little line of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

  The plan had been to make her more approachable in order to win her new clients, not so that he could imagine her naked...

  He swallowed hard, trying to bat back the all-too intriguing question of what exactly she looked like under all her new, pretty clothes. Or what she might have looked like in that see-through black teddy.

  "This is it." She emerged in a red dress that hugged her hourglass frame like it was made for her. The “V” of the collar dipped into her impressive cleavage, and as he looked over the garment, the only thing he could imagine was exactly how easy it would be to remove.

  He cleared his throat. Matt's sister. She was his buddy's sister.

  But God help him if that meant anything at the moment.

  Chapter 4

  "You look great." He swallowed hard. “I think we’ve found your outfit for the day.”

  "Hold up. You didn't say I had to wear this today," she scoffed, looking herself over from her trashed shoes to her sexy dress. “I thought this was just supposed to help me find clients.”

  "How will you look comfortable if you don’t have practice?" he asked.

  "This was not part of the agreement." She crossed her arms over her chest and he nearly closed his eyes to avoid staring at the enhanced crease between her breasts. Instead he focused on her dirt-caked Reeboks.

  She was fidgeting. Moving one foot from side to side in a familiar, steady beat.

  He knew that move. It was the one she used to do in the library before finals, the one she did in the hallways just before an exam. She was nervous.

  He looked beside him and noticed what it was she was avoiding—the paneled mirror in the center of the room. Behind her, he caught a glimpse of the dressing room. Her oversized jersey hung from the mirror and he could only catch a slice of it at the bottom.

  "Are you not looking at yourself?" He squinted at her.

  She sighed. "Looking is a relative term, I think—"

  Women were baffling sometimes. How could a woman who looked like Andy ever worry about what the mirror would show her? If the way she looked before stepping into her shower was even a fraction of how she looked in that dress, he could hardly begin to understand why she didn't just join a nudist colony.

  He stalked toward her and grasped her forearm before hauling her over to the paneled mirror.

  "No, really," she protested, "I'm good. I'll take your word for it."

  He halted her in front of the tri-fold and she closed her eyes.

  "You are the biggest baby I've ever met," he said.

  Her only response was to stick out her tongue.

  "Open your eyes, Andy." When she didn't, he let out a deep sigh and added, "If you open your eyes, I'll buy you a drink. Just think. Free stuff."

  "Dinner,” she countered. “And you have to say that hockey is better than baseball."

  "Don't push it."

  She smirked and her eyes fluttered open. For a minute, he wasn't sure if she was really looking at herself, but when she took a step forward, it was clear. Even with the disgusting sneakers still on her feet, she could tell she was a changed woman. She pushed her brown waves over her shoulder, then nodded gruffly, swallowing hard as if to hide her own amazement.

  "It's all right, I guess." She patted his shoulder a little rougher than usual, then headed back to her stall. "Good job, pal."

  He bit back the urge to laugh and grabbed her hand before she ducked into her hidey-hole again. "I think they'll let you wear it out," he said.

  Her gaze flicked to where his fingers grasped her silky skin. And when her eyes met his again, he was all too aware of the rising color in her cheeks.

  He didn't know why he did it. Maybe it was force of habit, or maybe it was because that sweet, red blush was so inviting, but he took another step toward her, making his presence impossible for her to deny. The air between them singed with electricity, and for a moment neither of them spoke.

  At last, he broke the silence. "Now, come on. If I'm taking you out, we'd better find you some heels."

  He pivoted toward the sales floor before the inevitable new onslaught of protests began.

  * * *

  "This had better be a really nice restaurant. I'm talking five stars, seven courses, and the whole shebang." She glanced skeptically at the stilts he'd insisted on buying before taking them from his outstretched hands.

  "You won't be disappointed," he said.

  "At least we're done now," she countered. "That's the most important part."

  Aside from the new dress she was wearing, they’d already filled five bags full of new dresses, skirts, and blouses. Logan had even given the sales team free rein to select jewelry and shoes to match every outfit. Just looking at all the loot made her head spin.

  “I mean,” she went on, “I don’t think I could take any more.”

  There was a beat of silence as Logan stared back at her, expressionless. She bit back a scream. Seriously? There was more?

  Truthfully, it wasn't so much the makeover process that bothered her. In fact, that part had been sort of...fun. Not fun in the way watching a playoff game was fun, but enjoyable all the same. Then again, she couldn’t be sure if that had more to do with the shopping trip itself or the way Logan kept
staring at her.

  She pushed the thought to the back of her mind. Maybe she thought she'd seen something, but it was all a trick of the light. They weren’t in college anymore. She wasn’t going to let herself imagine things that just weren’t there.

  Not again. Not after the last time.

  After all, there was no way in hell someone like Logan Grant would be looking at her as anything other than a charity case. His best friend’s helpless little sister. A GI Joe in a Barbie disguise.

  No, whatever she'd thought, Logan was not interested in her.

  "What else could there possibly be to shop for?" she asked.

  "Make up. It'll be quick." He motioned for her to follow him, then set off for the neon-lit cosmetics counter.

  "I've never had to work this hard for dinner before," she said.

  He paused in his tracks and glanced at her over his shoulder, a mocking smile on his face. Then, after a moment, she realized the implications of what she'd said.

  "I meant like—"

  He held up a hand and started off again. "No need to explain. I won't mention it to your brother."

  Perfect. At least with the way her face was heating up, he wouldn't push her to wear blush.

  When they finally reached the florescent sample counter, they parked on the two stools in front of the wide, circular mirror and she began fiddling with the piles of compacts and palettes that were across the counter.

  "Why do I get the impression this is going to be like the blind leading the incurably glaucomic?" she groaned, then coughed as a plume of dust wafted up from the powder puff in her hand.

  "Don't be so dramatic. How hard could it be?" He took a palette from between her fingers and she crossed her legs as the thrill of contact rippled through her.

  He's just not that into you. He's just not that into you. He's just not that into you.

  "I've seen tons of women do that smoky eye thing. It's got to be easy."

  He took a Q-tip from one of the clear, plastic containers on the counter and blotted at something that looked scarily like deep, black powdered eye shadow.

  "I think—"

  He shushed her and held up a finger. "Allow the master to work. We’re supposed to do things my way and that's what we're going to do. Now close your eyes."

  She bit back the rest of her arguments and followed his instructions. She flinched as the cotton swabbed her, but it only lasted a minute before he spoke again.

  "Do you mind if I move closer?"

  The thrashing of her heart rose from the hollow of her throat to the constant, insistent pounding of her temples, but she shook her head. Because she was a dummy like that.

  The metal chair scrapped along the ceramic flooring, but she didn't open her eyes. She didn't have to. The heat of his leg brushing against her bare thigh and the smell of his spicy aftershave were all she needed to know that he was way too close for comfort. Or, more accurately, for her sanity.

  She swallowed hard and the brush swept over her again in a wide arc. She was surprised by the gentleness of his calloused thumb caressing the space beneath her lid.

  "A little extra. Sorry," he said, then blew a steady stream of warm breath onto her cheek to remove the rest.

  As if the proximity wasn't bad enough. Did he have to do that? To taunt her with the mintiness of his breath? To force her to stay calm when all she wanted to do was sag beneath his caress like some kind of swooning 1920's move star?

  The touching, the taunting, seemed like it went on forever and still when it stopped and he said, "Okay. You can open 'em," she felt completely bereft.

  With a deep breath, she blinked open to gaze at her reflection.

  And just like that, all her tension gave way to racking, uproarious laughter.

  She looked as though he'd tried to paint her like some kind of cartoon grim reaper, all deep black circles around her eyes and pale white skin.

  Reaching for some tissues, she said, "You should stick to baseball."

  For a moment he feigned insult, but the veneer was thin at best. After a second, a broad, white smile split his face and he speared a hand through his disheveled brown hair.

  "I assure you, I have no idea what you're talking about."

  She wiped at the monstrosity of his work until only a shadow of pale grey coated her lids. "Good enough."

  After slathering on some gloss to complete the look, she rubbed her lips together and then pouted into the mirror to ensure she'd covered all her bases. Her father might not have taught her much about how to be a lady, but make-up was one lesson he'd gotten down pat.

  What he hadn't taught her was how to pretend she didn’t notice when men stared at her mouth. Like Logan was doing now.

  She caught his gaze in the mirror, but with a cough he sprung from his stool and held out a hand. "Time for dinner?" he asked.

  She glanced at his outstretched palm, but before she could take it, he pulled it away and rustled in their mounds of shopping bags.

  "Don't tell me it's something else," she said.

  "No, but you've got to put the heels on." He handed her the gold, strappy contraptions.

  What was so wrong with wearing her sneakers? They were durable, waterproof, and required no toenail painting whatsoever. They were the every man's shoe.

  Heels? They were more like nature's way of letting women know that someone out there hated them and that the journey through life was going to be long, arduous, and painful.

  Still, she took them from his grasp and configured them until she was relatively certain she'd secured it on her foot...as far as she could tell, anyway.

  Logan held out his palm again and she steeled herself before taking it in her own and allowing him to help her from her seat.

  From the first step, she was a natural.

  If, for example, the definition of “natural” was for her ankle to quirk to the side like a drunken baby deer and fall sprawling to the floor.

  If that was what being a natural meant, she'd totally nailed it.

  If not...well, not so much.

  "You okay there, champ?" Logan smiled and pulled her to her feet, graciously not drawing attention to the fact that he'd probably just seen the fabric that was currently housing her nether regions.

  "I'm totally cool." Her ankle popped to the side again, but this time Logan hooked his arm around hers and nestled her to his side.

  As if being the world's worst runway model wasn't bad enough, now she had to worry about whether he could hear her heart pounding. When things went from bad to worse, they seriously didn't waste time.

  "We're probably going to have to go to a nearby restaurant." He laughed.

  She nodded. "Good call."

  She leaned on him as they walked a short way down the street. Luckily, downtown San Diego was an easy place to find decent food, so that was one worry she could waylay. Harder was the fact that, as much as she tried to keep Logan at arm's length, he was quickly sneaking through her chinks of armor.

  After he'd initially finished his joking, he'd helped her to manage on her heels. Hell, he'd even encouraged her, as if she were a kid who'd finally gotten her training wheels removed. After a couple of blocks, she'd nearly gotten the hang of it. Her ankle only occasionally protested and, if someone was squinting while looking at her from really, really far away, she might have even looked normal.

  At the end of the street, they paused and Logan looked her over. "Not too shabby. With any luck, you might be able to fit in at the banquet in a few months."

  "The what?" Her ears pricked up.

  "The annual sports banquet for Sports Informer magazine. I thought you'd be there?"

  Sports Informer magazine? They were the biggest name in sports publishing. Beyond big—it was the Vogue of the sporting world. A spread could make or break public image, and every agent in the country would likely be vying for a spot on the guest list.

  Which meant, of course, she’d likely not been even close to the list of considerations.

 
"For sure. Totally going. I just forgot." She nodded, the gears in her mind already whirring. She'd already called in every favor her brother could offer her and—

  Her stomach growled. Loudly.

  "We should probably eat." His mocking half-grin returned and she surveyed the storefronts surrounding them. There wasn't much this far down aside from a few dodgy shops, but there was one semi-clean-looking sushi place.

  "Want to try it out?" He motioned to the doors and she hedged.

  A sushi place sandwiched in between a pet store and a cigar bar? It had the potential to go very, horribly wrong, but there was something in the way Logan smiled that made her regular cautiousness fade away.

  "I'll give it a shot," she said and hooked her arm around his to cross the street.

  The interior was small, but much nicer than she'd expected. One of those sorts of traditional places with low-to-the-ground tables and pillows for seats. Without being asked, she plunked onto a nearby pillow and pulled her heels off, resisting the urge to rub her feet and beg forgiveness of her toes.

  A hostess met them and eyed her wordlessly before finally clearing her throat. "Welcome. Two?"

  "Yeah," Andy said and stumbled to her feet again.

  Not that the waitress heard her. She was already padding in the opposite direction, guiding Logan to a part of the restaurant closed off by a wide, tan screen.

  Sprinting after them, Andy caught up just as the waitress ordered them to be seated again.

  They did as they were told and the server went on, "This is our couples' room. Made specifically for dates and special occasions. Are you two celebrating tonight?" she asked.

  "Oh no, we're not—" Andy started, but cut herself off when she saw the waitress' delighted expression.

  Ah, so that was the plan, was it? She wanted to find out if Logan was single?

  "Actually, you know, I was going to keep it a secret, but we're celebrating some very special news." Andy shot the waitress her brightest grin. “We just moved in together.”

  The other woman responded with an obviously forced smile and offered her congratulations before scooting away and muttering something about water.