The Makeover Prescription

by Christy Jeffries

  “I was just thinking that with the colder weather approaching, I’d like to move in soon so I can appease my aunt. She’s worried that since I’m living close to work, I don’t have much of a social life and... Sorry. I’m rambling again.”

  “You mean you want to move into the place while it’s still under construction?”

  “I promise I wouldn’t be in your way or anything. I’m usually at the hospital all day and would keep to one bedroom and bathroom upstairs.”

  “Stop saying bedroom,” he muttered.

  “What was that?”

  “I said ‘spraying bedroom.’ As in, I need to use my paint gun to finish spraying the last coat on it. The bathroom will still take at least a week once I order those tiles. But I haven’t even started on the kitchen yet, and your aunt was pretty convinced that you needed a fully functional kitchen before you could move in.”

  Julia sighed. “Aunt Freckles is convinced about a lot of things that I don’t actually need. You should see the liquid eyeliner she bought me so I could practice something called the cat-wing technique.” Kane didn’t reply that Just Julia’s aunt was probably right about the kitchen and most definitely wrong about the eyeliner. Or the fact that he preferred working on empty houses where the pretty and distracting homeowners weren’t coming and going anytime they pleased. Especially if this was her normal after-work attire. “Anyway, I’ll head back to my office now to look over those tile samples, and then we’ll plan on me moving into the house next week.”

  She didn’t wait for his response as she nodded at him, then walked away. Her expensive-looking sneakers squeaked along the pristine hospital floor with each step. He had a feeling brain surgeons—not to mention military officers—were used to telling people what to do and having their orders carried out.

  Apparently the boss lady didn’t understand that Kane Chatterson wasn’t a lower ranked recruit or some unemployed laborer in a small hick town perfectly content to do her bidding. He might not have a bunch of letters after his name, but he had two championship rings and had been on the cover of Sports Illustrated three times. Even if one of those times was a shot taken during Brawlgate and wasn’t the most flattering image.

  No wonder she didn’t have much of a social life, if this was how she talked to people. He definitely wasn’t some nobody to be so easily dismissed. And if the good doctor thought she was going to move in and start ordering him around as he remodeled her home, she’d better think again.

  Chapter Three

  Julia hadn’t minded when Freckles had hired a personal shopper who emailed links containing possible dresses for Julia to wear to the hospital’s fund-raising gala in December. After all, shopping was an easy enough task to delegate since Julia didn’t exactly care what she wore to the event, which was still four weeks away. The thing she wasn’t looking forward to, though, was finding a suitable date to accompany her, which Aunt Freckles insisted was just as necessary as a new pair of strappy heels.

  Julia sat at her desk, looking at the dark screen of her cell phone, and groaned when she was unable to open the message her aunt had sent when she’d been downstairs working out. Then she squeezed her eyes shut and sent out a prayer that Kane Chatterson hadn’t seen the embarrassing text when he’d helped her reprogram her phone twenty minutes ago.

  Heat stole up her cheeks as she squeezed her eyes shut and gave her ponytail a firm shake. Julia refused to think about how her contractor had stared at her when she ran into him outside the gym. Especially since she had many more pressing matters to worry about—like how to make Aunt Freckles proud of her without allowing the woman full access to her sparse wardrobe and even sparser dating options.

  Setting boundaries was usually easy for Julia because she didn’t tend to socialize much anyway. But this was uncharted territory for her. How did Julia politely tell her well-meaning relative that she absolutely did not need a makeover or a professional relationship coach—as the last text suggested?

  Surely it couldn’t be that difficult to find her own date. All she needed to do was figure out what kind of man she wanted and then go out and find one. She shoved a few chocolate-covered raisins in her mouth as she wrote “Qualities I Want in a Man” at the top of a notepad.

  But the only image that came to her mind was Kane Chatterson standing there, all perceptive and broad-shouldered and rugged. Sure, Julia had come into contact with plenty of men since joining the Navy, but dress whites and blue utilities were utterly dull compared to the faded jeans and soft flannel uniform her hired contractor filled out. The man was broad, but lean and muscular in that athletic way of someone who was always on the move. He was also more intense than a college freshman studying for his first midterm, looking around as if he was taking in every detail of his surroundings and then memorizing it for future use.

  Besides the condescending smirk, she’d only seen Kane wearing a constant frown, barely addressing her unless it was to ask about paint colors or refinished hardwood floors. So she’d been shocked an hour ago when she’d heard the man call her darlin’ in that slow, sexy drawl of his. Shocked and then flushed with embarrassment when she realized he’d been staring at her body as though he’d spilled some of his iced coffee drink on her and wanted to lick it off.

  Then she’d said something about therapy and the guy’s whole demeanor had changed. Julia had tried to come up with something else to talk about, but she’d just ended up blabbering about bedrooms and moving in and eyeliners, then tried to walk away with her head held as high as the uncomfortable, tingling tightness in her neck had allowed.

  Stop. Stop thinking about what happened in the hospital corridor earlier. No wonder her aunt didn’t believe she was capable of finding a suitable date on her own.

  This was ridiculous. She could do this. Julia had never failed at a task, and she wasn’t about to get distracted and fail now.

  She looked down at the empty page and began to write.

  Must look good in flannel.

  Must speak in a slow, sexy drawl.

  Must look at me like I’m the whipped cream on his Frappuccino.

  No, this was ridiculous. She tore the yellow sheet off and tossed it in the small trash can by her desk.

  She rotated the pencil between her fingers, twirling it like a miniature baton. After a disastrous relationship with one of her professors a few years ago, Julia didn’t want a man at all, let alone another person to help her find one. She knew that her solitary upbringing and current avoidance of social activities was anything but ordinary. She’d never let it bother her before now. But her fitting in seemed important to Aunt Freckles. And if she wanted to be normal, or at least create the appearance of being normal on the night of the hospital gala, then she would need to put forth more effort. She looked down at a fresh piece of paper and started her list all over again, this time leaving off any references to Kane Chatterson.

  She had just finished and put her pencil down when a knock sounded at her office door. Chief Wilcox, Julia’s surgical assistant, entered. “Do you have those post-op reports done? The physical therapist is already asking for them.”

  “Yes, they should be in the patient’s online file,” Julia told the corpsman, who had a pink backpack slung over her shoulder and was apparently leaving for the day.

  “I looked there and didn’t see them.”

  “I finished them after my workout,” Julia said, pulling up the screen on her iPad. “Oh. I must not have clicked on Submit. Okay, they should be in there now. I’ll call the physical therapist and let him know.” She looked her assistant over. “You look like you’re off for the weekend.”

  Even to Julia, the observation came out sounding a little too obvious. She didn’t want the woman to think she was crossing the line from professional to overly social, but how else was she supposed to get to know her staff? She told herself this was good practice.r />
  “Oh, yeah. A few of us are doing a camping trip up near the Sugar River trailhead. I still need to pack my gear, and Chief Filbert put me in charge of KP duty, so I need to get all the food ready, too.”

  Julia had no idea who Filbert was, but she was more than familiar with the hollowness circling her chest. Not that she was much of a camper, but it was her weekend off, as well, and nobody had thought to ask if she’d like to go on the trip. Same thing with happy hours or lunches in the break room. It was easier to act indifferent than to make other people see that she, too, wanted to be included in the ordinary adventures of life.

  At a loss, Julia simply said, “I hope you all enjoy your trip, then. I’ll see you back here on Monday at 0600.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’,” Wilcox said before closing the door. Julia fell back against her chair and squeezed her eyes shut at how ridiculously pathetic she must’ve sounded. She remembered her first day of high school and how the students patted her on her twelve-year-old head when she’d foolishly asked several of the cheerleaders if she could sit with them at their table. Nobody had been rude to her outright, but the novelty of having a child genius as some sort of odd little mascot soon wore off when Julia easily outscored several of the seniors on their honors English midterms.

  College hadn’t been any better, especially since she was studying adolescent brain development while her own brain hadn’t finished the process. Guidance counselors who didn’t know what to do with such a young scholar told her things would get better for her socially once she got older. But by the time she started med school, she no longer cared about what others thought of her and found it easier to simply hang back and observe. She had her cello, she had swimming, she had her books and her studies. She didn’t have time for homecoming games and celebratory drinks after final exams—even if she had been old enough to be admitted into the bars with the rest of her classmates.

  A career in research had been on the horizon until she’d seen a documentary about women in the military.

  She’d attended Officer Development School soon after her parents died, the order and regulation of the Navy reminding her of her regimented childhood and serving as the perfect antidote to Julia’s hesitancy to fraternize. She easily told herself that she wasn’t jealous of her staff’s camaraderie or the fact that she looked for reasons to sit here in her office and work instead of going back to the lonely officers’ quarters and microwaving a frozen Lean Cuisine before falling asleep on her government-issue twin-size mattress.

  So why was she all of a sudden starting to worry about any of it now? She undid her ponytail and massaged her scalp before turning to the tile samples she’d set on the credenza behind her.

  Julia ran her fingers over the glazed surfaces of the colorful porcelain pieces. Kane had suggested neutral colors because they added to the resale value. While some of the decorating magazines she’d perused pushed the idea of an all-white bathroom, the surgeon in her worried that she would grow tired of the sterile and clinical feel of such a contrast-free environment.

  Julia brought the blue-and-green mosaic strips to her desk and propped them against some medical texts so she could get a better look at them. If they laid the glass tiles in a running bond pattern in the shower, she could use both colors, but would it overpower the white cabinets and the large, claw-foot tub in the center of the room?

  She shook some more Raisinets out of the box as she contemplated the color scheme. Not that she was the type who turned to food for comfort—Fitzgeralds didn’t need comforting, after all—but during med school, she’d found that she thought better when she snacked.

  Unfortunately, no amount of snacking could get Kane’s voice out of her mind. She tried to ignore the warmth spreading through her at the memory of her body’s response to his assessing stare outside the gym.

  The sooner she made a selection, the sooner she could get back to more important things—like picking a dress for the hospital gala and finding an appropriate date to take with her. Preferably one that didn’t look at her as though he knew exactly how much she wanted those sexy, smirking lips to...

  Julia snatched another handful of candy, determined to distract herself from thinking of his mouth, only to have her focus shift to the blue-green glass tiles that were the exact same shade as his eyes. If she chose that color, would she be sentencing herself to a lifetime of showers feeling as though his penetrating gaze was surrounding her naked body?

  She reached for the plain white subway tiles before changing her mind and grabbing her smartphone. After taking a quick picture, she fired off an email to Kane in an effort to prevent herself from wasting any more of her time with such dangerous and unproductive thoughts. And to stop the sound of his slow drawl calling her darlin’ replaying over and over again in her mind.

  * * *

  It was after eleven o’clock, and Kane’s brain had yet to slow down enough to make going to bed an option. Usually a day’s physical labor followed by a long, mind-numbing run after dinner was enough to tire him out sufficiently so that it would take only about thirty minutes for him finally to drop off into his standard six hours of sleep. But images of his client in all her spandex workout glory wouldn’t stop popping into his overactive mind, and he decided he might as well pull out his laptop and do some invoices in an effort to bore himself to sleep.

  He could go out to his garage and work on his Bronco, but because of his attention issues, once he got hyperfocused on a project, he would lose all sense of time and end up exhausted and cranky the following day.

  So, it was either crunching numbers or watching a late-night edition of SportsCenter, which he knew from past experience would only get him more frustrated.

  Picking the mentally healthier and more productive option, he sat up and switched on his bedside lamp before opening his nearby laptop. He logged onto his email and, in his inbox, he saw the very name of the source of his late-night thoughts. He clicked on the attached image and stared at her tile selection. He had to give credit to Just Julia. She wasn’t too outlandish in her remodeling requests. In fact, Kane had originally suggested white just because the doctor seemed like a plain vanilla kind of person. But seeing the bold colors of the tiles she’d picked—as well as the snug fabric of her high-end athletic wear—made him rethink his original opinion. She’d typed information about the brand and tracking numbers in the body of the email. But he squinted at the bottom left of the picture, seeing notes written on a yellow notepad off to the side.

  Although today’s encounter at the hospital made it a total of three times they’d seen each other in person, he’d emailed her with updates, and she’d stopped by the house in the evenings when he wasn’t there and left pictures carefully cut out of magazines along with handwritten descriptions on lined paper taped to the walls. Usually her notes were detailed instructions of what she liked or wanted, and even though they were long and tiresome to read, Kane would much rather deal with a client on paper than one in the flesh.

  Especially one whose curvaceous, damp flesh he’d been thinking about all evening.

  So when he saw the note by the bluish green tiles, his first instinct was to zoom in and see what special instructions she had for him now. Instead, he leaned closer as he read the words “Qualities I Want in a Man.”

  What in the world was this? His finger vibrated over the mouse pad, but refused to click on the button that would close the image.

  By the time he got to number three, he tried to tell himself that this obviously wasn’t meant for him to see. Yet like a pitch in midhurl, he couldn’t stop now. Why in the world would she write out such a ridiculous and pointless list? Or one so personal?

  Assuming she was the one who’d written it in the first place.

  It was her handwriting, though. He’d exchanged plans and inventories with her long enough to know that the woman put a ton of thought into every list she c
reated. Freckles had made several offhand remarks this past week regarding her niece’s single status and lack of a social life. Maybe Just Julia was feeling inadequate in that department and was making an effort to step up her game.

  His eyes bounced around the enlarged image, trying to take all the information in at once while he told himself that there was no way he’d make the cut. Not that he wanted her looking in his direction, anyway. Kane had to take a few deep breaths to focus on what he was reading. Hell, were there any qualities on here that he even remotely possessed? He read it through again.

  Must be social.

  That certainly wasn’t him. Sure, it used to be, before his career had taken a nosedive, but nowadays, Kane viewed social situations like most batters viewed a curveball—confusing and oftentimes unavoidable.

  Must be educated and able to discuss current events.

  Nope. Kane Chatterson barely sat still long enough in class to make it out of high school with a diploma. He had a feeling even that accomplishment was the result of sympathetic teachers and his dad’s generous donation to the library building fund.

  Must be patient and not lose his temper.

  Kylie once told him that he had the patience of a hummingbird, which said a lot, considering his sister’s only speed was overdrive.

  Must enjoy swimming or similar civilized athletic pursuits.

  Sure, baseball could be civilized if compared to rugby or ice hockey or cage fighting, for instance. But as any of the three million YouTube viewers would attest, the swinging bats and punches and profanity involved in the Brawlgate scandal two years ago were anything but civil.

  Strong.

  In terms of what? Before his shoulder injury, Kane could bench-press two-fifty and hurl a fastball ninety-nine miles per hour. But Erica, his ex, had once called him emotionally unavailable and a weak excuse for a boyfriend. So he was fifty-fifty in the strength department.