by Amber Scott
Brooke repressed the groan rising from her chest, smiled and did her best ohmigoshforme as her best friend served up one chromed out salon, flaming effeminate hairdresser, glinting scissors on the side. “A makeover,” she said through a forced smile.
Millie’s clapped her hands, gushing. “Surprise!”
Chapter Five
A cucumber oatmeal facial, platinum highlights and pedicure later, Brooke reclined, eyes closed as the resident make-up artist, Chloe, layered her features. Brooke’s cheekbones were either chiseled or gone. Millie hadn’t poked her head in for far too long. If she didn’t know better, Brooke would say she’d left the salon entirely.
But Millie wouldn’t just up and leave her there. Would she? Nah. She was probably merely executing the next step of the makeover. Makeover? More like force-over. Or wonder- until-you-think-you’ll-scream-over. What more could possibly come? Brooke didn’t want to know. She didn’t want her nails done, thus, mani-pedi got downgraded to pedi. Her hair had been cut and colored, washed and styled long ago. Prayers to hair gods, she still looked like herself.
Once the make-up artist, Chloe, stealthily quiet and intent on her work, finally finished, what else could there be?
“You have gorgeous skin,” Chloe murmured, wanding more gloss to Brooke’s lips. “How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Tell this not-a-day-over-twenty-year-old her age? Yeah, right. And, wasn’t it still rude to ask a woman that kind of thing? “Thank you,” was all she said.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Chloe said, patting her shoulder. “I can guess. Your skin looks years better than most women your age, though. I will tell you that.”
“Um, thanks.” Had that been a compliment? “I don’t tan.”
Like the girl could even spell the word wrinkle let alone guess how many times Brooke massaged the deep line between her eyebrows.
“Best thing for you,” Chloe said. “Stay out of the sun.”
Brooke let herself sigh and wish this thing over already. Her highland hunk’s visage beckoned, rekindling wishes of flannels and wine. She pictured herself, snuggled up, gazing at the cover. Blue Eyes’ face swam into the hero’s place.
She cursed herself. She should have torn that blindfold off. Instead, Millie’s voice, right there in front of her, had thrown her. How many seconds had passed in between? Had Millie seen Elliott? She told herself again, it was just a passerby who’d heard her and tossed in his two cents. Some random shopper. The only reason she’d suspected it was Blue Eyes—correction, Elliott—was because he’d been on her brain.
What if it had been him? She hadn’t imagined that low timber or the nearness. The way her flesh had tingled in awareness had been all too real. She wouldn’t react to a stranger’s voice like that. Would she? Was she so bereft of male attention that the first whisper in the dark gave her goose bumps? Not that she wanted it to be him. She didn’t.
Ugh. She had to stop thinking about him!
“Is she done?” It was Carlos, her surprise hair butcher.
“Yes,” Chloe near whispered and turned Brooke’s chair.
Brooke opened her eyes, braced to see her new look, but a cutting cape blocked the mirror.
“I’ll get Ms. Match.” Carlos’ delight trilled in his voice. “Don’t you move.”
Move? Brooke forced a smile. Where could she go? Out to the food court to find—stop!
“Don’t show her.” Millie came jingling around the corner, her signature gold bangles announcing her. “Not yet.” She halted upon seeing Brooke, her fingertips came to her chest. “First, put this on. And these.”
Brooke’s mouth opened but the words never came out.
“Remember, you promised.”
Clothes, too? It had to be going on eight o’clock by now. The mall would close by nine, wouldn’t it? Someone tell her she’d be able to leave soon.
Millie draped a black dress over her arm and handed over a matching pair of slender heels. “The bathroom’s behind you to your left. Don’t you dare look under the drape. I want to be right by your side when you see yourself.”
Brooke fixed a smile on and reminded herself to never get mad at Millie again, so help her. No getting mad meant no repeating this never-ending spoil-her treatment that felt more like torture. Give her a bookstore shopping spree. A five star dinner. A pedicure while watching an old movie. She was too…too…old for all this.
Too old?
Guilt stabbed through her. She should be thrilled. She shouldn’t be too old for this. That brunette from class flashed in her head. “You’re about my mom’s age….” Yucko.
Brooke closed the bathroom door and examined the knee length black dress’s scooped neckline and flirty skirt. The cut would show off her collarbone. The length would disguise her chicken legs. The heels might even camouflage her size ten skis for feet. Brooke had to give it to Millie. She did have good taste.
Even if she was a little pushy about it. Besides, when was the last time Brooke had done anything like this? Even for herself? Her wedding day? Brooke gasped. No. It couldn’t have been that long ago.
Could it?
Half bent over the shoes, Brooke straightened. Her eyes stung. She turned, slung the gown onto the door hook and rushed for a sheet of toilet paper to staunch the torrent gathering in the corners of her eyes.
Damn it. It had been that long. Sixteen years. And she was old.
Oh no. No, no, no. No crying. Not here. Not now. This wasn’t something to cry over. It was supposed to be fun. Fun! When had she become such a boring old—cat—lady? Where was the Brooke who’d pierced her naval on a dare? The girl who’d turned Jason down seven times before finally giving him her number? The girl who, surrounded by bridesmaids and her mother, in a salon just like this one, had promised each one of them that nothing would change. That she would not change just because she was becoming a wife.
The first to get married, they’d all been so worried she’d be lost to them. No longer interested in fun, no longer relatable.
An outsider.
She hadn’t understood it then. Did she now?
She slumped onto the toilet lid. She stared at the dress, at the shoes, in turns. Why did trying them on now feel like treason? Couldn’t she relax and enjoy her friend’s obviously generous gift? None of this looked like her ideal apology but, certainly, Millie couldn’t be so off the mark that Brooke abhorred a simple makeover.
She’d been pampered, fawned over and probably looked better than she had in years. How could any of this be a bad thing? Before she knew it, the dabs at her eyes grew to wipes as the tears fattened and threatened to run rivulets through her make-up.
Where had sixteen years gone? Who took the girl she used to be? Brooke was supposed to be starting over. This should feel like a welcome part of that. Her nose joined in the waterworks, snotting up. A hiccup of a sob gripped her. Brooke stood and shook her head. “No,” she said. “Get a hold of yourself. Blame it on hormones or fatigue or a long week or whatever, but don’t you dare start a pity party. Not here. Not now.”
There would be plenty of time to cry. Later, once she got home, curled up in bed and the silence closed in around her. Later, when fearing she was meant to end her days alone pressed down on her. Not now.
Brooke yanked off her slacks and sweater and stepped into the dress. She slipped on the strappy shoes, zipped the dress up as far as she could and shook her hair out.
Should she break her promise and peek behind this covered mirror? Nah. She couldn’t fake a thing. Millie’d know she’d cheated right off. What if Brooke hated it? Her hair felt a lot shorter, and all that layering had made her neck buzz with dread.
But, hey. So what if she looked ridiculous. Hair grew back, right? Make-up washed off. At least this dress would certainly turn out to be fabulous.
She walked out of the bathroom, tucking her folded clothes neatly under her arm.
“Alright, Millie. There’s just one problem.” Brooke met Millie’s wide-
eyed excitement head on. “I haven’t shaved my legs since Halloween.”
“I know Reno night life isn’t exactly hoppin’,” Elliott said, tossing down his bare hot dog stick. “But why would you pick the mall of all places for your first blind date.”
His cousin, Gordon, rolled his eyes. “Our date isn’t here, genius. It’s at the restaurant. Garcia’s. Heard of it?”
“Yeah, the Garcia’s attached to the mall.” He teased his cousin, but his mind was elsewhere. As if she wasn’t intriguing enough already, standing in the middle of the mall blindfolded clinched it. “Why are we here so early again?”
“To shop.” Gordon adjusted his tray. “To people watch. You like to people watch.”
Elliott was ready to start rolling his eyes. “You’re nervous.” Every pore shouted it. His heart went out to him.
“We both know, I’m not good at dating,” Gordon said. “I needed a little time to adjust, okay?”
True enough. Gordon worked too much to date and he was naturally shy. He used to be worse at it back before stepping out of the proverbial closet that everyone already knew he was in. Elliott decided to give him a break. “Alright. When are we going shopping?”
Gordon nailed him with a glare. “Soon.”
It shouldn’t be, but his curiosity over that blindfold grew by the minute. “What are we shopping for?”
“A shirt.” Gordon dimmed his glare to a high beam. “In case I sweat too much.”
“In case?” Elliott suppressed his chuckle down to a cough. “So, tell me about him. What’s his name, what’s he like, where’d you meet him?”
Gordon’s posture softened a bit. “Well, we’ve been emailing and talking for a few weeks, and he seems really nice. Masculine.” Gordon toyed with his straw. “His pictures, if they’re really him, are hot. Tall, broad shoulders. Washboard abs. Sideburns.”
Elliott put his hands up. “Enough. I get it.”
“Sorry,” Gordon said. “You can talk boobs the rest of the next hour, okay? It’s just, I know looks aren’t everything. I mean, look at me.”
“What do you mean, Gordon? Don’t sell yourself short. You’re a catch.”
Gordon patted his healthy paunch. “Yeah. Some catch.”
Elliott’s gaze scanned the mall for blonde hair. She’d rejected his advances flat two times. Elliott was no masochist. He stopped, forcing his attention back across the table, to Gordon finishing his second corndog.
Elliott twisted his stick against the tray. “Is he young?” Elliott asked.
“No, thank God. Forty-ish.” Gordon settled into his chair and glanced over the food court. “Divorced. I just hope he’s not going to try to be secretive. You know, one of those I’m-not-gay-but-my-penis-is kind of men? What if he didn’t take a good look at my pictures?”
Divorced was better than married. He hated the idea of Gordon getting hurt again. “Did you send him recent shots?”
Gordon half nodded, half winced.
“Well, if he’s older, he probably won’t be worried about a little extra to cuddle.” And if he was divorced, he was likely openly gay rather than having secret affairs. “Give the guy a chance before you have him dumping you.”
“I know. You’re right.” Gordon shrugged. “Hopefully.”
“Of course I am.” Elliott punched him in the shoulder. “Now. Let’s go get you a shirt. There’s an Eddie Bauer by the salon.”
By the salon he’d seen her maneuvered into. Luck willing, he’d be able to chance a bump into her. Not that he’d give her a third shot at rejecting him. Gordon stood. The simple move sent a lift through Elliott. Eddie Bauer had been a blind stab. His mind leapt with images of her surprise at seeing him again. Had she known it was him whispering in her ear as she stood there, vulnerable and too damned sexy? She had a defiant way of standing when she felt awkward. Arms crossed, hip out.
“You coming?” Gordon asked.
“Yeah.”
Adrenaline ticked through him. Not from the prospect of shopping, either. He might see her. Or, she him. Had she recognized his voice when he’d breezed that comment by her. Unlikely. They’d only actually talked once. No, twice. Maybe he should have left her alone. How could he help himself, though? He’d arrived to meet Gordon and there she was, alone, blindfolded and talking to herself right in his path. Like someone had planned it for him. Talk about timing.
Just two seconds later and her friend would have been there and he’d have walked right past her, silent. They crossed the mall’s concaved lounge toward the store. Across and down from the restaurant, was the salon. His pulse picked up. His gaze hung on the tall windowed front of the salon, searching for a glimpse of sandy blonde waves, of her unmistakable posture.
Elliott spotted her and his breath caught. Standing by the receptionist, laughing, looking elegant and sophisticated. She looked incredible in black. Stunning and sexy. Heat coursed through him. But it was more than the black dress. It was all of her. The way she stood. Moved.
Refreshed.
She was next to her friend, the one who’d never shown that night at The Book Exchange, the one Elliott had to thank for his chance to strike. She turned her head so he could see her profile and her smile. What he wouldn’t give to make her smile like that.
How had he ever gotten the nerve to buy her those books? Not that he wasn’t naturally spontaneous. He was. He took risks. He wouldn’t be where he was if he hadn’t.
She’d changed her hair. Shorter, so it swung below her shoulders. Elliott dug his hands into his jeans, uncomfortably aware of how close they were now. A few paces and they’d be walking past the storefront. Would she see him? Would he have the nerve to face her?
“Oh my Christ,” Gordon hissed and gripped Elliott’s sleeve, forcing him to stop two feet short of the salon window. “He’s here.”
“What?” Elliott looked at Gordon, realized who he meant, and glanced around the busy mall. “Where?”
“There. By the candy store. No! Don’t look.”
Elliott’s shoes squeaked as Gordon jerked him into a store. Rhinestones, pink, and animal prints emblazoned with “Princess” and “Diva” screamed at them from every rack.
“Shit! He’s coming this way.” Gordon began to look green. If he hadn’t needed a shirt before, no doubt he did now. “Elliott, what do I do?”
“I don’t know.” Elliott’s chest pounded, too. He’d been so close. “Go out and bump into him?”
“What do you mean bump into him?” Gordon’s forehead popped a vein. He backed into a rack of fuzzy purple bras. Three fell off. “How?”
Elliott quickly retrieved the bras, feeling like a perv. “Just walk out, look casual and act like you don’t see him. Let him see you.”
“Come with me.” Gordon’s eyes rounded like a basset hound’s.
“No.” Elliott had to get back to the salon. She’d seemed ready to leave. “You’ll be fine.”
“You’ve got to.” Gordon stopped. He sucked in a breath. “Wait, I think I hear him.”
Inappropriate laughter bubbled up Elliot’s throat. He couldn’t help it. He’d never seen his cousin like this. Not even over Mr. Mom. “You hear him?” his voice shook with humor. He swallowed against it.
“Shhh.” Gordon dragged Elliott to the store’s edge. Chrome mannequin cleavage ogled him in the face.
She’d see him and realize he’d been the one whispering in her ear. He’d have another chance to get her name, maybe more. It would work. Whispering against her neck hadn’t been a mistake.
“Can I help you?” a clerk chimed. Elliott shook his head at the teenaged girl.
Her pink T-shirt shouted “Dirty Bunny”. He forced a smile. Dirty didn’t cover how bad this looked. If she did see him, God forbid it was in here. Gordon, who could make a courtroom quake with injustice, bent his head toward a conversation some twelve-odd feet away. Elliott listened, too.
“Brooke?” a male timber said. “Wow. Hey, what a small world. How are you?”
Gordo
n scowled, his finger tugged on his lower lip. “I think that’s Jason,” he mouthed.
Jason, Elliott assumed was Gordon’s washboard abbed dinner date. Elliott tucked his body better out of sight and gave up the idea of running into her. She was probably long gone by now. Would have been so perfect, though. Or maybe not. Maybe it was for the best.
“Jason? What are you doing here? Did Millie put you up to this? Millie, I swear if this is part--.” Did Elliott recognize this voice?
“Nope, sorry.” Another woman’s voice. “It’s not. I swear. Just a coincidence.”
Elliott motioned for Gordon to go out there. “This is a perfect chance. If that’s him, go out there.” The guy sounded stuck in an uncomfortable conversation. Plus, nothing like eavesdropping next to “All I Want for Christmas” panties to motivate a guy. “Go,” Elliott urged. Gordon could stride out and play hero.
“You look amazing.” Jason said. “Did you change your hair?”
Elliott’s neck tingled.
“Uh, yes. Millie surprised me. For my birthday.”
The hairs over his arms stood on end. Nah. Couldn’t be.
“Doesn’t she look spectacular?” the other woman asked. “Have you ever seen her look so vibrant?”
Gordon’s scowl was sliding fast into heartbreak.
“She does.” Jason sounded sincere. “You do. Really, Brooke. I mean…wow.”
Brooke? The paper. Elliott sucked in a gulp of air.
She was out there. She could walk by and see him in here, hiding in panties and bras with Gordon looking like Bambi. Not good. Elliott gestured, go! Gordon retreated another degree into himself, his body deflating. Elliott’s chest ached for his cousin. Here he was thinking about his bruised pride when Gordon’s heart really was on the line.
What was a cousin to do but his best to save the day? Something—anything—to smother the burn in those eyes and return the earlier light of hope. What could he try short of doing the bumping himself? Hopefully into the right guy.
Screw it. He let go of caring what she might think seeing him exit this store. Elliott shouldered past a panty stand, ignored the shimmy of hangers, and stepped out into the walkway. He spotted three people talking, and willed Gordon to follow his lead.