by Lea Santos
“In the hot pink.” Gia pointed. “Over there.”
Three strikes, and I’m out, thought Emie, catching sight of the bottle redhead Gia had indicated. If these examples were any indication of her fashion future, she was doomed to look trashy. Not that she begrudged the three women their personal choices, but the look just wasn’t her. Yet that was how Gia envisioned her metamorphosis? What a horrifying mistake she’d made with this stupid revenge idea.
Dismay settled like wet leaves in her stomach, and she directed her attention to the street outside the window. She’d instigated the whole plan, so she couldn’t back out now. For all she knew, it would work. Perhaps the core of her beauty problem resided in her fear of taking risks. Wearing skintight blue leather might actually exhilarate and empower her, who knew? She sincerely doubted it, but, if Gia thought it would work…
“I’ve told you already,” Gia said, as though reading her mind, “you don’t need to change. If you want to go through with this, that’s fine. If not, that’s okay, too. Not that my opinion counts for much after, well, everything. But you’re perfect as you are.”
“Is that why I ended up on The Barry Stillman Show?”
Gia maintained a calm expression, but Emie noticed her fists clench. “You ended up on the show because Elizalde is a no-good, deceitful—”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of the good professor.” She flicked the words away as though swatting a bug. “As for this makeover, you don’t have to coddle me, Gia. I’m a grown woman. I know I need work.”
“We’ll have to agree to disagree on that point.” She covered Emie’s hand with her own, then quickly released it. “But I’ve already told you I’d make you over. Your wish is my command. So, tell me what you want.”
A morose sigh escaped her lips. “I know it’s shallow and irrelevant, not to mention completely lame and out of character for me. But I just want to feel…gorgeous. Just this once.” Emie wasn’t sure if it was the liqueur or the way Gia’s eyes darkened as she stared at her, but liquid warmth surged through her, rendering her limbs buoyant and weightless. When Gia looked at her, she really looked at her. As if she mattered more than anyone else. She’d never experienced anything like it.
“Don’t you worry, querida,” Gia said finally, her words a caress. “I’ve got all kinds of ways to make you feel like the most gorgeous woman in the world.”
Emie wanted to believe her. She really, really did.
Chapter Five
“Purple?”
“Yes!”
“Gia actually said she was going to dye your hair purple, and you just batted your baby browns and said okay? ¿Estás loca?” Iris’s disbelieving rasp carried across the phone line.
Emie twisted around to scowl out the window toward the carriage house. “No, I’m not crazy, and I didn’t bat my eyes. I’m not an eye batter—you know that. I just didn’t know how to respond. I seem to have trouble formulating intelligent sentences when I’m around her.”
Iris groaned. “You’re driving me crazy, girl. Just take a breath, back up, and tell me exactly what she said.”
Emie tucked the phone between her cheek and shoulder and began emptying the dishwasher to keep her nervous hands occupied. A week had passed since Gia had pointed out the three exotic musketeers at El Chapultepec. It had cracked her resolve to the point that Emie had put her off for several days. But yesterday, Gia had tripped her up. She’d flashed that dimple at her, called her querida, and asked when they’d get the show on the road.
“How about tomorrow morning?” Emie had blurted, eager to spend time with Gia. Stupid, stupid. Now, tomorrow was today and there was no turning back.
“She didn’t say purple exactly. She said eggplant, which is worse. Eggplant, for God’s sake. I just don’t know if I can go through with something that drastic, Iris.” She hurled a meat fork into the drawer. “I’ll look like some emo teenager. I just know it.”
“Oh.” Iris blew out a breath, and her tone softened. “That’s different. That’s a pretty popular hair color, Em. It doesn’t come out looking purple at all, especially on dark hair like yours and mine. It’s pretty. Eggplant’s just the name, you know? Is she there yet?”
Emie peered out the window, scanning the carriage house for signs of life. “Would we be having this conversation if she was?”
“Good point.”
Emie settled back against the edge of the sink and hung her head, still unsure about dying her hair the color of a bulbous vegetable that, let’s be real, very few people liked unless it was deep-fried and doused in sauce. “You’re sure it’ll be okay?”
“Tell her to do demi-permanent instead of permanent if you’re really worried. I think it’ll be fine.” Iris hesitated. “Listen, Em, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this whole thing.”
“What’s up?”
Iris sighed. “If you’re making changes that’ll erase the whole Barry Stillman thing from your mind, if you’re doing it for you, that’s one thing. But if this is part of your ridiculous revenge plan—”
“Ah, sorry to interrupt, but Gia’s here, hon,” Emie lied, not up for another lecture. Her friends seemed to believe she should just throw herself into Gia’s arms and forget about Elizalde. As if that would bring her dignity back. As if it were even an option—please. “I’ll call you later.”
“But, Em—”
Emie cradled the telephone handset gently, then peered back at the carriage house again. Where was she? Anticipation bubbled inside her like an unstable volcano. Despite reservations about her impending dye job, Emie couldn’t wait to spend some time with Gia. Though they’d met on the back porch for coffee each morning as usual, Gia had spent the majority of her days in the carriage house working furiously on this new secret project. Emie’d glimpsed her through the large north-facing window several times, which made her feel like a voyeur. But it wasn’t her fault the window over her kitchen sink faced Gia’s place.
She’d just set the pot of coffee to brew and laid out some crumb cake when Gia darkened the open back door. “Hey-yo, it’s not the Avon Lady calling,” she said through the screen, punctuating her playful words with a grin.
“Then it must be the L’Oreal woman, because obviously I’m worth it.”
“Funny,” she replied. “Can you grab the door?”
Emie smoothed her hands down the front of her low-slung jeans as excitement twined with anxiety inside her. She crossed the room and pushed open the squeaky screen door, welcoming Gia with a nervous smile. “C-come on in.”
Faded jeans that almost matched hers hugged Gia’s toned thighs, and a black T-shirt molded to the sculpted shape of her chest and shoulders. Soft and curvy. Ripped and strong. The ultimate sexy dichotomy. Gia’s hair hung damp and loose, and that signature just-showered freshness assailed Emie’s senses and filled the room. Gia smelled so familiar, so alive and vibrant, it made Emie dizzy.
“You sound out of breath,” Gia said, carting in a plastic cape and what looked like a fishing tackle box.
“I’m, uh, fine.” Emie eyed the tools with barely masked concern, then wrapped her arms across her torso and shivered. “Okay, I just lied. I’m nervous as hell.”
“¿Por qué?” Gia set her things on the wooden dinette and turned back to her, planting her fists on her hips. Her eyes narrowed, and a playful smile tugged that delicious dimple into her smooth cheek. “Still worried I’m gonna give you fluorescent hair?”
Emie blurted a nervous little heh-heh-heh and moved to the cabinet, snagging two mugs off the top shelf. The crisp, welcoming scent of coffee filled the air between them. “You know you’re a dead woman if you do. If anything, you should be shaking in those black boots of yours. Eat some coffee cake.” She pointed toward it.
“I won’t do anything out of control, I promise.” She picked up a square of the cake and bit into it. “Mmm, it’s hot.”
“That’s usually how things come out of the oven,” Emie teased. “I just made it.”
“You made it?” Gia exclaimed, shaking her head, laughter in her eyes. “Smart, beautiful, funny, and she cooks, too. You’re a catch, Profé. No lie.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.” Emie didn’t believe a word of it, but the words still soothed her. She grabbed a piece of cake and took a nibble, setting the rest on a small plate.
“You know, I started to think you’d changed your mind about this makeover.” Gia popped the rest of the breakfast cake into her mouth, then brushed cinnamon-coated fingers together while she chewed and swallowed.
“Not at all. I’m anxious for it. I’ve just been busy getting ready for the semester.” Emie turned away to hide the lie and busied herself pouring their drinks. She didn’t have much preparation left for the fall term because, true to form, she’d gotten it all done in the first couple weeks of her break. Being a Type-A personality came in handy now and then.
Without warning, Gia moved behind her and furrowed long, warm fingers into Emie’s hair, moving slowly from her nape up along the sides of her head. Emie could feel the heat of Gia’s body behind her. Her heart lunged, her breath caught. Goose bumps trailed down her back. Gia’s touch sizzled but Emie froze, only remembering to exhale when the steaming brew spilled over the rim of the mug she’d been filling and spread in a pool on the countertop.
“Whoops! I…oh, damnit.” She set down the carafe with a sharp clunk and spun to face Gia. Too close. She saw flecks of gold she hadn’t noticed before in Gia’s brown eyes, noted with dismay that Gia had moistened those soft, full lips of hers with a flick of her tongue. “W-what are you doing?”
Gia blinked innocently, though her expression looked as lust drunk as Emie felt. “Just checking the length of your hair, deciding whether I should trim before I color. I didn’t mean to startle you.” She rested her palms on the edge of the counter on either side of Emie, boxing her in. Gia’s expression turned devious, and she raised her brows. “What did you think I was going to do?” she asked, voice husky. “Kiss you?”
“Well…I…no—” Mortified, Emie poked her glasses up and tried to keep herself from trembling. Her chin raised, and she used her most professorial tone. “Of course not.”
“That’s good, because we have our agreement and all. Just friends,” Gia drawled. Her eyes drank in Emie’s face, settling just long enough to be uncomfortable on her mouth. “You remember the rules, querida, yeah?”
It took everything within Emie not to bite her lip. Or Gia’s. But she had her pride to consider. “Of course, I remember. I made the”—stupid, short-sighted, infuriating—“rules.”
Gia cocked her head to the side, a rueful half-smile on her lips. “No arguing there.” Her gaze dropped to Emie’s throat, and her nostrils flared as she inhaled.
Next to the women, coffee ran off the countertop in a trickle, splashing wide on the linoleum. Emie noted it distractedly, then half whispered, “Excuse me.” She pointed toward the sink. “I need the dish cloth.” Fuck the dish cloth. She needed to get away so every breath she pulled into her lungs wasn’t filled with the sugared woman scent of Gia, the promise of her.
The empty promise.
Gia pushed away as if nothing sensual had happened and walked backward until the table stopped her. Stuffing her hands in her back pockets, she just watched.
With as much nonchalance as she could muster, Emie snagged the dish cloth and sopped up the mess on the counter before squatting to swipe at the floor. The air fairly crackled with unspoken tension. The low throb in Emie’s body was the very best kind of painful. Unbearable bliss. Long-ignored need. Was she the only one who felt the electricity between them?
She managed stammering small talk while she poured them coffee. It wasn’t until she was seated on a bar stool wrapped in Gia’s plastic cape that her flustered state had eased enough to facilitate normal conversation.
“I have an appointment to get contact lenses on Monday,” she said as Gia combed through her short hair. She clutched her glasses in her lap, the room before her a soft myopic blur. “Maybe we can go shopping for cosmetics some time after that.”
“Sure.” Gia set the comb down and stepped around in front of her. “No rush. Get used to your contacts first. Your skin is sensitive. I won’t be surprised if your eyes are, too.”
“Okay.” Emie squinted, watching Gia mix some vile-smelling concoction in a small plastic bowl. She indicated the glop, her words apprehensive. “This is that temporary color, right?”
Gia nodded. “Demi-permanent. It’ll wash out in about four weeks. Sooner if you really hate it. Stop worrying.”
“I’ll try.” She squinted at it again, then sat back, horrified. “Is that the color my hair will be?”
“No, Em,” Gia said with exaggerated patience. “I wouldn’t dye your hair deathbed gray. Give me a little credit, at least.”
“Sorry.” Emie held out her hands and took a deep breath. “Okay. I’m okay.”
“Again, not that my opinion counts for much, but I think you look sexy as hell in your glasses,” Gia said lightly, setting the bowl on the table and digging neat squares of aluminum foil out of the tackle box. She placed them next to the bowl, then stepped behind Emie and parted her hair neatly with a yellow comb, clamping one side of it in some kind of big clothespin-looking thing.
Her opinion meant a lot, more than any other woman’s ever had, but Emie couldn’t bring herself to admit that. Instead she quipped, “Well, you know what they say. Women don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.”
“I think the quote was actually men don’t make passes, but whatever. And maybe women like Elizalde, que malcreado, may not, but that’s her loss.” She lifted a section of Emie’s hair, wove the skinny end of a rat-tail comb through the strands, then slathered dye on it from the roots out. She folded the section in one of the foil squares and neatly folded the ends.
“And women like you, Gia?” Emie ventured, her pulse drumming at her throat. “Somehow I just can’t imagine you’d go for the bookish, couldn’t-care-less type when all the best-looking women are throwing themselves at you.”
“Women like me?” She laughed. “What do you mean by that?”
What could Emie say? Drop-dead gorgeous women? Those who should never be more than half dressed? Toned, tawny goddesses hot enough to have cold water dumped over their white T-shirts in a soft drink commercial? Make-me-shiver-and-beg type of women? “You know.” She sniffed, the pungent chemicals stinging her nose. “You’re not exactly…average.”
Gia deftly separated, painted, and foiled more of Emie’s hair, her fingers sure and gentle. “If that is your version of a compliment, Profé, thank you. And incidentally, just because a woman wears glasses doesn’t mean she’s a bookish, couldn’t-care-less type.”
Emie didn’t want to argue the virtues—or not—of her spectacles anymore. “Tell me about your family.” She couldn’t see Gia’s face, but noticed that Gia seemed to ponder her request before answering, taking her time to color and wrap another section of her hair.
“There’s not much to tell. What do you want to know?”
“You know, the usual. Where were you born, where are your parents, do you have any brothers and sisters.”
“I never knew my father,” she started, dipping the little brush into the plastic bowl. “My brother Phillipe and I grew up with my mom in Chicago.”
“Does she still live there?”
“She passed away four years ago.”
Silence.
Hair dye.
Foil.
“I’m so sorry,” Emie whispered, awkward to her core. “How rude of me to pry.”
“No te preocupes. You weren’t prying. We’re getting to know each other. It’s what people do. Anyhow, I’m sorry, too. She had a hard life, so I don’t blame her for checking out early.” Gia paused, resting the heels of her hands against Emie’s scalp. “But, God, I miss her.”
“I bet she misses you and Phillipe, too.”
Gia scoffed and resumed working on her hair. “My b
rother and I didn’t make life any easier for her, that’s for damn sure. Until we grew up, of course. Phillipe was always a pretty good son. Me, on the other hand—” She sucked in one side of her cheek, making a sound of regret.
“Were you a bad girl, Gia?” Emie teased.
A tense pause stretched between them.
“Actually…I was. Not my proudest memory.”
Gia’s somber tone straightened Emie up and warned her to move away from the subject. “And Phillipe? Where is he?”
“He’s a missionary with the church. Lives in Venezuela.”
“¿A lucerio?”
“Yes, really.” Gia chuckled. “Is that such a surprise?”
“You just don’t seem…priestly to me. Or nunly, not that nunly’s a real word.” What a waste that would be, she thought, waiting for lightning to strike.
“Phillipe’s the missionary, Emie, not me.”
She leaned her head back. “Yes, but. Well. I guess you’re right. Does he look like a male version of you?”
“Kind of.” She dipped out more dye. “Shorter hair, obviously. Why?”
She faced forward again and hiked one shoulder up. “I don’t know. Seems unfair for the Venezuelan women. A male missionary who looked anything like you would make them want to sin, not repent.”
Gia laughed again, and Emie’s cheeks heated. Where were these bold comments coming from? One would almost think she was flirting with the woman. Curiosity getting the better of her, she said, “Tell me about this bad-girl past of yours. I’m intrigued.”
“Oh, sure, scandalosa. Dig out all my skeletons.”
Emie clicked her tongue. “I am not a gossip! I’m just making friendly conversation. It’s what people do.”
“Uh-huh.” Gia had finished applying the color and foil to her hair, and reached for a timer. Its gentle ticking and the whir of the refrigerator filled the air. “If I tell you about my past, you’ve got to answer any question I ask you. Okay? Just one.”