The Makeover Surprise (Surprised by Love Book 2)

by Laura Burton

  The Makeover Surprise

  Laura Burton

  Burton & Burchell Ltd

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Lucy

  Chapter 2

  Wyatt

  Chapter 3

  Lucy

  Chapter 4

  Wyatt

  Chapter 5

  Lucy

  Chapter 6

  Wyatt

  Chapter 7

  Lucy

  Chapter 8

  Lucy

  Chapter 9

  Wyatt

  Chapter 10

  Lucy

  Chapter 11

  Wyatt

  Chapter 12

  Lucy

  Chapter 13

  Lucy

  Chapter 14

  Wyatt

  Chapter 15

  Lucy

  Chapter 16

  Lucy

  Chapter 17

  Wyatt

  Chapter 18

  Lucy

  Chapter 19

  Wyatt

  Chapter 20

  Lucy

  Chapter 21

  Lucy

  Chapter 22

  Lucy

  Chapter 23

  Wyatt

  Chapter 24

  Lucy

  Chapter 25

  Lucy

  Epilogue

  Also By Laura Burton

  Copyright

  The characters and storylines are fictitious, and any resemblance to real-life people and events are purely coincidental. The authors retain all of the rights to this work which may not be copied and distributed online or elsewhere without the written permission of the owners of the rights.

  All rights reserved by Laura Burton 2021.

  First Edition

  Published by: Burton & Burchell Ltd

  This book is written in U.S. English

  Edited by Tochi Biko

  Cover design by Lara Wynter, Wynter Designs

  Created with Vellum

  Dedication

  For my readers who are also on the Autism spectrum. This one is for you.

  Bonus points if you love The Lord of the Rings.

  Chapter One

  Lucy

  They call me Goofy Lucy at work... It’s not the nickname I pictured for myself as a grown adult. I was student body president in high school, and the standby valedictorian in college. Yes. The standby––it’s a thing. If the real valedictorian got sick at graduation, I was there to jump in and take over.

  Did I secretly wish Lauren Jones would catch mono on the eve of graduation so I could give the speech? Maybe.

  Did I completely humiliate myself by singing the national anthem louder than anyone else and in an entirely different key? Yes.

  But what I did not do is work my butt off all these years so I could be called Goofy Lucy in the workplace.

  Then again, I never imagined I would end up working for a small printing press, boxed into a four by five cubicle that always smells like cheesy nachos. The best part is, I’m strategically positioned right underneath the AC duct, so I spend most of the year with a cold.

  Marty, the guy who works in the office cubicle next to mine, interrupts my pleasant trip down misery lane when he pops his head over the modesty screen. “Hey, can I borrow a pen?”

  He knows he can ask me. It's no secret that I’ve got a whole bunch inside the top drawer of my desk. I open it up and hum to myself, looking at them sitting in a color coordinated line.

  Why can’t they call me Organized Lucy? Or Dependable Lucy?

  I’ve never taken a sick day, not even when I probably should have, and I submit my work well before deadlines.

  But no, I'm Goofy Lucy.

  All because of that one time I told a joke and laughed so hard at it that I snorted. I mean, sure, it was a momentary lapse of social skills. And yes, okay, maybe my delivery was terrible. But do I deserve to be punished for the rest of my working life for that? I think not.

  The thing that happened was, Helen, our office manager, had brought in the top tier of her wedding cake for all of us to share. But it was peak summer and she left it sitting beside a window. The icing went from solid to liquid super-fast, dripping off the fruitcake until the whole thing started to look like a molten waxwork doll.

  “Uh oh, looks like somebody’s having a melt down!” I blurted.

  Helen’s eyes turned red and the whole office just stared at me in silence.

  But come on, melt down… the cake. I can’t seriously be the only one that thinks that’s funny.

  I laughed all alone to it anyway, until I let out a gigantic snort and a massive snot bubble. Then the room erupted with laughter. Only they weren’t laughing with me. They were laughing at me.

  Anyway, it was one time. One time. I haven’t cracked a single joke since then. But I guess all it takes is one slip. My mind-voice lets out a big sigh and I hand Marty a pen with a smile as solid as cement. I hear Joe cough from behind the modesty screen on my other side. “Hey, Goofy Lucy,” he says. “Guess who tells bad jokes and sounds like a tiny owl?”

  “Who?” I ask, and cringe as I catch myself a little too late. The wave of chuckles from the rest of the office grates my nerves like a file on metal.

  Really? They find that one funny? Sometimes I wonder if it’s a sexist thing. Maybe if Marty had been the one who’d said the cake was having a meltdown, Joe would have chuckled and said, “Good one,” or something. Probably wouldn’t have started calling him Goofy Marty.

  Besides Helen, I’m the only woman in this office, and I just know if I was a man, people wouldn’t give me such a hard time.

  If I knew working a 9 to 5 meant soul-crushingly dull days surrounded by middle-aged men with the maturity of prepubescent boys, I would have dived head-first into some other career. Sometimes I stare at the map of Middle Earth that I made my screensaver, and I imagine myself there instead. All those elves, goblins, and dwarves… Sigh. It’s my happy place.

  I mean, sure, a trip out for some food could mean becoming troll food myself. But it’s whatever. Anywhere has to better than here; this dirty office block in Newark where everyone calls me that ridiculous name.

  I’m not even expecting some nickname like Sexy Lucy or Leggy Lucy because I’m honestly not built that way. Even in my tallest pair of heels, I’m barely four inches over five feet, and no matter how many fashion magazines my sisters force me to look at, I still don’t have the faintest idea how to dress like society expects a thirty-year-old woman to dress.

  And you do not want to get me started on my hair. If these strands could talk, they would tell you they need to speak to a therapist about an identity complex. It’s this really awkward shade between dark blonde and light brown. Dull. Boring. So I scrape it back into a messy bun every day and just move on.

  My go-to outfit is a pair of black leggings and a baggy over-shirt. What can I say? It’s functional and comfortable. I’m relieved bottle rim glasses are back in style too because I’ve been sporting them since 1999.

  My younger sister, Chessy, is the exact opposite of me in every sense.

  She loves fashion and tight-fitted dresses. She does the whole social media thing too. I avoid it like the plague. Dealing with people is hard enough in real life, no way I’m putting myself through it online too. And speaking of online presence, I have to respect my older sister, Leila - she can do a full background check on anyone based on their online footprint.

  Whenever one of us meets a new guy, she’s goes straight to her laptop and comes back with the weirdest facts about them in like 15 minutes. No joke.

  Just to be clear, though, I�
��m not against social media. I’m just not interested in people like Leila seeking me out and knowing everything about me before our first date.

  I can’t even remember the last time I went on a date. Chessy keeps trying to set me up, but I always chicken out. Besides, my little sister isn’t exactly picky when it comes to men.

  Are they breathing? Check.

  Do they smell nice? Check.

  He’s perfect!

  The result: she has a list of failed relationships as long as her arm.

  She’s the girl who ‘falls in love’ almost immediately. I’m not sure she has any idea what love really is, though.

  But who am I to judge? I wouldn’t know what true love looked like if it was staring me in the face. Not unless it looks like something between an elf princess and the King of Gondor.

  My only guess is, in real life, love is supposed to make you happy, but the jerks who’ve come and gone over the years never made me crack a smile.

  I’m spiraling into negative thoughts. Snap out of it, Lucy.

  It’s only 10am and I’m already contemplating my life’s failures. That’s never a good sign. I’ll be consuming an entire tub of cookie dough ice cream by nightfall. Then, instead of losing a couple of pounds (which is my goal every week), I’ll gain three.

  I straighten my spine and pull up the word document I was working on earlier. But within minutes, my mind is wandering to food and weight loss again.

  Losing weight in my teens was easy. If I had a bloated stomach, all I’d have to do was go for a swim for an hour and my stomach would be as flat as a pancake.

  In my twenties, it was a little harder. If I wanted to lose weight, I needed to go for a run a few times a week and stay off sugar. But I’d eventually lose about 6lbs.

  Now that I’m in my early thirties, all I have to do is look at a cake and I’ve gained 2lbs.

  “Who wants donuts?”

  I peer over the modesty screen at Rob from accounting as he places a huge tray of Dunkin Donuts on the conference table across the room. I click my pen and chew my lip furiously, trying to ignore the evil urge to grab one… Or two. Or all of them.

  Dieting in an office is a unique form of torture. Especially in an office full of men who are not watching their waistline.

  “Lucy, can I speak to you in my office?”

  I jump at the sound of my name and meet my boss’s expectant stare. I try to read the straight line of her mouth but I can’t tell whether I’m in trouble or not.

  Helen has the best poker face, ever. And even though I can’t think of any conceivable reason why I might be in the doghouse, my body breaks into a nervous sweat anyway.

  “Sure thing, Helen,” I say, trying to sound casual. The words come out as a squeak.

  The walk from my office cubicle to her glass box is maybe four feet; five at a stretch. But the trip might as well be through the Saharan desert. My mouth is so dry, I make a quick detour to the water dispenser and grab a drink.

  “Now, please.”

  I crumple the plastic cup and throw it in the recycling bin, then pull in a big breath in a foolish attempt to calm my nerves.

  There are two reasons why Helen calls anyone into her office.

  One, because they have messed up and have to face thirty minutes of red-faced screaming and abuse with the complementary threat of being fired if the problem isn’t fixed ASAP.

  Two, because she wants them to do something they won’t like… accompanied by the complementary threat of being fired if they don’t do it.

  I’m not even sure what option I’m hoping for.

  I tighten my bun and roll my shoulders back as I reach the office and walk in with my best impression of my older sister. She’s the queen of confidence, and I swear nothing rattles her. Nothing.

  On the inside, my stomach is gurgling, preparing me for an impromptu sprint to the restrooms. I feel heavy, like I just consumed a tub of cookie dough ice cream.

  “Close the door.”

  I’d rather leave it open, but I keep that thought to myself and smile under the crushing force of boss’s gaze. The door clicks shut, and a piece of my soul remains standing outside, looking in through the window.

  “What’s up?” I ask. I sound like my sister on the phone with Mom after a year of not speaking.

  “Have a seat.” She motions to the chair in front of her desk and I hide a groan with a cough. If I have to sit for this, we’re definitely heading for option two. She wants something from me.

  “Can I get you a drink? Green tea? Latte? I think I have some celery juice in here somewhere,” my boss says as she roots through the contents of the mini fridge. My stomach gurgles again at the sound of celery juice and I wince at the thought of how much more urgent that sprint to the restroom might become if I dare drink that stuff.

  “I’m good.”

  My boss laces her fingers and rests her narrow chin on her hands, her elbows sitting on the stack of papers on her desk. “Young and Me, and indeed the rest of the magazines in this office, have just been taken over by a much larger company.”

  My brows shoot up so fast that I swear my eyes must look like two fried eggs. “That’s… good news?”

  My boss continues. “The thing is… our new CEO wants us to take Young and Me in a new direction. Starting with a makeover shoot.” Helen’s inky eyes don’t blink and her angular features look all the more severe as she stares me down. Young and Me is a small women’s magazine. It’s 80% advertisements and photos of B-class celebrities taken by paparazzi for low fees. To say the articles are shallow is an understatement. All we talk about is fad diets and the latest Twitter arguments.

  “Okay…” I shift in my seat, uncomfortable under her hard stare, and wait for the rest. Helen blinks slowly and clears her throat. “They want someone at the office to be the model for the shoot. Someone authentic and… in desperate need of a makeover. So, naturally, I’m asking you.”

  My mouth falls open. “What are you trying to say?”

  Helen gives me a meaningful look and makes a gesture toward me with her brows arched.

  I glance down at myself and hear my soul let out a sigh from its position outside my boss’s office.

  When the company got rid of the corporate dress code in a bid to be more inclusive, I wasted no time ditching my restrictive office clothes. Since then, I’ve maintained a steadfast dedication to oversized hoodies. It’s always been comfort over fashion for me.

  The thought of having my picture taken fills me with dread. Usually, I hide from cameras at all costs, and if it’s a picture I can’t get out of, like the ones at family reunions and birthday parties, I make myself even smaller than I already am and hide at the back of the group.

  My sisters think it’s a self-esteem issue. It’s not. I am perfectly happy with the way I am, thank-you-very-much. But I read a book once that said every time you get your picture taken, a part of your soul dies.

  And that has freaked me out ever since.

  Helen tilts her head, studying the horror that must be written all over my face.

  “Come on, Lucy. You’ll have a whole team of stylists, your own dressing roo––” Helen frowns as though she’s changed her mind. “––area.” She places her hands on the desk with a sigh. “You’ll be on a double spread. And you can tell your friends you’re a model. That should be a big hit with the men.” She winks at me, but her shoulders slump when she registers my blank stare.

  “None of that excites you at all, does it?”

  “Nope.” I’m honestly still a little confused by the part about the men. What men? I’m tempted to burst out in another snort and snot punctuated laugh.

  First of all, to say I’m a model after doing one before/after photoshoot is a bit rich.

  People will probably find it a little bit difficult to put me and the word model in the same sentence. I know I do.

  I’m not skinny, so I can’t be a runway model. And I’m not curvy either, so I can’t be a plus size model. I’m
just… hovering somewhere in between. But, like I say, I’m fine with it.

  If I did have the perfect model figure, I can imagine all the offers I’d get from total strangers wanting to do a photoshoot, or the lines upon lines of bachelors that would want to take me out. I’d have to buy a huge umbrella to beat them off.

  It sounds exhausting.

  “I know!” Helen says suddenly. It sounds like an aha moment and I’m immediately suspicious. Her index finger is literally pointing up into the air. “You’ve been wanting your own column for some time now, right?”

  Somewhere in my midriff, an excitable kitten wakes up and does a little booty wiggle.

  My own column? One where I can talk about real women issues like, What to Do When Your Best Friend Turns into A Frenemy and You Didn’t See It Coming? Or How to Deal with an Emotionally Abusive Parent? Yes, please!

  “Right,” I say finally, realizing all of that was still just in my head. Helen’s eyes shine and sparkle and stretch wide. “If you do this for me, I’ll give you a column.”

  I bite against a smile. She’s got me. She knows it, I know it. Heck, the guys in the office probably know it too from the way we’re both grinning at each other like a pair of fools.

  “And I can write about whatever I want?” I ask carefully. I have to make sure this isn’t a trap and she’s not going to force me to write columns about How to Get Him to Propose. Or How to Flirt Your Way Out of a Speeding Ticket.

  Yuck.

  I give Helen a steely stare, but it does nothing to stop her from grinning. “As long as it’s about women and the problems they face daily, then yes. It’s your column, you can write whatever you want.”