The Makeover Surprise (Surprised by Love Book 2)

by Laura Burton

“Time for the makeover.”

  “Wait. What?” But there’s no time for questions. With a snap of her fingers, three more people hurry forward, and the next thing I know, one woman is wrapping a tape measure around my waist, while another one tugs on my hair tie until my messy bun collapses and my face is covered with dirty blonde hair.

  “I thought the after shoot was happening next week?” I cut through the tangled strands with my fingers and part my hair like a curtain over my eyes.

  Helen told me the after shoot wouldn’t be for seven days. I expected to be able to go on a juice cleanse, otherwise what was the point of eating all that junk food last night? My bloated stomach gurgles, as if murmuring its agreement.

  Noelle’s dull eyes turn to me for a moment and she purses her lips.

  “I need to get back to Paris tomorrow. Besides, Mr. Croft is a fan of authenticity. So, we need to fix you up now. Even with the…” she waves her finger around my nose, her eyes squinting in disapproval.

  “Mr. Croft?” I repeat. The new owner has a name. I can’t believe any of this. I wish I could drop my hair and disappear behind it like some kind of magic red curtain.

  Someone starts combing my hair. Thankfully, they do it with enough skill to avoid snagging the comb on my knots.

  Someone else presents Noelle with a selection of colorful gowns. All of them look big and flashy, like something from a circus.

  “The blue one with the A-line skirt. Do we have a net? The bigger the better.”

  I glimpse a bright blue gown that looks like something from a beauty pageant.

  “I’m wearing that?” I blurt in horror. It’s the girliest looking dress I’ve ever seen up close. And it’s not my style at all. The top half is sleeveless with a sweetheart neckline and the bodice looks rigid and stiff, like it’s got boning sewn into the seams.

  I might as well be mumbling to myself. No one pays my question any mind. More people show up and Noelle barks orders at all of them. “Henry, take Lucy to the trailer, it has running water. You’ve got hair dye, right? Use French Coffee, I want to see her in rich brown tones.” Noelle claps and raises her voice, prompting everyone to stop what they're doing and look. “Come on, people, we’ve got three hours to transform this dirty Harriett into a blushing Belle. Move double time. If you need to use the bathroom, cross your legs. Do not stop for anything, we've really got our work cut out for us to make this happen.”

  I grind my teeth.

  What follows is a montage of every 90’s makeover movie ever made. I’m moved from trailer to trailer as the stylists work on me. They wax my legs, paint my nails, and do some mysteriously scientific things to my hair. Before I know it, I’m standing in a big poofy dress, wondering what the heck they’ve done to me.

  Someone brings out a fan.

  At first glance, I thought the dress they picked out for me was a nightmare for introverts - bright and big, demanding all sorts of unwanted attention. But now that I'm wearing it, I realize it could be an introvert’s dream instead. The dress is snug on my waist and poofs out so wide, it creates a blue force field around me, keeping everyone at least two feet away.

  A stylist holds up a mirror for me and it takes all of my resolve not to shriek in surprise. My stomach does an excited little dance. I want to roll my head back and roar with laughter at how unlike myself I appear. I look like Gracie Lou Freebush from Miss Congeniality.

  I half expect to be interviewed just so I can say my greatest wish is “World peace.”

  Which, okay, probably is my greatest wish. I mean, who wouldn’t want world peace?

  Anyway. When Helen said I’d be doing a makeover, I thought I’d look more like a business executive or something. Instead, I look like I’m going to prom in the 80’s.

  Layers of makeup have covered my bruises. My nose is still bigger than usual, but the makeup team has balanced my features out by making my lips look huge and sticking on big, false lashes.

  Noelle takes a step back, clutching her phone like it’s an award as she looks me up and down with a beaming smile.

  “Fabulous work, team. Now, Lucy darling, you’ve been such a doll. I know it’s been hard work, but we’re on the home stretch.” She steers me to a red x taped to the floor, facing the camera. The photographer’s bushy brows rise as he surveys me, then he nods to Noelle with approval. “You’ve outdone yourself, Noelle.”

  She inclines her head, closes her eyes in some kind of reverent moment of respect for her talent, and then turns back to me.

  “Right. Chin up, shoulders back. Suck in your stomach and picture yourself on the runway in Paris.”

  The thought of being on a catwalk in the capital of France makes my stomach churn and my knees wobble. I’m guessing it’s Noelle’s idea of a happy place. It’s certainly not mine. She wants me to act dignified. Confident. Powerful.

  And I have to say, with my hair in this gorgeous color falling over my face in thick, glossy waves, and the shapewear holding in all my bloat, I do feel like I can take on anything.

  Well. Not anything. It would be pretty impossible to outrun a bunch of zombies in these shoes.

  I place my hand on my hip and follow Noelle’s instructions as the flash of the camera blinds me every two seconds.

  Bye, bye, soul.

  I’m not sure how long I stand there having my picture taken, but it’s long enough for my feet to start throbbing and my cheeks to start aching. I haven’t smiled this much since my sister’s Christmas wedding. By evening, my cheeks were hurting so much, I never wanted to smile again.

  But here I am. Belle of the… smelly warehouse. (I can hardly say ball in this scenario.)

  “That’s it. We’ve got the shots we need,” Noelle says with a clap. I exhale with relief and blink the spots out of my eyes.

  “It’s over? We’re done?”

  Noelle waves a hand and on cue a whole team of people start packing everything away. They’re all so efficient, I can’t help but think they’ve done this a million times before. When they pack up the modesty screen though, I start to panic. “Wait. Don’t I have to change out of this?” I point to the dress on me, but Noelle places a hand on my shoulder. “A perk of the job. You can keep the outfit.” She sizes me up with shrewd eyes. “And I think you should consider keeping your hair that color. You make a good brunette.”

  “Well… thanks for everything,” I say, still stunned by how abruptly everything has ended. I watch the last of the crew carrying the lights out as Noelle busies herself with her phone. I’ve become invisible again.

  Thank goodness I only agreed to one photoshoot. If this is what the modeling world is like, it’s nowhere near as glamorous as it looks. And my feet are killing me.

  I pick up my little bundle of clothes and stuff them in my bag, wondering how I’m going to face everyone on the subway. But the only alternative is changing in the open warehouse where people keep walking in and out.

  Arguably, neither option is without the risk of public humiliation. So, I call for a cab and decide to take my chances in the poofy blue dress. Getting through the subway in this is going to be a new form of torture.

  “So, how did it go?” Chessy’s excitable voice barks out of my phone on the crowded subway train. I clench my jaw and glance at the two young girls staring at me with wide eyes. Someone clears their throat and I look to my left in time to catch a young man sizing me up, his eyes dark and hungry. For a flicker of a moment, he looks very much like a predator eyeing up its prey. But when our eyes meet, he turns away.

  I waste no time telling my sisters about the crazy makeover experience. Their “oohs” and “ahhhs” only spur me on.

  “I don’t know what cream they used, but my arms have never been so smooth,” I mutter, looking at the milky white arms that haven’t seen the light of day for years.

  “I can’t wait to see your hair! It sounds like they went all out,” Leila says, cooing like a bird.

  “Excuse me, are these yours?”

  With a jump, I
end the call and swivel in my seat to see my keys dangling in front of my eyes. I know they’re mine because of the obnoxious pink pompom Chessy bought me for my birthday. “You’ll never lose your keys again with this on your chain!” she said with pride. I’m always losing stuff. Leila often says I’d lose my own head if it wasn’t attached to the rest of my body. And Chessy’s right, ever since I got the pompom, I haven’t lost my keys. Until now, at least.

  “Thanks,” I say, swiping them from the air with my cheeks burning. I glance down at my bag and notice that it’s fallen over and spilled its contents. I stuff my keys and the rest of my things back into it.

  “I see you’re a fan of The Hobbit.”

  The man’s familiar voice lights a corner of my mind like I’ve stumbled upon a lost memory. I look up, and my gaze settles on kind, hazelnut eyes, the corners creasing as the owner smiles at me. I take in clean cut hair, styled neatly in soft waves at the ears, and a dark formal coat.

  Recognition hits me like a bolt of lightning.

  Cheetos guy.

  “Huh?” I blink at him, wondering what the odds are of bumping into this stud twice within a twenty-four-hour period, with him having to help me both times. I remember feeling pitied the last time we met, but there’s something different about the way he’s looking at me today. “Your bag,” he says. “I couldn’t help but notice the dragon picture on the front. That’s from the Hobbit, right?”

  “Oh.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear with a slight laugh and blink shyly at my bag for a moment. “Yes.”

  Then I look up and I freeze under his stare. His eyes are so clear and sparkly; I can see my stunned reflection in them.

  He holds out his hand. “I’m Wyatt.”

  He offers me the friendliest smile and I find myself smiling back.

  “Wyatt,” I say, testing the name and liking the way it rolls off my tongue. I can actually hear Chessy screeching with excitement in my head. Lucy and Wyatt. That has a ring to it!

  “Lucy,” I say. When I take his hand, everything inside of me zings.

  His gaze flickers from my eyes to my hair, then to my dress, and for a brief moment, they seem to hover at my mouth. Finally, he meets my stare again, and now all of my senses are tingling.

  “Going somewhere nice?”

  I jump at the reminder that I’m having this whole conversation dressed like a contestant at a beauty pageant. Blushing profusely now, I shake my head and avert my gaze. “No. I just had a photoshoot.”

  “Oh, you’re a model. That makes sense,” Wyatt says, still looking at me in a way I’m not used to. Men usually see me as just one of them. Sometimes they look at me with a mixture of repulsion and pity. But right now, Wyatt is looking at me so intently, it’s making my insides squirm.

  “No, no. I’m not a model. This was just a one-time thing. I swear,” I say, waving my hands to emphasize the point. “I hate having my picture taken.”

  “But you’re gorgeous. Why would you hate it?” Wyatt asks.

  A part of me does a little dance on the inside. A stranger just called me gorgeous. That never happens.

  “Well, it’s silly, but I once heard that every time you get your picture taken, a piece––”

  “––of your soul dies,” Wyatt finishes for me.

  I stop breathing and hold his gaze. Everything around me slows down. It’s like his words are an enchantment and we’re frozen in space and time.

  “I’ve never met anyone who…” I begin to say, but the words fade away and I just stare at this man, looking at him in a whole new light. He leans forward and the air between us is so charged, my arms sizzle. “Me neither, my grams used to say it all the time.” A flash of sadness crosses his face but he smiles again so fast, I wonder if I imagined it.

  Wyatt gives me a shrewd look and takes a sip of his coffee––I hadn’t even noticed he was holding it until now. As he pulls the cup away, his tongue slides across his bottom lip in a sort of hypnotizing way. It takes me a hot minute to realize I’m staring at his mouth while instinctively licking my own lips.

  My cheeks flush again and I force my eyes back to his. I expect him to bring up our meeting last night, and how serendipitous it is to meet again so soon, but instead, he finishes his drink and stays silent, looking mildly out the window.

  Does he not remember me? Am I so unrecognizable that this guy can’t fathom that I’m the same woman he met at the store?

  I want to outright ask him, Hey, remember me? Cheetos gal? And then he’d slap his forehead and go “Duh!” and we would both laugh and laugh.

  Or not.

  Wyatt glances at my dress again and there’s something about the way he looks at me that makes me feel like I’m butt naked. Vulnerable. An irrational part of me starts wondering if the cops can arrest me for indecent exposure.

  Chessy believes in love at first sight. Not me. But seeing this hot guy again so soon, and the connection I feel to him, makes me wonder...

  Is he… the one?

  “This is my stop,” he says, dragging me out of my head once more. He rises to a stand and my stomach plummets. It’s too soon. I didn’t even get to tell him a joke, or wow him with my intellect. But then he pulls out his phone and his tongue peeps out again as he studies the screen with intent. Finally, his beautiful hazel eyes settle on me once more and his temples turn a light shade of red.

  Is he nervous?

  “I hope I’m not coming across too strong, but I’d love to have your number and take you out on a date sometime. That is, as long as you’re not already seeing someone.”

  My mouth drops open and I stare at him in shock. No one has ever asked me for my number before. My first reaction is to ask him why, but something stops me.

  Then the realization hits me square between the eyes. He has no idea I’m the same girl he helped at the store.

  If he did, surely he’d mention it by now. And if he was truly interested in me, the real me, he would have asked for my number last night.

  The reason he’s asking now is because Noelle worked her magic on me and I look like a human Barbie doll. No. This man is not the one. Mr. Right would see through the makeup and fancy clothes and recognize my eyes, or my voice! The One would sweep me off my feet and kiss me in the rain.

  Okay, I really need to stop watching cheesy romance movies with my sisters.

  Part of me wants to tell him where to stuff his phone for being so dang shallow. But something stops me. Maybe the polite side. Or the romantic side of me. Or the illogical side. Who knows.

  Instead, I tap my number into his phone and give a little wave as he walks off the train beaming ear to ear.

  I watch him through the window as he disappears into the crowd of commuters and wonder what possessed me to give him my number. As if I use my phone for actual conversations with anyone other than my sisters. Whenever I get a call from an unknown number, I break out into a nervous sweat. If he does call, there’s no way I’m picking up.

  But I swallow hard and try to convince myself that I don’t need to worry. He just wanted to get a pretty girl’s number. He’s not actually going to call.

  My phone vibrates and I yelp with surprise. So soon? He’s been gone for two seconds and he’s calling me already?

  With a shaking hand, I take out my phone and glance at the screen. It’s not him.

  “Hi Helen,” I say, trying to sound chirpy, but there’s an edge to my voice and my stomach clenches. “Lucy, can you come in early tomorrow? I've got a meeting with the new owner in the morning and I need to talk to you about something urgent first.”

  “Is everything okay?” I blurt, alarm bells going off in my head. I hate not knowing what’s going on. I’ll only spend all night speculating what the urgent matter might be. Did she see the photos and want them redone? If so, I’m not going through that again. She can keep the column. One makeover is enough torture to last me a lifetime.

  “I’ll see you at eight sharp at the office,” she says, ignoring my question. Th
en she ends the call. I look out the window at the buildings racing by and sigh. Looks like I’m heading for a sleepless night.

  Chapter Six

  Wyatt

  I don’t believe in fate, or destiny. But how I met Lucy feels a lot like divine intervention.

  First, she’s a fan of The Lord of the Rings.

  I love this girl already.

  Second, she speaks my language. I’m not talking about English. I mean the straight-forward, no-nonsense way she’s spoken to me the two times I’ve met her.

  I’m almost certain I just met her again on the subway. She’s the same woman I met at the store. She looked cute as a button then, but very different on the subway. Not better... Different.

  Her hair was darker on the subway, and she had false lashes on that were so long, I immediately imagined them squashed behind the lens of her glasses.

  But her voice was still warm and soft, and she puckered her upper lip like it had been pinched – just like the Cheetos girl.

  I didn’t bring up the incident at the store though, and she didn’t say anything to suggest we had already met. So maybe it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. Maybe I’m reading too much into this.

  Still, I spent all night tossing and turning, then I gave up on sleeping and picked up my phone to research places to eat in the city. Every time I try to clear my head or think about something else, my brain pings right back to Lucy.

  The stakes are too high. I manned up like I said I would, but I only get this one shot at making a good impression, so I don’t want to mess it up.

  I’ve had several wild ideas. Maybe we could go to the old cinema and have them play Fellowship of the Ring.

  But what if she’s only a fan of the books?

  Then I remembered that it’s kind of customary to talk on the first date, so the cinema option was pretty much out after that. I’m definitely not one of those people who talk during a movie. In fact, If the TV is on, I can’t pay attention to anything else. That’s why I enjoy movies so much. After a long, stressful day of sensory overload, it’s calming to allow myself be immersed in a different world, with characters who are confident and willful, and maybe only a little bit like me.