“Is that good?” Matt ventured.
Raul jerked his eyes to the mirror, as if startled that his victim was alive. “For some things.” He put his finger to his chin and stared at Matt’s reflection. “I’m thinking texturing, short in the back, tapered for style. Razor the ends. Oh, and a definite weave. Golden ash, I think.”
“A weave?” Matt said. Was that like braids?
Raul flipped open a notebook that held tiny whisk brooms of hair in a million shades. He held one next to Matt’s face. “Maybe honey blond?” He seemed to be talking to Candy now. “It’ll bring out his eyes. He has the best eyes. Brad Pitt without the smoky green.”
“The optician said Greg Kinnear,” Candy said. “But I was thinking Patrick Dempsey.”
“Not quite. Keifer Sutherland maybe? Anyway, gorgeous. So, honey blond it is.” He whipped away the hair and shut the notebook.
“Hold it,” Matt said, figuring out where this was going. “You’re not dying my hair blond.”
“It’s just highlights, Matt,” Candy said. “Your hair will look sun-kissed. That’s how they do it.” She pointed at the foiled-up guy who was now under a dryer. A dryer?
“No. No way. Just a cut. You can do the razor thing, but no sun-kissing anything.”
Raul and Candy looked at each other.
“I think he means it,” Candy said with a sigh.
“Shame.” Raul shook his head, acting like a surgeon forced to settle for a bypass, when he’d wanted a full transplant, but he went after Matt with several kinds of scissors and some electric clippers, talking with Candy about movies and celebrity adoptions the whole time. They acted as if they’d known each other for years instead of minutes. That was Candy all the way.
One good thing about the contact lenses was that he could see her clearly in the mirror. He’d always had to remove his glasses for haircuts. She sat on the stool to his right, skirt riding high, swinging her leg, her sandal heel dangling.
He found himself lulled by Raul’s snips and tugs and the music of Candy’s voice, her light laughter, her chatter. After the cutting, Raul rubbed in some gel, then some foam, then a spray and finally pointed Matt’s chair at the mirror. “There,” he said. “Is it magic or is it magic?”
It wasn’t too bad. Short on the sides and back, the longer top part stuck up a little from the goo, which made it too shiny for his taste, but he could live with the cut. Matt was relieved. It could have been so much worse.
“It’s magic, Raul,” Candy said, answering for him. “Isn’t it?” she asked the woman in the next chair.
“Gorgeous,” the woman said. “Especially with his eyes. I think definitely Greg Kinnear.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Candy said, tilting her head to study him more closely.
Mortified, he cleared his throat. “What’s the maintenance on this?” He’d sounded like he was discussing an oil change.
“Sculpting wax and a bit of root lift. Ten minutes maybe?”
“Wax? Root lift?”
Raul sighed. “Oh, be that way.” He scrubbed Matt’s hair the way Matt usually did when he got out of the shower. “You can do that if you want to waste my work.”
“Great.” He released a breath, but at the counter he let Raul convince him to buy some wax just in case. One hefty check later, he let Candy lead him to a menswear boutique.
The saleswoman, whom Candy knew by name, took them to a booth beside a rack loaded with clothes that he was dismayed to learn were all for him. Something about mixing and matching…
The saleswoman and Candy fluttered around him as he put on and took off suits, blazers, pants, dress shirts, summer shirts, shorts and swim trunks until his skin felt raw.
Candy was a whirl of energy and opinion. Yes to this, no to this, maybe on this, her features screwed up as she analyzed each item for fit, color and style.
Whenever he stepped out of the changing booth, Candy ran her fingers along the shoulder seams, messed with his sleeves and cuffs, checked the break at the tops of his shoes. Her busy fingers were on him everywhere, making him sweat, making him think about last night. Needless to say, he wrote a lot of code in his head to keep from stacking wood.
After a wearying hour of this, he’d just stripped down to his boxers, when Candy spun into the booth. “One more-oh! Sorry. You’re almost-” Her eyes darted to his boxers, which, of course, bulged.
“Oh.” Her eyes zoomed to his, heat sizzling there. “Do you need…underwear? They have some nice silk boxers…out…there.” She waved aimlessly behind her.
“I’m equipped,” he said.
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Fully.”
“I’m worn out with all this,” he said, weary of the scrape of fabric, the constant struggle to control himself around her, to keep his arms from holding her, his mouth from taking hers.
“Oh, me, too,” she said, her shoulders sagging. “You’ve got a good start anyway. Maybe wear the Hawaiian shirt and board shorts out?”
“Okay,” he said. He changed into the items she suggested.
When he stepped out of the dressing room, her eyes lit up and she gave a delighted gasp. “You look great. Come and see.” She led him to the three-way mirror.
Not bad, he realized, studying his reflection. He still recognized himself, but he looked…sharper.
“Matt, version 2.0,” she said.
He smiled, glad it wasn’t so bad. He could have looked gay or vain or foolish, but he looked…decent. He’d been right to trust her.
“You’re going to need non-prescription sunglasses,” she said. “Hang on.” She went to the rack by the register and came back with a pair she slid onto his nose, her fingers gentle at his temples, then stepped back to survey the effect.
“Wow,” she breathed. “Women will go nuts for you and I’m not kidding.”
How about you? Are you nuts for me? He couldn’t help wanting to know that, could he?
“Not that you weren’t attractive before, but now you’re…enhanced.” Her eyes roved over him, holding him so intently he felt like her fingers had actually touched him.
“Thanks, Candy. For doing this.”
“My pleasure.”
The last thing he wanted to think about at the moment was her pleasure. He knew exactly how she sounded, what she looked like, the way she stilled, then cried out.
Ouch.
“Are you hungry?” she asked softly.
“Starving,” he answered, but neither of them seemed to be talking about food.
8
YOU SET YOURSELF UP, girl, Candy realized as they drove back from the mall, heading for the deli to appease their hunger. Like a couple of sandwiches from the chichi deli could relieve the ache inside her, the way she craved Matt’s touch.
He’d been tough to resist before, but after the makeover, now that he looked like Fun Guy, he’d become one of those perfect sundaes where you licked the bowl afterward, with no regrets at all about blowing your diet because it was so worth it.
Now, she was depending on her weakest part-self control-to keep the lid on her feelings for the man.
All that time touching him while he tried on clothes had left her feeling raw and exposed, vulnerable to any glance or movement. When he tapped his finger on the steering wheel, she got a charge.
They would eat their sandwiches on the beach before the festival events began. That had been her stupid idea. It had sounded good at the time, but now she realized it meant more hours together non-stop. After they ate, it would be time for the limbo contest and then the photo hunt. The prospect exhausted her.
She racked her brain for some aspect of Matt that turned her off, some nerdy flaw, but she couldn’t think of a single one. At the moment, Matt was a total hottie.
It’s just the makeover effect, she told herself. Merely a superficial change. Matt was still the same distant, work-obsessed intellectual he’d been yesterday, locked in his head, glued to his keyboard. Hell, the man had to be forced to go on vacation. She’d had to drag him outside to notice the beauty of the beach, the sea, the moment. She did not relate at all.