Bachelor's Bought Bride / CEO's Expectant Secretary: Bachelor's Bought Bride / CEO's Expectant Secretary

“You’re lovely as you are, but you could be lovelier.

I spent a summer working at a froufrou spa in Santa Barbara. I learned all kinds of brilliant tricks there.”

“Like what?”

“Your hair. It’s curly, right?”

“I think frizzy is a better description.”

“No, seriously, will you take it down for a sec?”

Bree pulled the ponytail band from her hair with shaky fingers. The heavy mass fell—frizzily—over her shoulders.

“Oh, yes. You’ve got lovely ringlets in there. We just have to set them free.”

“How do you do that?”

Elle smiled mysteriously. “We need to gather a few tools.”

It was nearly four in the afternoon by the time Elle was satisfied with her work. They’d spent an hour in the sun while Elle filed and polished Bree’s nails, and they waited for artfully applied lemon juice to scorch highlights into Bree’s hair.

Next, Elle conditioned her hair. She’d rinsed, then applied yet more conditioner—gloppy handfuls of it—and made Bree swear she’d never let her hair dry without conditioner on it again.

While Bree dripped conditioner onto the wood floors, Elle rifled through her wardrobe, tut-tutting and holding items up to Bree’s complexion. In despair, she marched Bree—hair still damp—out the door and down to Union Street, where she encouraged her to try on, and ultimately buy, three very expensive new bras and several mix-and-match pieces from a trendy boutique. Elle made the whole thing so enjoyable, Bree felt as if they were BFFs out for an adventure rather than two women who’d only met the night before.

Once coordinating shoes were found, they hurried back to the apartment where Elle applied a loose powder all over her face, “to brighten you up a bit,” as she said. She brushed light blush over Bree’s cheekbones, and smudged gray-green shadow around her eyes. A touch of rose-pink lipstick gave a subtle punch to her color, without making her look like a clown.

“Your hair’s finally dry.” Elle arranged it about her shoulders. “Why don’t you look in the mirror?”

Half afraid of what she’d see, Bree made her way across the studio—no small feat in the heeled ankle boots Elle had talked her into.

A long mirror hung behind the bathroom door, and she inhaled as she pulled it open.

She squinted for a moment, looking the image up and down. Then she laughed aloud. “Who is that woman in my mirror?”

“It’s you, babe.”

“Not possible. This woman is trim and elegant, and has silky ringlets with blond highlights.”

“It’s all you. Standing up straight is a big part of it. Tall girls like you often stoop because you’re afraid to stand out. If you do those yoga poses I showed you just once a day, you’ll really see a difference in your posture.”

“It never would have occurred to me that clothes which fit could make me look thinner!”

“You have a gorgeous, curvy figure and you should show it off.”

“Who knew?” Bree grinned at her reflection. “And I swear on my life, I’ll never let my hair dry without conditioner again.”

“That’s my girl. So, when are you seeing Gavin next?”

Three

Gavin called on Sunday and invited Bree to a gallery opening on Tuesday night. A photography show. Said he wanted her opinion of the artist’s work.

Naturally, she said yes.

For the opening she chose a wrap dress in a dark eggplant color that was subtle and dramatic at the same time. The cut flattered her hourglass figure—who knew she had one?—and made an asset of her height. For the first time in years, she wore heels, which probably made her about five foot eleven. She’d bravely “washed” her hair using only conditioner and it had come out shockingly well—a mass of shiny ringlets. As she sparingly applied some of the subtle makeup Elle had left for her, she wondered how Gavin would react.

At seven o’clock on the dot she heard a knock on the private door to her studio.

Heart pounding, she crossed the slippery wood floor as gracefully as possible in her heels and pulled it open.

“Hi, Br—” Gavin’s mouth fell open.

“Hey, Gavin.” She smiled. “How was work today?”

“Great. It was really good.” He blinked, and peered at her curiously. “You look different.”

“Just a little.” She shrugged and turned into the loft. Part of her wanted to laugh out loud. “New dress.”

“It looks stunning on you.” His voice was deeper than usual. He looked devastating himself, in dark pants and a white shirt with a barely visible gray stripe.

“Thanks. Let me get my bag.” She slung the small beaded vintage purse, which used to belong to her mom, over her shoulder. “I’m looking forward to the exhibit.”

“Me, too.” She turned to see him staring at her, a furrow between his brows.

“Something wrong?”

“Oh, no.” He blinked. “No, nothing at all.” He glanced lower, taking in the soft drape of her new dress over her hips. Her skin hummed under his hungry gaze.

He does find me attractive.

The feeling was utterly new, a strange and surprising thrill. She pulled her shoulders back, trying to maintain the posture Elle had showed her, and to hide the fact that her pulse was still pounding and her palms sweating, despite her composed appearance.

Gavin cleared his throat. “My car’s downstairs.”

They walked into the Razor gallery arm in arm. She was only a couple of inches shorter than him in her new heels. Eyes, once again, turned to stare. But this time they weren’t glares of female indignation that she—lowly and insignificant plain Jane—was on Gavin’s arm.

No, this time the men were looking, too.

Bree tossed her curls behind her shoulders as she accepted a glass of white wine. “Shall we look at the images?”

Even her voice sounded sultrier, as if overnight she’d morphed into a more sophisticated version of herself.

They looked closely at the photographs. Large digital prints of people, mostly at parties and nightclubs, the colors highly saturated and intoxicating. “I can almost hear the music,” she said, looking at a couple entwined on a dance floor, perspiration gleaming on their barely clad bodies.

“That’s why I like Doug’s images. They invoke the other senses. I’m hoping he’ll do a vodka campaign I have in mind. It’s hard to make a flat piece of paper say ‘drink me,’ but I think this guy could pull it off.” He pointed the artist out to Bree—a short, skinny guy with numerous piercings, a goatee and an air of manic enthusiasm.

“Now, he looks like an artist,” she whispered. “Maybe I need to pierce my nose. What do you think?” She tilted her head, fighting the urge to grin.