Family Treasures

Because that was the moment Caitlin remembered her shoes. The shoes she’d taken off on her way down the hall. The shoes she now held in her hand.

She’d had enough moments of acute embarrassment early on in her life to know that the floor, no matter how much one wished it, never opened up and swallowed a person whole, saving one from complete and utter mortification.

One had to save oneself. And one saved oneself by appearing confident and self-assured no matter what the circumstances.

Caitlin lifted her chin and met his gaze without flinching, resisting the urge to smooth back the strands of hair that had flopped over one eye when she’d pulled out the hair clip. “Good afternoon, Mr. Walsh.”

Responding to her tone, Devon’s smile obediently subsided into a small but beguiling twitch at the corner of his lips. “Ms. McBride.”

“You’ve been waiting a long time—” Caitlin’s heart jumped in time with the unsettling thought that suddenly came to mind. Given Devon’s guarded reception the first time they’d met, she could think of only one thing that might compel him to pace the floor of IMAGEine’s reception area for nearly an hour.

Or one person.

Even though it was none of her business, Caitlin found herself asking anyway. “Is everything all right with Jennifer?”

Devon frowned. “Jenny’s fine.”

Caitlin decided the unexpected relief she felt was due to empathy—after all, she’d practically relived her own adolescence every time her eyes had met Jenny’s—and not due to any…maternal…instincts.

Caitlin was fairly certain she didn’t have any of those.

Other than the etiquette classes she taught twice a month, her exposure to children was limited. She left the nurturing to her two younger sisters, who seemed to have a special knack for it. Evie and Meghan drew children in as effortlessly as the tinkling bells on the neighborhood ice-cream truck.

There were times Caitlin listened to her peers raise concerns about when to marry and start a family, but she’d never been inclined to join in the conversation. She paid more attention to her wristwatch than her biological clock. And it was difficult to hear the ticking of that particular clock over the voices of her clients.

Successful businesses didn’t just happen. Someone had to make them happen. And in order to make them happen, a person had to be willing to make sacrifices. To keep her eyes trained on the goal and not get distracted by things that might take her off the goal…

The reminder brought Caitlin up short. She focused on a point just past Devon’s shoulder and deliberately kept her tone brisk and businesslike.

“Well, if you aren’t here about Jenny, Mr. Walsh, what can I do for you?”

Landing on her feet, Devon thought with admiration, was obviously something Caitlin McBride had perfected.

And it didn’t even require shoes.

How much energy did it take to keep the slight edge honed on that husky contralto? To keep her features as smooth and expressionless as a marble statue?

But Devon knew he’d glimpsed something…some flicker of indefinable emotion in her eyes when she’d asked about Jenny.

And it made him curious.

“The gift certificate. I…” Came to return it. That’s what Devon had planned to say. But for some reason, the words that came out of his mouth didn’t sound like that at all. In fact, they sounded more like “I have no clue what a style analysis is.”

That Devon even remembered the term shocked him.

Caitlin appeared a little shocked, too.

Somehow, it made Devon feel better.

She crossed her arms and eyed him like a boxer sizing up an opponent on the other side of the ring. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Walsh?”

Devon frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Humor me.”

Don’t forget, you started this, Devon reminded himself with a sigh. “I’m a writer.”

“A writer.” Caitlin’s straight little nose pleated like an accordion, the only evidence of her opinion about his chosen career. “But what do you do for a…living?”

“That’s what I do.”

Caitlin’s eyebrows arched in doubt, giving Devon the impression that if his answers were earning points, his response had just plunged him into the negative digits.

“All right. And do you work out of your…” A delicate pause while she searched for the right word. “Home…or do you have an office?”

“My home.”

“Interests?”

Keeping his family together immediately came to mind. But Devon wasn’t about to open that door. Not even a crack.

“I do a little carpentry. Remodeling projects. Are you, ah, going somewhere with all this or did you forget the original question?”

Caitlin’s lips twitched but Devon wasn’t sure if she was trying to hide her irritation or subdue a smile.

“I didn’t forget the question. These are some of the things I ask all my clients during the initial assessment. You see, everyone has a unique style based on a number of different things. Personality. Profession. Lifestyle. Hobbies. Together these form the image we present to others. I help people project their true—”

Devon stopped listening.

That’s what it always came down to, he thought cynically. And it was all Ashleigh had cared about after her modeling career had taken off.

I can’t let people know that I grew up in this little hick town. I have to wear designer clothes—that’s what people expect. Devon, don’t wear those old blue jeans when we go out. You are so stubborn. Can’t you at least pretend to care that a photographer might be watching?

Devon had discovered that he couldn’t. That world—the one that Ashleigh had enthusiastically embraced—seemed so fake. But because it had been important to his wife, Devon had supported her dreams. Until the day Ashleigh had demanded a divorce and he had to accept he was no longer part of them.

Devon didn’t bother to hide his disgust. “Image. I don’t care about that kind of thing.”

Caitlin regarded him for a long moment. “And that is exactly the image you present, Mr. Walsh. That you don’t care.”

The quiet statement hit Devon with the force of a two-by-four and he stared at her in disbelief. “You’re basing a lot on a pair of blue jeans and…” Devon glanced down to see what he’d fished out of the drawer that morning. “A sweater, Ms. McBride.”

“It’s not the clothes you’re wearing—it’s the chip on your shoulder that completes the ensemble. The one that might make a person, let’s say a judge for instance, wonder what else you don’t care about. Paying the bills? Making sure your children are fed? Safe? Well-adjusted?”

“Chip on my—” Wait a second. Ensemble? Men didn’t have ensembles. Devon’s back teeth ground together. “You are way out of line. You can’t determine whether I’m a good parent by the label on my back pocket.”

“You’re right. I can’t,” Caitlin said simply. “But Jenny is obviously worried that someone will. And if I’m not mistaken, that’s the reason she entered you in the makeover contest.”

All the fight drained out of Devon at the sound of his daughter’s name. And at the realization that he’d been more concerned about the press discovering his children’s whereabouts than he had been about the reason Jenny had sent in the entry form in the first place.