by Lila Monroe
I didn’t want to put my heart on the line again.
I get back to my place, and flip on the lights. I catch sight of myself in the mirror, and pause. Despite all my protests to my friends, I wonder …
Has my inaction been because of my failed relationship with Lisa? Have I been moping? Lying to myself? Pretending like this is a vacation, when really, I just don’t want to get my shit together—and risk getting hurt again.
And thinking about Martin and Julie, I wonder: Could that real connection be in the cards for me?
I’m not find it sitting around on my couch playing video games, that’s for sure. Or working my way through the flavors of the week—however much fun we all have.
I smile at Gemma’s favorite phrase. As much as I hate to admit it, she’s had my number from the start. I’m spinning my wheels here, and I need to make a change.
Fuck it.
I go to my bathroom and open the cabinet, grabbing my electric razor. What’s that she’s been saying? Get the confidence to make a change inside, as well as out.
“You better give me a fucking gold star,” I grumble, and turn on the shave setting.
Goodbye Bigfoot.
The beard is no more.
9
Gemma
- Day 4 -
The next day, I head into the Styled office to check in on everything. It’s a beautiful day outside, but in here? It’s cloudy with a chance of Arielle.
Because after he helped this damsel in distress, Bigfoot strode off into the sunset, never to be seen again. He isn’t responding to me. No messages, no texts, smoke-signals, nothing. The clock is ticking on this bet, but my subject’s gone AWOL.
So what else can I do but call him again? “Hey, Zach,” I singsong into the phone. “Gemma again. Just, you know, want to make sure all is okay! Call me! Soon. OK? Bye!”
I end the call and realize I didn’t say why I was calling. Shit.
I wait four long, agonizing minutes (giving him time to call back) before I hit his number again.
“Hi Zach, yup, it’s me again—Gemma. Just want to see if you’re up for hitting some stores today. It’s about ten-fifteen but I’m open all day. By the way, it’s Gemma. Oops! I already said that! Anyway, call me.”
Oh my God. Could I be any lamer?
Yes. Yes I can.
“Zach! Gemma again. Ha ha, last call, I promise. But yeah, hope we’re good. Looking forward to shopping. Hope all my calls haven’t made you change your mind. I just want to get moving on this makeover project. We have a long way to go. Bye!”
Before I make an even bigger fool of myself, I toss my phone into my bag, which promptly I shove into bottom desk drawer.
Forget about breaking into his apartment to shave him, I want to break into Zach’s place to erase all those stupid messages. Then I remind myself—it’s not like he’s a guy I’m dating. He’s a client. Business. It doesn’t matter that I’m coming off like an obsessed stalker, just as long as I make contact and get this makeover back on track.
I’m contemplating calling again—fourth time’s a charm, right? —when James materializes by my desk. “So …” He starts, with his best gossip-face on. “How’s it going with your hairy man-beast?”
I sigh.
“That good?”
“He’s gone MIA. I’m so going to lose this thing,” I get out my phone and pull up Zach’s ‘before’ picture.
“Look.” I shove the screen in James’s face. “This is what I’m dealing with. He won’t shave. He won’t let me do anything with his wardrobe that doesn’t involve blackmail or bribes. He’s a fashion don’t. And he is so stubborn.”
“Oh. Day-um, girl.” James cringes. “But if Arielle gets the job, will she be our boss? Because I can’t, Gems. I can’t report to her. I’ll quit and sell macramé plant holders at the artisan market first.”
I laugh. “Do you even know how to macramé?”
“No!” he cries. “That’s how serious I am!”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I mutter. “This is your doing, you know.” But he’s right—reporting to Arielle would be hell.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding it at least.
“I need to put an end to this bet,” I say. “It’s taking too much focus. I need to be working on my whole portfolio, not just one client who isn’t even a real client.”
And lying to him about the real reason behind his makeover.
I look around but don’t see Arielle anywhere.
“She’s in the runway room,” James offers, reading my mind.
“Wish me luck.”
Sure enough, Arielle’s sitting in one of the comfy client chairs, sipping a latte with one hand and scrolling through her phone with the other. Working hard, in other words.
“Hey,” I say brightly as I approach. “How’s it going?”
She tears her eyes away from her phone and gives me a searching look. “What do you mean?”
Determined not to let her get a rise out of me, I smile at her. “I mean how is it going? With your client?”
“Good.” She looks back at her phone.
Damn. “Well, you know, I was thinking …” I venture.
“That you’re ready to forfeit?” she says with a knowing grin.
“Nice try,” I say with what I hope is a confident chuckle. Because I do not want to forfeit. Nor do I want her to think I’m in panic mode. Even if I totally am. “But no, I was just thinking that Serena should base her decision on our whole portfolios. With multiple clients. So, if we’re focusing on only one person …”
Her grin goes from smug to shit-eating. “Right, so you want to bail on the bet.”
“No, that’s not why I’m here.” Ish. A mutual agreement to end the bet isn’t technically bailing. “I just think, we maybe rushed into things. I mean, judging a whole promotion on just one client … and in ten days!”
“Six, now,” Arielle corrects me with a grin. “And anytime you want to bail, and get back to your loser clients, you’re welcome to tell Serena you don’t want the promotion.”
Wait, what?
“Loser clients?” I repeat, narrowing my eyes.
“Like that soccer mom last week. Please.” Arielle flicks her eyes skyward in disdain. “I saw the Ann Taylor Loft outfits you dressed her in. Bo-ring.”
“Not boring,” I reply, gritting my teeth now. “Professional.”
“Sure, if the job she’s going for is CEO of the Boring Corporation.”
What are we in, elementary school? “Arielle,” I say, my blood boiling now. “Couture isn’t appropriate for all people all the time. Carol would never feel comfortable in anything like that,” I nod to the rail of outfits she’s pulled, edgy high-fashion looks.
“Right. Like I said, loser.” Arielle smirks, and I lose it.
“Because she doesn’t want to look like she fell off a runway? We’re not here to mold our clients into fashion clones! We’re supposed to do what they want. Make them comfortable.”
“In Walmart sweatpants?” Arielle cracks.
“If they want! God, I’ve had it with you are your snooty better-than-thou attitude!” I explode. “Fashion is supposed to be for everyone, but you just bitch about how all your clients aren’t thin enough or pretty enough. Maybe it’s time you got down off your high horse and stopped being such a bitch!”
“And you can quit the Mother Theresa act!” Arielle yells back. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing, sucking up to Serena with all your volunteer work? When I win this bet, it’ll be because I’m the better stylist, not because I threw a fucking pity party for all the poor underprivileged people in the world!”
“Ahem.”
Someone clears their throat behind us. We turn.
Serena is in the doorway. She raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Ladies,” she says calmly. “In my office,” she nods, then walks away, her heels tapping on the floor.
Oh shit.
Now I’m not just worried about lo
sing the promotion. I’m worried about losing my job, full stop.
“Look what you did,” Arielle hisses angrily as we shuffle after her.
“You started it!” I protest, my heart lurching in panic.
Serena is waiting, and gestures us to sit. “So, does somebody want to tell me what’s going on?” she asks calmly.
Arielle and I exchange a look. “We were … just having a disagreement.”
“We’re sorry,” she adds quickly.
“And this bet?”
I gulp. “I, um, we …” I trail off.
“We decided to compete for the promotion, like you wanted.” Arielle pipes up. She explains the basic terms, how we’re each making over a man, to prove we deserve the position as head of the new lifestyle team. “So really, it was your idea,” she finishes. “I mean, you did say we could figure it out between us.”
Serena looks over at me. “Is this true?”
I reluctantly nod, bracing myself for the explosion. Will she even give us notice, or just have security throw us out immediately?
So long, studio apartment, I think sadly. Farewell, brunches out. It’ll be a six-person house-share in the Outer Bay and ramen all the way after this.
Then Serena claps her hands together and beams. “I love it!”
“What?” I glance over at Arielle, who looks just as confused.
Serena smiles at us. “I love that you’ve both got the competitive spirit. And from the sounds of your clients, you’re well-matched.”
“So…you’re not mad?” Arielle says, in clear disbelief.
“I’m not a fan of your little spat,” our fearless leader says. “But I love the idea. And I agree, it’s the perfect way to prove you’ve got what it takes to lead this project.”
I sit back with a rush of relief. I’m not getting fired!
“However,” Serena continues. “I think I’m the most qualified to judge this one, so I’ll expect you to bring your projects to the gala, and I can see for myself the transformations. Then I’ll make my decision about who gets the promotion.”
“But, that’s next week!” I blurt.
“Right, that’s what you planned, wasn’t it?” she asks. “You should be well underway with the makeovers by now.”
I gulp. So much for getting out of the bet—now, the stakes are even higher than ever!
“I’ll let you get back to it,” Serena says. We both get up and head for the door. “Oh, Gemma, hold up a second.”
Arielle shoots me a look, but she can’t complain. She leaves, and closes the door behind her.
“So,” Serena begins, leaning forwards. “Tell me, how is this thing shaking out? Really.”
I pause. Is she fishing for information?
“It’s … a challenge,” I admit. “My client is kind of—”
Stubborn. Mulish. Hot.
“—reluctant.” I finish. “I mean, I know that was the point, but usually we start with clients who at least want to make a change.”
“Hmmm,” Serena says. “If your client is reluctant, find out why. What’s going on in his life that’s making him resistant to change? Does he need a vacation? Life coach? Maybe he works too hard.”
I almost laugh at the ‘works too hard’ comment, but other than that, I quickly realize I have no idea what’s going on in Zach’s life. I know more about the lives of people at the shelter than I do the guy across the hall that I’m trying to make over. “You’re right,” I agree slowly. “I do need to dig deeper.”
She smiles back at me. “Good. I want you to rise to this challenge. Show me what you’ve got. I know you can shine.”
“No pressure,” I joke.
She laughs. “I know you can do this, Gemma. But I also want you to know that I’m going to be an honest and fair judge. This is not yet your job, but it could be,” she adds meaningfully, “Understand?”
Is that a … wink she flashes at me?
Does Serena want me to win this contest?
“Thank you, Serena.” I say quickly. “I won’t let you down.”
She nods. “Now go track down that client of yours. The Gemma I know doesn’t give up easily.”
I leave her office determined to go get Zach on board—if I have to break down his door to get to him. Or, you know, something a little less likely to get the cops called. But once I’m there, what will I say?
I’m sorry that I tried to pressure you. What’s going on in your life and how can I help?
But Zach would either laugh his ass off or bolt, never to be seen again if I try to psychoanalyze him. I’d have a better chance by getting him drunk and threatening to shave him. Or maybe I could take him down to the animal shelter where Eve volunteers and bribe him with puppies … Nobody can stay mad and surly with adorable fluffballs crawling all over them.
I grab my stuff and head downstairs, but when I turn the corner into reception, I stop in my tracks.
A seriously hot guy is waiting by the front desk.
Hello, gorgeous.
He’s cleanly-shaven, wearing dark jeans and a perfectly-fitted white button-down, rolled up to his elbows to reveal tanned, toned forearms. His dark hair falls perfectly into his eyes, just begging to be pushed back—
“Hey Gemma.”
I freeze. No fucking way.
“Zach?”
“Don’t look so surprised.” He strolls towards me, flashing a million-dollar grin. “It’s just a shave.”
Just a shave. Like the pyramids are just a little ornament. Or David is just a cool statue.
Try a work of drool-worthy, panty-twisting art.
My first thought is: I am so going to win this thing.
My second is: I am in so much trouble.
Because the drooling and panties getting twisted? They’re all mine.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt. I was getting ready to apologize to him and then here he is, looking like a god.
Zach looks confused. “I’m here for my makeover. You called like a hundred times. I figured it was important.”
“Oh. Right.” I’m still reeling. “I mean, sure!”
“Actually, I owe you an apology.” Zach adds, looking sheepish.
He owes me an apology?
“I’m sorry I stonewalled you.” He continues. “I get that you take pride in your work and were just trying to help me.”
“Oh.” I gulp. I know I should tell him about the bet, but it is true that I was trying to help him. Not to mention that telling him is against the rules.
“I was being a stubborn asshole.”
“Also, yeah,” I say, giving him a smile to soften the words.
He grins. “Well, I’m here because I’m all in. Do whatever you want to me.”
I can think of plenty of things I want to do to this guy, and all of them would get me cited for public indecency right now. I cough, flushing. “Great!”
My first thought is: Oh, I would like to have at you.
My second: Hello, promotion, you are all mine.
10
Gemma
- Day 4 -
I’m not convinced that Zach really is all in, but when I suggest heading to the spa for some manscaping, he actually agrees. But only because he probably has no idea what that means. Still, I’m not about to give him time to google what lies ahead of him, so I whisk him off to my dream spa nearby, and order him the works—mani, pedi, facial. Oh, and don’t forget eyebrow and toe waxing.
I’m sure he’s about to protest and walk out. But instead he looks at the receptionist. “Please tell me a toe wax isn’t a thing.” He jerks his thumb toward me. “She’s making it up, right?”
The receptionist has to press her lips together to keep from laughing. “I’m sorry sir, but it’s a real thing. Lots of men get it done.”
He levels me a suspicious stare but then finally nods. “All right, you’d better do it then. God forbid I have hairy toes,” he adds, grinning.
I can’t believe it. This is totally happening. He really is
all in.
“Follow me,” the receptionist says with a smile. “Let’s get you a robe.”
Zach glances at me with slightly widened eyes. “Go on,” I say, giving him an encouraging smile. Poor guy has no idea what he’s in for. In a good way. Mostly.
A few minutes later, he’s changed into a fluffy white robe. The receptionist leads him toward one of the big pedicure thrones. It’s a slow day, so I grab the empty seat next to Zach. Perfectly positions to hold him down if he tries to bolt.
“Can I get you something to drink?” the receptionist asks.
“Uh, water, thanks,” he says.
“Cucumber or strawberry-peach?” the receptionist asks.
He blinks. “Cucumber?”
“Coming right up.”
As the receptionist leaves to get our waters, the esthetician, Jodi, appears, and instructs Zach to put his feet in the tub.
“You seem pretty comfortable here,” I tease, once he’s settled.
He grins at Jodi who is arranging her tools on the little table as his feet soak. “Hey, if someone wants to make me look and feel good, and touch me while they’re doing it? I’m down with it.” He aims a wink at the woman who smiles back at him.
Who is this guy, and what has he done with the stubborn neighbor I know?
“So, you just woke up this morning, and decided I was right about everything?” I ask in disbelief.
Zach chuckles. “I wouldn’t go that far. But, I guess I figured it was time for a change.”
I’m still not buying it, but I don’t want to push, so I let it slide, as the receptionist brings our water and a neck pillow that she slides behind his neck, plus a cooling gel eye mask.
“Ooh,” he says, leaning back and closing his eyes. The other woman gets started massaging his feet in the hot water. He lets out a relaxed sigh. “This feels great. Why didn’t you invite me here before, Emma?”
“Ha ha,” I snort. “Very funny.”
His eyes open suddenly. He lifts the mask. “Wait, you’re not getting anything done?”
