Bona Fide Beauty: Bona Fide, Book One

by Landra Graf

  She looked hesitant, which was expected. He was asking her to basically give up her say in this whole process, trust him with the direction of their sessions. He would be lying to himself if he said those words didn’t conjure up the sounds of her moan once more.

  He would need to focus everything on work—the tips and pointers. Maybe it was also time to have Mark set him up on a date with one of his many female friends. If it would get his mind out of the gutter and away from desperate territory, he’d sign up.

  “So?” Dev asked again and then took a bite from the fruit bowl.

  “I’ll do it.”

  The look of determination told him she would try. Obviously, her goal meant that much to her, and Dev would work just as hard to help her achieve it, even if the process caused him some pain. “Then let’s discuss your homework for the next week.”

  6

  “I’m impressed that you convinced him to say yes.”

  Shrugging her shoulders, Kat stepped into her cousin’s office and headed straight for a chair. “I didn’t convince him; he came to the decision mostly on his own.”

  “Then I was right; you’re his type.” Mark detoured to his bar and poured himself a drink. “A female in the wrong clothing with a desperate need for an intervention, and he can’t help but help you.”

  “Misogyny at its finest.” At least that’s the excuse she’d go with. To be honest, Dev turned out to be really understanding and patient, more so than she would’ve expected, but telling her cousin such a thing gave him more power. She’d keep those internal thoughts to herself.

  The sound of scotch in a glass echoed in the room. “Can I get you a drink?”

  The idea teased her. She wanted a drink, but not when she needed all senses focused on her snake of a cousin. “No, I’m good.”

  He wagged a finger at her, like his mom used to do to them when they were getting into something they shouldn’t. “First rule of business meetings, you always accept a drink, even if you don’t like it or don’t plan on drinking it. Makes you appear more malleable. So, drink?”

  “Fine, pour me one of whatever you’re having. Now, I called you; you said to come here to sign a few things, so... let’s get this over with.”

  Mark set his glass down on his desk and grabbed a small stack of stapled papers. “Paperwork is essential. Provides protection for us both, all nice and tidy, and makes our arrangement official.”

  “What do we need that for?”

  “Standard business deal things. The top one says you won’t go back on your deal to do the makeover and that you have to complete the process in full to receive all compensation. I’ll give you five thousand dollars to start and the remaining amount after you complete everything.”

  “That’s not what you said before.” And not what she needed. Five thousand would only get both contractors started, not take care of the plumbing work. She mentally tallied everything up. “Let’s settle with eight thousand.”

  Mark shook his head. “You’re not very familiar with business practices, are you? What college did you graduate from again?”

  “You’re an asshole.” Childhood memories of him at random family gatherings flitted through her head and ended with the same conclusion. Like the times he’d pulled her pigtails and when he’d pushed her off the playground swing or when he’d cheated her and his brother out of a hard-earned snack by dropping a cup of worms on top.

  “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that and probably won’t be the last. The deal is simple, five thousand now and the rest later. Expense money for wardrobe and other items will be dispersed as needed; we can meet up for an exchange, whatever.”

  “You’ve been an asshole for far longer then you’ve been called it.” After being screwed over by one person too many, she should’ve known better than to expect him to be kind. Just because a gal had some lemons didn’t mean she’d get delicious lemonade, sugar being a crucial ingredient. “The other papers?”

  He extended the small pile and a pen toward her. “Read through them. Basic non-disclosure agreements about our company’s methods and practices, a liability waiver, and of course, there’s an indemnity clause in case you decide to back out. I already told Dev I’d have you fill these out.”

  She accepted the stack and leafed through them. Her patience for reading through things sat at record lows after putting in eight painful hours going through every single line of three marketing briefs. Skimming, she got the gist of things. Signing the documents took another few minutes, with her chicken scratch signature practically illegible, except for the “K” and “B.”

  Mark still sat there nursing his now-watered-down drink, an amused expression on his face.

  “What’s so funny?” Kat plopped the signed papers back on the desk.

  “Nothing, but some folks like to have lawyers look over documents prior to signing them.”

  “The fact I need money would probably imply that I don’t have a lawyer on retainer. I’m also hoping you won’t screw me over since we’re family. Make sure I get copies of those.”

  Her statement got a laugh out of him. “Sure thing, and being a blood relation has never stopped people from screwing others over before. Lucky for you, I believe in helping those who are somehow connected to me and mine. The agreement is solid and beneficial to us both.”

  He took the papers, and they disappeared into a folder on his desk. When he faced her again, his hands clutched a single, recognizable, rectangle-shaped paper. “I’ll have Victoria mail the copies. This check is good for immediate deposit. Five thousand dollars.”

  She reached for it, but the butthead pulled it out of her range at the last second.

  “Before I turn this over, a couple of things.”

  The muscle in her eyebrow twitched— again. Something possibly associated with annoying cousins or men in general. A reminder she needed sleep and to make a deposit at the bank’s ATM posthaste, assuming he turned the check over. “What?”

  “First, no discussing the fact that I’m paying you to do this, with anyone—especially Dev. Our agreement is between us, and the money direct from me. I don’t need this tied back to Bona Fide’s books in any way. Second, this is strictly professional. Don’t get all gooey-eyed on my business partner.”

  An unladylike snort burst out. “Yes, that’s exactly my plan, to fawn all over his egotistical, snobbish self. I’d like to think I have better taste in men than that.”

  “Not according to my mother and her opinion of that Nick guy, but whatever. You’re not attracted to him, right?”

  The truth stood on the tip of her tongue, but she didn’t want him to know. Didn’t need another thing to be used against her. She’d become familiar with that; the more information shared, the more likely people would direct it to benefit them. Mark possessed the talent to prey on those he thought were weak. So she settled with a misdirect, jumping up and reaching for the check. “Give me the damn thing. I’ve got meetings tomorrow and need to get to bed early.”

  He rolled his chair back, dodging her move. “It’s only after six. Besides that’s not an answer.”

  “I’m not attracted to narcissism, better?”

  “I’ll accept it.” He handed over her momentary saving grace, and she immediately tucked it into her purse. “You might ask Dev to get you some new accessories, too. That brown corduroy handbag is hideous.”

  She looked at her faithful bag with its half-a-dozen quote buttons pinned into various places, the frayed shoulder strap, and blue-ink-stained front pocket. “It’s a representation of me.”

  “Okay, Hobo Jane, tell me what’s next?”

  “Fuck off.”

  He laughed again, a common occurrence now. “You need better comeback lines. Tell me the current steps he’s put in place for your makeover.”

  “Why is it any of your business?” She didn’t want to talk or discuss the obstacles in front of her.

  “My business could go up in flames if my partner doesn’t complete
this makeover process with you. You truly are a Hail Mary pass in the fourth quarter. I’ve got no other solutions.”

  “You don’t treat me like a precious football sailing through the air.”

  “Bad analogy. Please, tell me what the plan is.” The please got her since Mark’s manners were largely non-existent. To pull a simple, polite word from the bowels of his crude vocabulary meant the request was important.

  “Fine.” She sighed and sat back down, the leather seat letting out a small pocket of air as she landed. “We’re meeting on the weekends only, mainly Saturdays, which works best around our actual jobs. He’s going to give me homework that I have to work on during the week.”

  “The first assignment?”

  She’d halfway hoped her brief explanation would be enough, but not with her luck. Choking down her urge to say screw it and leave, she forced out the words. “I have to select four outfits, two for work and two for a date, out of my current wardrobe.”

  “That’s not hard.”

  If she hadn’t immediately believed the assignment was a test. “He didn’t provide parameters. I’m going to fail with a big capital ‘F’ in red lettering.”

  “You can’t fail.” Mark went to make himself another drink while he talked. “Having you choose your clothes is a way to assess your fashion style, your comfort zones. There’s no right or wrong. No pass or fail.”

  “See, that shit right there. I’m not used to it, and I sure as hell don’t want to deal with challenges or assignments I can’t win.” Things were easier in black and white. The idea of accomplishing something without a clear path to success screwed with her brain.

  “Haven’t you ever taken a Rorschach test?” The question blended with the cracking of ice as he poured himself another Scotch.

  “Yes, and hated every damn minute of it. Tell me there’s an endgame like a Rorschach though, like some solution he’s building toward.”

  Mark sipped his drink and then shook his head. “I can’t. Honestly, every client is different. I’ve seen him push folks out of their comfort zones when it comes to clothing, and I’ve seen him allow them to keep their current styles, or at least elements of it. Just depends on what he feels you need.”

  Words she didn’t want to hear. The need for money put her image, confidence, and sense of being at the mercy of a man she hardly knew. One who looked like a magazine model and made her weak-kneed as much as he pissed her off. “Crap.”

  “Any other assignments?”

  “Just to select a venue or social event where I can show off my skills at the end of the makeover, which is incredibly hard to do since he won’t set a deadline for when we’ll be done.”

  “Then don’t follow up on that one until he asks you again. Dev’s an honest guy, Kat. Be honest with him, and he’ll do the same. From what I can tell, he’s taking the same steps he would be with any other client, so you’re in good hands.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t have confidence in him. He’s my best friend.” Another moment where her cousin acted more like a human with a heart, a rare sighting at best—and he’d already demonstrated at least two instances this evening.

  “I don’t think I can stand to see you this in touch with your emotions.”

  He leaned back in his office chair. The spring creaked with his weight. “Then get the hell out.”

  One word to describe Kat’s house—tiny. She occupied what had to be a two-bedroom, one-bathroom cottage with an ancient terra cotta roof and orange-and-tan-toned bricks. The front walkway was in desperate need of weed eating and a gardener’s care. He’d driven by this house more than a dozen times and believed the place to be inhabited by a hermit or elderly lady. Not a woman in her prime, perfectly capable of at least basic home maintenance with a little elbow grease.

  He grabbed the brass knocker on the door and tapped twice. The sound against the wood reminded him of scary movies and white-haired witches. The door even joined in on the farce by creaking slowly open. Kat’s emerging figure nearly rivaled the horror shows, hair standing on end, eyes puffy, and shoulders slumped.

  “Whose grandma died?”

  That question started a fresh round of moisture welling in her eyes and her lower lip quivered. Like being targeted by a heat-seeking missile, he couldn’t back away now.

  “Don’t cry.” Dev stepped forward and pushed the door open the rest of the way as Kat shuffled backward.

  Tears were already tracking down her cheeks, but no sobs had burst forth. He moved to shut the door behind him and simultaneously grab her arm. He pulled her forward into a loose and gentle embrace. Her hiccups and sniffles were muffled against his suit coat. Regardless of how inappropriate it may be, his body recognized how perfectly her body fit against his, soft in so many places where he no longer allowed softness. He needed to have Mark set him up on a date with one of the many girls Mark seemed to have on retainer for such things.

  Dev pulled back to see her face while he talked to her—at least that’s the lie he’d tell himself. “Did your grandmother really die?”

  Kat shook her head no and wiped her nose with her sleeve.

  He withdrew his handkerchief and extended it to her. “Then what’s going on?”

  She bit her lower lip then, gaze darting around the room at everything except him. He’d become familiar with contemplation on a woman’s face, the internal debate.

  He should’ve cancelled everything. No sense giving his free time to something she appeared less than interested in every time they talked. She ran gung-ho one minute and detached the next. They’d agreed she would be dressed and have the four outfits ready at nine a.m. Judging from her present appearance of sweatpants and an “I Love Pie” T-shirt, she’d rolled out of bed sometime in the last fifteen minutes.

  “My gran died over four years ago, but this house was hers and yesterday was the anniversary of her death.” Kat blew her nose, and Dev tried to give her privacy by looking away.

  I’m an ass. “I’m sorry. Mark’s never mentioned it before to me, but I know he’s not a fan of remembering sad things.”

  She shook her head. “No, and I’m sorry for crying and all the feelings and crap.”

  “You’ve got nothing to apologize for. I’m here if you want to talk.”

  She rubbed her nose with his handkerchief, sniffling.

  “If you’d rather keep them to yourself, then I’ll leave you to those ‘feelings and crap.’” He wouldn’t stay where we wasn’t wanted.

  Dev had barely opened the door an inch before Kat said, “Wait. I’ll talk. I mean, I want to talk to someone.”

  He shut the door again and followed her. The entryway expanded into a narrow hallway leading to what appeared to be the bedroom and another small room. Off to his right was the living room and beyond that the kitchen. The furniture pieces were mismatched, and the floorboards warped in some areas—a house in desperate need of a makeover itself.

  If the personality of a person was based on their home, then Kat would be labeled a disorganized disaster. Papers were stacked on every bare surface except the floor. The spare couch acted as a throne for piles of clothes, which he assumed were clean. Coffee table clutter included an array of plastic cups, empty soda pop cans, and a few pens and pencils.

  She scuffed her slipper-covered feet against the floor and scrunched the handkerchief between her fisted hands before plopping onto her couch and motioning for him to take a seat.

  He did, albeit hesitantly, and only after looking to make sure he wouldn’t sit on a half-eaten plate of last night’s dinner or a pile of used tissues. The urge to judge her and the state of her house came unbidden, and every wayward glance at another section of the room reaffirmed his unfair prejudice. So instead of focusing on the location, he turned his attention to her.

  “You said you’d talk?”

  She sighed, slow and long as if attempting to delay the inevitable a few moments longer. “I look like this
because I spent yesterday wallowing with ice cream and old romance movies. We used to do that together. Movie days with Yul Brynner, Cary Grant, and Audrey Hepburn paired with comfort foods. I stayed up way too late and woke up with this headache.

  “I mean, up until about this time yesterday I was fine—would’ve made it through work with no problem—and then my mother shared some photo of me and my gran on Facebook. I checked it because most of the time it’s an actual update about my parents, a where-in-the-world check-in. I broke down in the office and left early. So, hello again. Kat Baum, notorious fuck up, and I suck at this shit.”

  “Feels good doesn’t it?”

  “What? Being a giant disaster?” Kat looked at him like he was crazy, but he could see the tension releasing from her shoulders. She judged herself harsher than others, a trait common to his clients. They took on the weight of their personal reactions as if they were Atlas and bound to hold everything up for eternity.

  “Talking to someone about what’s bothering you instead of leaving it all bottled up inside. Don’t beat yourself up for having an off day. You have emotions, you’re human, and we’re all vulnerable from time to time.”

  “I hate looking weak, and I failed your first assignment.” She pointed to her clothes mountain on the couch. “Those are all my choices for outfits, and I planned to go through them last night, which in theory would’ve been a great plan.”

  He let out a small cough. “You were a procrastinator in school, weren’t you?”

  “Maybe a little.” The chuckle and small smile she gave surprised him. Kat wasn’t all rough and tumble or doom and gloom. “And I know Mark means well, or at least I think he means well, with this makeover deal, but it’s stressing me out a bit. I feel like a wild animal rattling around in a cage.”

  He could relate. The urge to prove he could help a member of the opposite sex and have her turn into a success nagged at him. He didn’t need the money, but their employees and Victoria did. No, his need lay in wanting to be the person he’d been before. Before negativity and fear latched on to him, similar to how it did now. What if he steered her wrong? What if his advice made her a bully instead of a woman who empowered others?