Bona Fide Beauty

by Landra Graf

  He shook his head in equal amounts to her statement and the emerging anxiousness his own thoughts brought. “Trust me; you’re not the only one. But I will say from experience that greater rewards are found when you have to work harder for the win, even if that means working through your stress and fear.”

  “Is that personal experience talking or advice from an old coach? Because I’ll tell you, experience has proven to me that the best rewards come from taking what you can when you can. Eventually, things always go from good to worse and people always let you down.”

  “I guess it depends on what you want in life.” Standing up, he moved toward the clothing mountain. “The dynamics of living in the present versus preparing for the future are always up for debate. I tend to prepare for both.”

  “How in the hell do you do that?” The glint in her eyes held a challenge, one he couldn’t resist.

  “I’ll teach you, but first let’s find your outfits.”

  When she’d asked him how he did that, Kat had failed to prepare herself for the smirk, coupled with the confidence and raw sex appeal Dev radiated. Her female parts went tingly until he used the word “but” simply because the next words paired her imagination of his body without the suit he wore, an image she did not need. “You and the word but should’ve never met. And who wears a suit on a Saturday?”

  The smile disappeared, but amusement still sparked in his brown eyes. “I’m working, and suits help me when I work. Clothes are an extension of oneself. They determine our mood for the day. Stand up.”

  She did as he asked, steeling herself for the initial stage of arousal that coursed through her body like a thousand butterflies let loose inside an enclosed space with no escape route. He crooked a finger at her, and the fluttering sensation got worse. Horribly worse and marvelous all at the same time.

  “This outfit you have on.” The same finger pointed at her favorite t-shirt and sweatpants. “It speaks of being comfortable and staying inside. Lounge clothing. Why do you wear it?”

  Kat shrugged. “It’s not restricting and soft on my skin.”

  “Exactly, but you wouldn’t wear it to work?”

  “Hell, no. It’s against dress code, but also because no one else wears it.” She liked it when his smile returned, this one not as big and blinding, yet still devastating. Liking him, wanting to make him look like that over and over, didn’t qualify as part of the plan or the makeover process.

  “For me, all my clothing fits the purpose of empowering me. Lounge clothes at home, suits for working hours, polos and slacks for visits with family—each selection prepares me for my task ahead, builds my confidence. The goal is to build your confidence through what you wear.” Dev glanced down at her collection of tops and bottoms. “I hope you’re not attached to any of this stuff.” The last word sounded like he’d found something disgusting in her pile. The way he inspected her favorite, comfortable, gray-and-orange-striped sweater reminded her of how Betty looked whenever she saw any crustacean— completely grossed out.

  “Is this everything?” He asked the question with a hint of hope, and all those fuzzy feelings were replaced with apathy toward his snobbish attitude about clothes.

  Empowering oneself with clothing, who really believed that shit? “Yes,” she growled. “Everything I’ve worn over the last week. There’re some other outfits, the ones for a date, but I haven’t gotten them out yet.”

  “Go and get them, and I’ll start looking through these.” He’d already started sorting through the clothes, breaking them up into piles, classifying them like a librarian did books.

  Her stomach roiled at someone judging her clothes. “Maybe I’m not ready to start today.”

  “Nope,” he clucked while picking up a gray blouse she usually wore with matching slacks. “You don’t get to back out now. This is the tough part, sorting through the options. You put your clothing at my mercy when you didn’t have outfits ready.”

  “Bullshit.” She huffed.

  He paused, hand already in motion to take three pieces from her pile and toss them onto the floor. “I understand this process is outside of your normal comfort zone. I understand you won’t like my choices, but I won’t use the same language choices with you. I recommend you go to your room and get your date night outfits instead.”

  Guilt, coupled with embarrassment, made her hot all over. He set her down like some rude employee, but he did it without raising his voice or using profanity. “I’ll be right back.”

  She walked away, quelling some childish need to stomp her feet or at least flip up a bird back toward the living room once she was out of sight. He drove her crazy, up one side of an emotional roller coaster and down again. That was the only way she could describe this urge to cuss him out and kiss him at the same time. Hot Jesus on a pogo stick! That particular thought could get lost in a dark hole somewhere. Yanking open her closet door, she started shoving hangers around. She’d win round two and do her best to stay sane even if it killed her.

  When Kat walked back in, he’d successfully rummaged through everything with little hope for whatever she’d brought with her. He prayed they’d have a civil conversation, at the least. Her arms laden with two colorful choices, Dev dreaded seeing the outfits in their entirety, if her other wardrobe collection proved any example.

  “I’ve got my selections.”

  “Perfect timing. I’m all done.” He stepped back, allowing her to admire the small assembly of three pairs of slacks and four tops remaining. “The good news, everything on the couch you can keep.”

  She jostled the clothes in her arms onto one shoulder and motioned to the pile on the floor. “And these?”

  “Donate to Goodwill, Salvation Army, or any of the dozen clothing donation stores in the area.”

  If someone had asked if he expected Kat to smile happily and agree, he’d have told them he wouldn’t bet on it, and those words were correct.

  “You can’t expect me to get rid of all those clothes. That’s crazy!” Her voice cried out in panic and anger. She tossed the clothes to the couch and crossed her arms. She’d completely locked her frame and closed herself off. Those locked arms meant nothing would get through.

  “All of the items will be replaced with other clothing, and only things you and I both agree on. You can’t honestly tell me you enjoy wearing a puce-colored top with ruffles?”

  The clothes he’d sorted through were hideous. Either they were too big for her frame and in colors not even his abuela would wear, or they had something wrong with them. A tear here, a stain there, or the article had been worn and washed so many times the color had faded into muted territory.

  “The clothes are comfortable, and my job isn’t to impress people.”

  “It is if you want a better one at some point.” He ran his fingers through his hair, and then tucked the edges behind his ears so he’d be able to connect with this frustrating woman visually. Her blazing blues told him she still didn’t get it. “Most of the women I know would rather walk around in the nude than be caught dead in some of these outfits.”

  He grabbed the closest offensive piece.

  “This is a tank dress, navy blue with white straps, ankle length.” He waved the dress in the air, turning it side to side in an attempt to find a good angle, but there wasn’t one. “It’s designed to hide baby bumps and potentially slim down a size. It’s also made of heavier cotton, perfect for teachers of small children who can expect to get dirty. Professional women don’t wear something like this in the corporate business world.”

  She looked at the dress and dropped her arms to her sides. “I didn’t really like that dress anyway and only wore it once.”

  Score one for the under-appreciated image consultant. Maybe he’d make a second goal.

  “At least that’s one piece. How much will you fight me for the rest of them? “He was used to dealing with a little resistance. Clients typically bent to his expertise—they’d shown up on his doorstep in the first place. She had to kn
ow how horrible these clothes made her look, how they gave off the impression she possessed very little sense and didn’t belong in corporate buildings.

  She thumbed through a few of the pieces at the top of the pile and nodded her head. “You’re right; half this shit is ugly as all get out. Most of these are cast-offs from family or friends, and I kept them because I found something to like in the pieces.”

  “When it’s free, you can find at least one thing to appreciate about an item, but it doesn’t mean it’s right for you.”

  “Guess I have to stop being so willing to take the free stuff.”

  He couldn’t stand to see her frame slump or for her face take on that disappointed look like she’d somehow made a mistake. The protective part of him roared to life, and he reached for the clothes on her shoulder, putting them onto the love seat next to the keepers. “No, you just have to learn to be pickier, and I can help with that. Let’s look at the dating outfits.”

  Grabbing her first choice—an ankle-length skirt, no ruffles, and an ombre-style coloring that moved from yellow to red—he held it up. The colors went well with her eyes and hair, but the look centered on her top... a cream-colored pirate blouse that again hid her upper half from the world. The flowing sleeves drew attention to themselves in the worst way. “The skirt is good; let’s keep it for now, but this top. Tell me why.”

  “I like it.” She gazed at the blouse and gave a small smile. Her expression drifted into a euphoric state, one he was a little jealous of. How she coveted this blouse made him long for a similar look, directed at him. To be seen as a hero and not a villain.

  “This shirt makes me think of far-off places and adventure. I don’t have the money to venture into parts unknown, but this outfit can make me feel like I’m there.”

  To throw the top in the donation pile meant breaking her heart, and he wanted to find a way to make the blouse work for her. “Okay, we keep it. But these two pieces don’t go together. We’ll have to find separate articles to fit them. Next.”

  Basic jeans and a tank top–blouse combo—a pastel blue over spring green. Surprisingly, he liked this pairing; even the rhinestones on the back of the jean pockets worked in her favor. It was a country type outfit, and if paired with ankle boots, she’d kill. “What shoes do you wear with this?”

  She shrugged. “Tennis shoes?”

  He groaned. “I worry about you... but we’ll deal with the shoes next week. We need to head out to the store immediately.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s approximately enough clothing for four days of work on that couch. You could use this jean number as day five, but I’d recommend you have a few more choices available to you since naked is not an option.” He didn’t mean to let the word slip, but it had. Then he followed up one bad sentence with several. “You go get ready. I’d suggest comfortable clothes, something like those workout pants and T-shirt from last Saturday, as well as some slip-ons if you have them. You’ll be in and out of them all day.”

  Inappropriate images flooded his brain, and before she could respond, he moved toward the living room entrance, edging around the pile of donation clothes. “I’ll swing out and grab a couple of breakfast sandwiches. Be back in thirty minutes.”

  “I’ll be dressed and ready,” she replied.

  Once safely outside, he straightened his suit jacket and kept a steady pace to the car. His hand shook as he clicked the button on the key fob. No getting around it, this makeover might kill him.

  7

  Kat walked out of her front door dressed in a pair of cotton capris, a plain black T-shirt, and a pair of flip-flops. Dev wanted simple, easy-to-get-out-of clothing, and this was what she’d come up with. The way he’d rushed out of her house had made her less likely to give a crap if he did care what she had on. He’d lost his say in things the moment he rushed out her door, the jerk.

  He leaned against his car with a paper sack in his hand. “Breakfast?”

  “Yes, please.” Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.

  She reached for the sack as she came to a halt in front of him, and he easily relinquished her prize.

  “I realize you’re spoon-shaped.”

  She paused her movements, breakfast sandwich already released from its packaging and on a one-way collision with her mouth. “What’s that mean?”

  “Nothing. Forget I said it.” Dev opened the passenger-side door of his BMW car. A fancy car.

  “It’s not nothing. What kind of spoon are we talking about?” She slid into the leather seat before taking the next bite of her sandwich— a delicious egg and cheese concoction on a perfectly toasted English muffin.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he replied before he shut her door and walked around to the driver’s side. He acted like a gentleman and reminded her of one of those heroes she’d watched from her movies yesterday. The little gestures, breakfast, opening and shutting doors. What was next? Would he dab any cheese that got on her face?

  Once he’d gotten settled into his seat, she lit in again. “Matters to me. Are you a spoon?”

  Dev chuckled. “No.”

  The car roared to life beneath them, and she set the sandwich in her lap to get her seatbelt on and then resumed eating. She took another bite of heaven before continuing with the conversation. The silence brought even more worries to her mind. “And if we’re on the subject of spoons, I would rather be a teaspoon than, say, a soup spoon. I’d be horrified if someone called me a serving spoon.”

  “Forget the spoon.” Dev glanced over his shoulder before turning the wheel to guide the car into the street. “You can be a teaspoon... Well, no maybe you’re a soup spoon.”

  Kat swallowed her latest bite rather harshly, and it hurt as much as his comment. “Excuse me, did you just call me fat?”

  His eyes were on the road. The only signal he had any guilt or concern about his last sentence was the way a finger slipped beneath his shirt collar and tugged it away from his neck. “No, not fat, but more proportioned, like the beauties of Italy. It means I have something to work with.”

  “Nice save. I’ll take it, but if you were anyone else I’d have kicked you in the nuts, presuming we weren’t in a moving car. Now, where are you taking me?”

  “We’re going to Stripped Down Chic, a clothing boutique in downtown Rogers.”

  She chewed and contemplated in silence the idea of spending money she didn’t have on clothes. Sure, Mark had said he’d reimburse the expense, but she’d been hoping to limit the shopping excursions. After finishing her sandwich, she asked, “What are we looking for?”

  “Replacements for everything we tossed out. You need a new wardrobe and, no doubt, the undergarments to match.” The mention of clothing beneath her clothes sent a shiver down her spine. Today she’d settled for some simple cotton ones, nothing fancy or sexy. His words made her think about him taking the cotton underwear off, slipping them down her legs and doing whatever he wanted to her after he did.

  Why in the hell did her mind go there? A natural thing? Besides, those things couldn’t exist between them, never would.

  Ten minutes later, they walked through the doors of a brick, building storefront sandwiched between a bar and a restaurant. The scented air teased her nostrils with the fall smells of apples and spices. Bright colors were everywhere. Clothes weren’t arranged in a color format but spread across the room like a mismatched rainbow. Patterns, fancy designs, dresses, skirts, pants, tops, and an array of everything possible spread before her.

  Kat couldn’t picture wearing these types of styles. She stuck to muted tones—blacks, grays, browns, and the occasional navy blue. Pastels were her closest foray into adventurous, but typically landed her in a heap of trouble—like the blouse she’d worn when she’d met Dev. A glance at a couple of price tags and the sandwich she’d eaten transfigured into a rock of anxiety. “Dev, how is this going to work? I don’t exactly have a crap ton of funds for this.”

  “Nothing to worry about; we can figure that out later.
Hold on a minute.” He stepped in front of her to greet a woman approaching them. A handshake turned into a hug with air kisses to each cheek. She reminded Kat of a pixie with her short and spiky brunette hair, her whitewashed jeans, and a bright orange top with sleeves that revealed the tops of her shoulders and draped around her elbows.

  A few verbal exchanges and she approached Kat, green eyes sparkling with excitement. “Hi, Kat. I’m Sam, and I’ll be helping you today.”

  Dev smiled. “More than helping—Sam is the owner of this fine establishment and a personal friend.”

  The statement earned him a slap on the arm from said owner. “Quit with the flowery words and bullshit. He thinks that will make me want to help his consulting clients, but I do this because putting women in clothes that are comfortable, professional, and sexy all at the same time is what I do. Now tell me your favorite colors.”

  Sam didn’t know the meaning of personal space and wrapped one arm around Kat’s like they were long lost friends, edging Dev out of the picture. Kat saw something of a kindred spirit in the designer and decided to open up and see what happened. “Red, black, white, purple, dark green, royal blue, gray, and sunset orange.”

  “I’ve got plenty of items that you will love then.” Sam clasped her hand. “Come with me and tell me, have you ever tried on a jumpsuit?”

  “No, but I love overalls.”

  “A jumpsuit is similar but better. What about textures? Cotton, silk, chiffon, polyester, do any of those irritate your skin?”

  Kat glanced at Dev. He stood there with an amused look on his face, obviously enjoying the whole exchange. She couldn’t have been more out of her depth. “I have no clue, but I don’t like turtlenecks. The idea of cloth constraining my neck messes with me, makes me itchy.”