Immersed: Book 6 in The Ripple Effect Romance Series (A Ripple Effect Romance Novella)

by Jennifer Griffith

  A terrifying thought hit Lisette. “Have you been paying him back the money I’ve been giving you bit by bit?” The idea that she might be self-sabotaging by not giving it to him made Lisette stall. “You’re not thinking of just springing the lump sum on him at the end, are you?”

  Mom shook her head. “I’ve paid. But there’s the interest.”

  Interest. Lisette hadn’t even made half the repayments yet. And there was interest!

  “Look. We can fix this. I can still go get a loan from the SBA. There are plenty of things we can do. It’s my fault we’re in this mess in the first place.” Lisette’s head swirled with a thousand ways she could make back the money. They still had eighteen months, after all. But she had her student loans. And the building lease. And her own apartment’s rent. And not much success to show at Immersed. The SBA probably wouldn’t take the risk on her, nor would any other lender.

  I’ll move back in with Mom. We can work this out.

  “Sweetheart, listen. I married for love once. I am perfectly fine with marrying for money the second time around.”

  “But why do it?”

  “I wanted to give you what you want.”

  Oh, brother. She didn’t want it this badly. Lisette’s mind raced. “What if… what if I went to work for Pannebaker? I’ll answer phones. I’ll be the night janitor. Will that negate the contract, satisfy Mr. Bartholomew?”

  “The contract is ironclad.” Mom’s eyes went down. She took another bite of her salmon.

  “I’ll do anything, Mom.” Lisette’s eyes started to sting with tears again.

  Mom sighed with resignation. She reached over and took Lisette by the hand, looking deep into her eyes. “There’s only one solution. You’ll have to marry for money.”

  “Mom!” If there was one thing Lisette knew from this moment onward, it was that she’d never, ever make the mistake of mixing business with dating. Ever. “Oh, I was just joking. If you’re set on this, you’ll have to make your business work.”

  “I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  “Bon jour, monsieur.” Lisette extended her hand to her newest client, who was already seated in Immersed’s simply decorated conference room. “Je m’appelle Lisette Pannebaker.” She was professional. A businesswoman. She could stand on her own two feet. She was worth the money he would pay her. For her mother’s sake.

  He eyed her up and down. “All right. She walks. She talks. She speaks le franҫais. Voulez vous couchez avec moi ce soir?” He pulled Lisette into his sizeable lap and nuzzled his nose into her neck.

  Crack! Her slap sounded across his face. “Excusez moi.” She wriggled out of his insistent grasp and made a dash for the door. “Please leave at once before I call building security.”

  Across the hall she slammed the door and leaned her back against it, breathing hard. Aunt Corky, wadding up the last of the drop cloths, looked up in surprise.

  Lisette sighed in submission. “Fine. The make-under? I’m in.”

  Lisette cringed under the tension from the comb through her hair. This Samantha person could really tug. Scary emo music whined in the dark salon. A hundred wigs adorned one wall, making it resemble some warped taxidermist’s shop, but at least it smelled like hair product in here and not animal preservation chemicals.

  “You gotta really pull to get it all into the skull cap.” Samantha popped her gum and tugged even harder with the comb. If Lisette had any of her own fair hair left after this operation to put into the cap, it’d be a miracle. “You’ll have to practice to get it in there every morning.” The early-twenty-something girl slid the nylon mesh cap over Lisette’s well-pulled head, making it snug above her ears and forehead.

  This was going to itch like crazy.

  Aunt Corky lived next door to Samantha’s relatives, where the girl had been staying ever since she’d come to Boulder to work with artists at the Fringe Festival. Corky was right—the girl had a knack for the macabre, which showed in her decorating and her funereal clothes.

  Samantha crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her chin a second, staring at Lisette. Then she clapped her hands. “I’ve got it. One sec.” The girl spun on a metal stiletto heel and plinked across the tiles of the beauty shop before returning with a hideous wig. Mousy brown, mostly growing forward, cut like a mushroom, just a little longer in the back. Lisette cringed at the mere sight and involuntarily sank in her chair, hunching her shoulders as Samantha plopped the wig on her head and fitted it.

  “There. Oh, and your posture is perfect like that.”

  The feel of the wig touching her left cheek and forehead made Lisette shiver. She sniffed. She was going to smell like old hair! She almost moaned, until the thought hit her—if that didn’t repel the lechers like her last client, king of les cochons, nothing would.

  The makeup alone had taken an hour. Samantha promised with practice Lisette would be able to do it in under fifteen by herself. “I just wanted to get it exactly right so I could show you what was possible the first time.” She took a sip from the straw in her Diet Coke. “I just love makeup. As long as it’s not tested on animals, of course. This brand isn’t. But the way it can transform? Like magic. You ready?” Samantha looked over at Aunt Corky’s approving smile. “What do you think, Corky? Is she a new woman?” Her gum popped to punctuate the moment.

  Aunt Corky rolled up her tabloid and smacked it against her hand. “It’s astounding.”

  Samantha patted Lisette’s shoulder. “You’re a trooper. Now, when I flip you around to see in the mirror, don’t be scared.” With an eye pencil, Samantha gave a last swipe. Lisette gulped, and the chair spun until the mirror came in view.

  Gasp! Lisette lifted a hand to her face and touched her cheek gingerly, just to see if her own body matched the movements of the hag in the mirror.

  “Is it too much? Because we can tone down the sallow skin. I put a lot of yellow and gray in the foundation.” She shook the bottle a little then set it on the vanity. “Personally, I think you look hideously fabulous. I could take you with me to my zombie night, and we could test you out.”

  Lisette forced herself to keep the breathing steady. In and out. The new Lisette. The sunken eyes, sickly—almost scaly—complexion, matted hair and too heavy eyebrows. Her lips looked thinner, her nose much wider. Awful nerd glasses. Bad, bohemian earrings—with feathers. No wart, but Samantha had even figured out a way to brown her teeth. And how did she manage that double chin? Magical.

  Hello. Welcome to Immerse, under new management. Lisette, a.k.a., the Lizard, at your service.

  Yeah. This could work.

  “No zombie trial necessary, Sam,” Aunt Corky said. “She’s got an appointment at five with a potential client. That’s the trial run.”

  If Lisette didn’t make him run, it’d be a miracle. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “Thanks, Samantha. You’re a doll,” Aunt Corky paid and hugged her, which looked a little like hugging a prickly pear, but Samantha did return the warmth. “And tell me how things go with that boyfriend of yours. Your dad will just flip when he finds out you’re dating a PhD student. Of history, no less.”

  Samantha chuckled. “No kidding.”

  As they walked out the door into the sunlight, Lisette had to remind herself to hunch.

  “Your clothes are too nice. They show your figure to advantage.” Aunt Corky pointed at a thrift store a few doors down. “Come on. In there we’ll find something to ‘accentuate the negative.’ Or at least warp the positive.”

  Another half hour of shopping, and $16.75 later, Lisette had a whole new wardrobe of frump-tastic bulky skirts and muumuus.

  “I like the orange one with the fat turtleneck best,” Aunt Corky said. “Reminds me of Velma on Scooby Doo. I’m glad you picked up four or five cat sweaters too. Indian summer is still a little warm for them, but—”

  “But the sweating will help.”

  “If any guy hits on you, I’ll pay his full fee from the moment you fire him.
”

  That was a deal. But there was no way Aunt Corky would have to pay a dime. Not in this ratty pioneer skirt, nurse shoes and ill-fitting tent shirt with six pockets. Not a dime.

  “It’s almost five.” Corky gave her a hug for luck. “Can I take a picture?”

  “You’d better not.” Lisette had thought this through. “You’ll be too tempted to post a before-and-after shot on social media, and then I’m sunk.”

  “So true.” Aunt Corky climbed in her sedan, taking the bags of thrifted clothes with an offer to drop them at Lisette’s apartment. “And turn down the charm, if you would.”

  “With these looks and zero charm, I’ll never get the job.” The risk of never getting another job loomed. In fact, fear started to make her knee bounce like jelly at the very real possibility that nothing had ever come to her in her life without the aid of her appearance. Maybe she didn’t want to find this out—that she owed any success she’d achieved in the past to her looks. If she just went and washed off this gunk, she wouldn’t have to find out. She could go on believing she’d succeeded on merit.

  The nearby church tower chimed five times. She could either walk around the corner and meet Mr. Ingersoll, or she could walk away.

  “Guten Tag, Herr Ingersoll. Ich heise Lisette Pannebaker.”

  “Oh, Ms. Pannebaker.” Mr. Ingersoll, a nice looking man in his mid-thirties, rose from the table to shake her hand. The café smelled of coffee and warm bread. “I mean, Fraulein Pannebaker. Ich heise Max Ingersoll. Guten Tag.” He didn’t look the least bit alarmed by her appearance. In fact, he was already whipping out his German-English dictionary and burying his nose in it.

  “Wo ist dein Haus?” Where was her house? She had a moment of panic. Countless, endless times men had asked to see her apartment. While she was spluttering for an answer, Mr. Ingersoll, however, continued. “Mein haus ist im die Strasse Buffalo.” He smiled and asked in a whisper, “Did I just say my house was on Buffalo Street?”

  “More or less,” Lisette whispered back.

  And they were off.

  Present Day

  Aunt Corky pushed the shopping cart through the aisles of Hobby Lobby. Piano versions of Christian hymns played over the speakers, and the whole place smelled like cherry candles and eucalyptus. It was a bit of heaven.

  Lisette stopped to pick up a white vase that would go perfectly on the end table of her office’s waiting room—as soon as she got the loans paid off. But not yet.

  “You missed a spot.” Aunt Corky rubbed just under her own jaw line as she pointed at Lisette’s neck. “That makeup seems tricky to remove. Do you wear it every day?”

  “Only with clients.”

  “Well, it’s working. You can’t argue with that.”

  “I know. I’m really close.” If she signed enough clients. Somehow, she’d hit a sudden dry spell. Now, with six weeks to go, that three-year deadline was a drumbeat in her ears. Mom and the student loans. Plus Mr. Bartholomew’s interest. She wanted to throw up every time she thought about it.

  “To tell the truth, I’d better hook a whale soon.” Unfortunately, there was only one single hope at this point: her client meeting this afternoon. He’d better be a whale. But how could he be? He was only hiring her for English. English. When he saw her prices, he’d run like a spooked antelope and instead hire the first college student he met. Anyone else would speak English to him for a fraction of the prices Lisette charged.

  “Uh, what? Hook a whale?” Aunt Corky stopped the cart and put down the bedazzling tool she’d been inspecting. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of doing what your mom has wanted all along?”

  “What? No.” Lisette put the Bedazzler back on the shelf, out of Aunt Corky’s temptation. “I’m not mixing business and marriage. If Mom’s mistakes have taught me anything, it’s that. She accepts it when I tell her the truth—that no clients have asked me out lately.”

  “You haven’t told her about this ‘disguise’ thing, I take it.”

  “That’s a secret shared only on a need-to-know basis.” Lisette coughed, and they steered down the silk flowers aisle. “Mom doesn’t need to know.”

  Aunt Corky examined a silk garland and stuck it in her cart. “Are you saying not one has shown any interest, no passes, no nothing, in eighteen months?”

  “Right. It’s been easy.” Especially since Lisette took her photo off the website. “When I show up for the consultation, they either take one look at me and make an excuse and leave, or they take no notice of me and dig right into the language. It’s the perfect litmus test. You’re a genius.”

  At first it took some getting used to—the instant rejection. It stung. You don’t even know me. I’m a woman of value here. But it only took two or three times to realize these were the very men she’d always ended up facing in court when they tried to sue her for their deposit.

  “So, with all the work hours, how do you have time to date?”

  “Date? What’s a date?” Lisette selected two picks of champagne-colored silk roses.

  Aunt Corky pulled all the fake cherry blossom branches from the clear display tube and stuck them in her cart. “At the outset I didn’t think I’d say this, but you’re spending too much time ugly.”

  “Ugly! Who are you calling ugly?” Lisette put the roses back. “Fine. But I work ten hour days—plus the paperwork and taxes. It’s not that I’m a workaholic. I’m not addicted to it. I just don’t meet anyone outside of work. No roommates, most of my friends are married, you know. It’s…”

  “Bleak. Yeah. And set-ups never work.” They headed toward the fabric section. “I know you have your vow and all, but maybe you should consider lifting your no-dating-clients rule. If the right reason appeared.”

  Lisette sighed.

  “What’s the sigh for?” Aunt Corky stopped looking at the ribbon. “You all right?”

  No, she wasn’t.

  “It’s just—” What was it? How could she express what it was? “It’s just that I really wish I could meet someone who had a second set of eyes to see past my looks, disguised or not—see past a first glance to who I am.”

  “No man can see that. It’s too much to ask.” Aunt Corky taught psychology at CU Boulder when she wasn’t home decorating. She knew human nature. “Look, neither can women. We’re human. We look on the outward appearance.”

  Only God could look on the heart. Lisette knew the Old Testament reference to Saul and Samuel. Fine, fine.

  “Okay. Human.” She didn’t expect to meet a god. Although, it might be nice…

  “So, what do you really want?” Aunt Corky placed a hand atop Lisette’s on the shopping cart handle. “And don’t pelt me with some pie-in-the-sky checklist. That’s not what I’m asking.”

  Lisette bit her lip. When she was in her teens she’d done that checklist. Every girl did. After Justin, it simplified. No jerkfaces. Now?

  “I guess I’ll know it when I meet up with it.”

  Aunt Corky squeezed her hand. “Good answer.”

  If she ever met up with it. A big if. An if that resonated loud and long—until she met her client that afternoon.

  Erik Gunnarson was unbelievable. Her mouth went dry when she saw him. Lisette hadn’t seen anything this good in months. Years. Maybe ever. At least not in person. Sure, in movies, when men were all filter-lit and filmed from just the right angle, they might have looked this good, but not in person.

  Suddenly the room was far too hot for this stupid fuzzy pumpkin sweater with the shoulder pads. And this wig? She felt like a blooming fool in it.

  “Hello. I’m Lisette Pannebaker.” She extended her hand, but immediately saw it tremble. His olive skin. Those dark brown waves in his thick hair. She could feel her voice quavering. Tiny beads of perspiration formed on her upper lip, and she touched the side of her eye, then her neck.

  He looked up at her, looked puzzled a moment, then gave her a crooked smile before standing to shake her hand. When he touched it, the trembling went into high gear
, like she’d received an electric shock. Did he feel it too?

  “Ah, you are speak the English now. I see.” His voice was like… butter. He cleared his throat and said, “I am please to meet you. My name is Erik Gunnarson.”

  The accent came heavy, and the lilt was definitely Scandinavian. She’d lived in Norway, traveled all the Scandinavian countries. Was he Danish? He looked Danish. Lots of Danes she’d met had darker hair. Like Erik’s.

  With effort she remembered to speak to him. “Where do you come from, Mr. Gunnarson?”

  He squinted and shook his head, a sign she’d seen a thousand times before in these meetings, so she asked it more slowly.

  “I come from Reykjavik. No.” He puzzled a moment then continued. “A village… near… Reykjavik.”

  Oh, Iceland. She wanted to ask him all about his life there, his upbringing, his family, his plans for a family of his own, and could she please be the mother of his children?

  Get a hold of yourself, Lisette. She nearly slapped herself. This had to be professional. What a crying shame, too. He had such a nice crooked grin. And those upper arms. While most clients wore stinky sport coats over golf shirts or boring business suits and ties, Erik Gunnarson wore a plain grey Henley shirt—and looked like he’d just been at Henley itself, pulling the oars in the Thames. Those triceps. Who did he think he was? Thor? Maybe she did want a god, after all. Mmm.

  Geez. She’d better get it together. This was a job interview, after all. In fact, she should probably botch it just to keep herself safe. A client like this could make her bend all her rules, and if he wasn’t going to pay her exorbitant fee to speak English to him, she’d better slough him off right now. It wasn’t safe.

  Lisette stood up taller, straightening the hunch in her back, and making the best of her very bad, fuzzy pumpkin sweater. Which wasn’t quite possible.

  “Have you studied English before?” Lisette kept herself in safe conversational territory so she didn’t start to drool.