The Makeover Surprise (Surprised by Love Book 2)

by Laura Burton

  Characters who don’t stay up all night overthinking things. Characters who can just call a woman and ask her out.

  What should I say?

  I know I’ll scramble and say something foolish if I talk to her on the phone. Without cues from her body language, it’ll be even harder to work out when it’s my turn to talk.

  Weak morning light streams in through my windows as I settle on a plan to text Lucy instead.

  But how do I start?

  Good morning Lucy, this is Wyatt…

  Too formal. I delete the message and try again.

  Howdy Lucy, it’s Wyatt…

  Nope. I would never say howdy. I’m not a cowboy. Delete.

  Lucy, Wyatt here…

  I drop the phone by my side.

  I give up... My brain is going fuzzy. I need Logan to help me with this. But first, I need to sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  Lucy

  As predicted, Wyatt does not call. Meanwhile, my brain tries and fails to fathom what Helen wants to talk to me about. So, instead of getting some much-needed shut eye, I toss and turn in my dark bedroom, listening to the traffic outside my window.

  They say the city never sleeps, neither does Newark. In my neighborhood, alley cats screech all night long, the sound of sirens plays on a loop, and there’s always a group of youths talking by the streetlight outside my window.

  I’ve grown accustomed to the noise. In fact, when Leila and I went camping at Bear Lake in Utah, I couldn’t sleep a wink and always felt on edge because it was so dang quiet.

  Now I can’t sleep because my head won’t stop spinning.

  When the sun rises, flooding my room with orange light, I give up the fight and head for the shower to get ready for the day.

  My skin still feels baby soft and every time I look in the mirror I do a double take. Having dark hair does look good on me, but it’s still a shock.

  I have no idea what it is about having a makeover, but I opt for something less casual for work today. Maybe Noelle’s words got in my head. Maybe I like the way my hair looks all sleek and wavy over my shoulders. I pull on a pencil skirt and a red silk blouse because they seem to be the most fitting clothes to suit my new hair. Even though I have no memory of purchasing either pieces of clothing. And they needed dusting off slightly from being in the back of my closet for goodness knows how long, but as I twirl in front of the mirror, I can’t help but grin.

  Nobody is calling me Goofy Lucy today. I’m going to make sure of it.

  Besides, if Helen is going to fire me––which is the winning scenario in my mind––I’m going out in style.

  I rock up to work with a bag of blueberry muffins, Helen’s favorite, and two cups of coffee. Firstly, I need the caffeine, and secondly, maybe Helen won’t be mad at me if she’s presented with a steaming cup of double mocha latte and a juicy blueberry muffin sitting in front of her.

  I cross a bunch of construction workers on my way in, and a whistle stops me in my tracks.

  Did somebody just catcall me?

  With a shake of my head, I march through the open doors and climb the staircase.

  As I walk into the office floor, a few heads bob up and I catch several of the men giving me a double take. “All right, who are you and what have you done with Lucy?” Marty asks as I reach my desk.

  “Whoever did the makeover on you deserves a raise,” Joe says from the corner.

  I clench my jaw. I know these guys are pretty harmless, and they mean well. But this is why I never wear cute clothes to the office. Chessy would love this kind of attention. In fact, when I tell her about this later, she’ll tell me to take it as a compliment.

  I glance up as Helen pops her head out of her office. She doesn’t say a word, just looks at me, I wish Leila was here. She can read people so much better than I can. In fact, I’m so bad at reading people there’s a name for how my brain works––neurodiversity––or something.

  I guess the people at the office call it being goofy.

  But, I don’t like names. Or labels.

  All I know is, I don’t intuitively pick up on social cues, loud noises make me anxious, and I still don’t know what a nuance is.

  I just wish I had some sort of translator who can read Helen’s facial expression and tell me what she’s thinking. But, in the absence of any such aid, I march into her office and do my best to act confident.

  “Coffee?” I ask, planting the warmest smile on my face as I take a seat in front of the desk. I lay out the coffee cups, and to my delight, Helen reaches for a cup.

  She took the peace offering. This is good news.

  “I’ve got one hour until I’m having a conference call with Mr. Croft, the new CEO…”

  Ah yes, the mysterious Mr. Croft.

  I picture a tall man wearing a trench coat and hat, standing in the shadows in an alleyway. Like the main character in a Noir movie. I wonder if I’ll ever get to meet the new owner of Young and Me or if he’ll be as elusive and absent as the last owner.

  “How can I help?” I ask, taking a sip of my drink.

  Even though I’m slightly nervous around Helen, I’ve worked with her long enough to be myself. As the only women in the office, she and I have a sort of agreement that we’ve got to stick together. At least, that’s what I’ve decided privately in my head. Maybe she just tolerates my casual-ness because I’m the best editor on the team. Or maybe she secretly hates me and is plotting my untimely demise. I’ll never know.

  It’s a game of give and take with my boss. She gives me the occasional back-handed compliment and I take it with a pinch of salt.

  Will we ever venture into friend territory? Probably not. I mean, she is my boss.

  Plus, we’re like chalk and cheese. I do notice the subtle lift in the corners of her mouth as she takes in my appearance, though. I sense approval. She makes no comment, but it’s there in the absence of her usual, “Really, you’re wearing that today?” remark.

  Helen clears her throat and sets her cup down. “Your column. I pitched the idea to Mr. Croft yesterday and he wants you to write something… with a wow factor.”

  “Oh shoot,” I mutter, thinking aloud. “And here I am hoping to write about How to Melt Your Fine Lines with Dish Soap.”

  Helen cocks a brow at me. “You’re hilarious.”

  Her words don’t match her body language, so I guess she’s being sarcastic.

  “He wants something that’s going to make a splash. Something that’ll get women talking to each other. You know, get the word out about the magazine, so we increase sales.”

  I rub my chin. “So, Five Ways Hemorrhoid Ointment Will Change Your Life is out of the question?”

  Helen closes her eyes and her nostrils flare. “Is everything a joke to you?”

  No. In fact, most things are absolutely not a joke to me. But the idea of having to come up with a wow-factor article in less than an hour is giving me nervous jitters. Humor is a coping mechanism for me. If she wanted Serious Lucy, she should have led with “Take all the time you need, but I’d love to hear some ideas on what your first column will be about.”

  Because when I’m not under pressure, I can come up with ten ideas on the spot.

  Put the spotlight on me, though, and I’ll freeze. It’s why I love watching game shows, but vow never to be on one. Standing in front of a live audience with lights and cameras in my face, while twenty questions are fired at me, is a one-way trip to public-humiliation-ville.

  I shudder at the thought, and realize Helen has thrown her face in her hands.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, suddenly uncomfortable. I hope she doesn’t cry. I can’t cope when people get emotional around me. I never know what to say, or where to look… or what to do with my hands. I edge the blueberry muffin her way and she peeps through her fingers, then snatches it like a snake launching at its prey.

  I watch, fascinated by the delicate way she peels the wrapper off the whole muffin and then nibbles on it.

  �
��All right,” I say, sitting upright and bolstered by the fact that I’m not getting fired after all. Curse you, worst-case-scenario brain. “Let me think...”

  I drum my fingers against my leg and let my mind go blank. My best ideas come split seconds after I force myself to think of nothing at all. I dive into the darkness and ta-da! A brilliant idea makes itself known.

  What kind of article would get women talking? “The demographic of our readers is 18-35 year-old single women, right?”

  Helen nods, devouring the muffin now. Her eyes roll back and she lets out a moan. I lean forward, looking at the carpeted floor. “What do women want?”

  My mind pulls up a picture of Chessy, my baby sister. She’s in her early twenties, fresh, fun, and picks up far too many magazines a week. She’s the type of woman I’m trying to connect with.

  What is the biggest topic on her brain?

  Men.

  “How about something to do with guys?” I ask.

  Helen dabs her mouth with a tissue and returns to her coffee. “Go on,” she says, waving her hand at me. I rise to my feet and pace the room. It’s easier to think when I’m moving.

  “My sister is obsessed with the idea of me getting a boyfriend,” I say, mostly to myself.

  But then Helen snaps her fingers and I stop to look at her. “Perfect,” she says. “How to get a guy to fall in love with you.”

  I frown. “Like the movie?”

  “What movie?”

  “The one with Kate Hudson…”

  Helen scoffs at me. “That’s about losing a guy. You’re going to tell our readers how to win a guy’s heart.”

  I hum, not totally sold on the idea. What do I know about winning a guy’s heart? I’m single, awkward, skeptical, shy…. I overthink everything. And until today, my sense of fashion has been a strong repellant to male attraction. Helen nods along as if my thoughts are being transmitted straight to her brain.

  “It’s so timely too. Now you’ve had your makeover… You’re a total babe.”

  I resist the urge to snort at the fact my boss just called me a babe. “I am not!”

  “You’ve been in here for fifteen minutes and all of the men in the office can’t stop looking at you, I’m certain none of them have got any work done,” Helen looks up at me from her desk, raising both brows. “Come on… You’ve seen yourself, right? You’re telling me you can’t get a guy––?”

  “––to fall in love with me? Well, maybe.” I raise my hands. “But how about something less ambitious… Like, how to get a guy… to notice you.”

  That one is easy. Put on a figure-hugging outfit, brush your hair and smile. Job done. I’d have the article written up by the afternoon.

  Helen’s brows take on a life of their own as they wriggle like two caterpillars. She reminds me of Emilia Clark during a talk show. I never knew eyebrows could move so much until I saw her laughing at one of Ellen’s jokes.

  “Do you want this column or not?” Helen crosses her arms and gives me the look. The one where her mind is one hundred percent set on something and there’s no way anyone is going to change it.

  “It sounds manipulative,” I say, lowering to my seat and imploring her to think about the poor man who will be subject to the challenge. “Think about it… Can you really get a guy to fall in love without breaking his heart?”

  Helen cocks her head to the side and studies me with two small slits for eyes. I hold my breath and try to come up with some tempting alternatives. “‘Five Signs Your Date Is a Narcissist.’ ‘10 Reasons to Date Short Men.’ ‘How to Be a Great Conversationalist.’” Helen gives them all the stink eye and I watch each pitch pop and squeal to the floor.

  “How to Get a Guy to Fall in Love with You. I want the first draft on my desk in two weeks.”

  Her words hit me like a needle and I exhale, deflated and defeated. “So… You want me to just go out and find a guy, get him to fall for me, then write about it?”

  Helen taps on her keyboard, her focus now shifted to the computer sitting in front of her as though our conversation is over. She hums in agreement, but then looks at me as if struck by a sudden thought. “After this… you can go ahead and write that one about the Signs Your Date Is a Narcissist. That would make an interesting read too.”

  I bite my lip. Yet another hoop to jump through to write about whatever I want. “What are you still doing here? Take the rest of the day off and find your target.”

  I stare at her blankly, as her words conjure up images of a dart board. Target?

  Then the penny drops. Oh. The guy.

  The whole setup is just cruel. What kind of man would be deserving of this?

  As though the universe heard my question, my butt vibrates. I pull out my phone to see a text.

  Hey beautiful. It’s Wyatt from the subway. Are you free tonight? I’d love to take you out for dinner.

  An evil smile creeps across my face. Of course. This is too perfect.

  Wyatt only showed interest in me after my makeover and has no idea I’m the same woman who he helped at the store. Which tells me he’s shallow.

  “You know what… I think I know just the guy.”

  Helen grins like a cat that got the cream. “That’s my girl. Go get him, tiger.”

  I hot-step it out of the office block and my heart is thumping so fast, I can hear it beating as I hold my phone up to my ear.

  “Leila. Chessy. I have a new project and I need your help.”

  Chapter Eight

  Lucy

  I can think of nothing more tortuous than having my feet touched by a complete stranger. But Chessy insisted we get a pedicure after we went out shopping.

  She and Leila babble on about things like hair and makeup while I grip the armrests of my chair and bite my lip as the nail technician goes to town on my toenails. “You have very thick cuticles,” she tells me, her thin brows pinched.

  “Thanks,” I say, having no idea how else to respond to that kind of comment.

  “Relax, Lucy, your shoulders are all hunched up, you’re going to give yourself a stiff neck,” Leila says, patting my hand. Chessy nods. “And you don’t want that for your big date.”

  I try to force my shoulders down, but no matter how hard I try to relax, my body stiffens all on its own.

  “I’m surprised they didn’t give you a pedicure for the photoshoot,” Leila says, gesturing to my hands. “They did a lovely job on your nails.”

  I glance at my fingers, and the nude gloss shines in the harsh salon light. “I guess they figured the cameraman wouldn’t be taking pictures of my feet.”

  Chessy sighs contentedly and slumps back into her chair, molding into its shape. “This is heaven.”

  Her light brown hair rests in gentle waves on her shoulders, and her ear is on show. It has a gentle curve where the lobe joins her neck. Our mom has the same feature. But Chessy has a straight and narrow nose like our dad. I’m jealous as I watch her breathe slow and deep, not a worry in the world, while I’m wincing at every touch and just hoping I can make it to the end of the appointment without crying out in pain.

  I guess it’s true when they say one man’s meat is another man’s poison.

  “Now, tell us about this mystery man,” Leila says, putting aside her magazine to give me an expectant look. “Is he cute?”

  Chessy’s eyes snap open and she leans forward to see me. “Does he smell good?”

  I shrug. “He’s okay.”

  My sisters blink at me with blank expressions, clearly underwhelmed by my response. “Is that all we’re going to get?” Leila asks.

  “What’s there to say? He’s got big, veiny arms,” I remark. Chessy claps.

  “I love veiny arms! Sign of a big, strong man to sweep me off my feet!” she says, gushing. I should be getting Chessy to do this challenge. She’d have no problems getting a guy to fall in love. She’s so sweet and romantic… Everyone adores her.

  But I couldn’t use her like that. It’s bad enough that she falls in love
with the wrong guy every couple of months of her own accord. I don’t want to add another bad egg to her list of exes.

  “Thanks for picking out some outfits for me, but now I need your advice. What do I talk to him about on this date?”

  There is so much to think about. Scratch that. So much to worry about. What kind of food are we eating? Will he be drinking? How do I know he’s interested in me? What do I do if I need to use the restroom and it’s out of order? How do I get him to ask me on a second date?

  My stomach knots itself, and my sisters exchange looks, as if knowing what I’m thinking. Leila squeezes my hand. “Just be yourself,” she says.

  “But your best self,” Chessy adds, raising a finger.

  “Ask him about his work… His hobbies… His family.”

  “Smile!”

  “Look at his lips while biting yours when you want to ramp up the heat,” Leila suggests.

  “Oooh. Good one,” Chessy says. “Also, play with your hair. And when he says something funny, laugh! Keep eye contact.”

  “But not too much eye contact, or you’ll creep him out. Keep it natural.”

  My mind spins, overwhelmed at all the advice. A part of me wants to write all of this down. There’s no way I’m going to remember everything. “What if he wants to… You know.” I chew my lip nervously but my sisters’ faces turn serious.

  “Be upfront and honest about your boundaries. It’s perfectly normal to not do anything on a first date. Or a second.”

  “Or until marriage, like Blaze and I,” Leila says, nodding. “It’s your choice. Whatever you feel comfortable with.”

  I nod along, wiping sweat from my upper lip with the back of my hand. “Can I tell jokes and talk about my own hobbies?”

  Leila squints at me. “You might want to keep things light at first. I’m not sure a first date is an appropriate time to discuss your obsession with Lord of the Rings, and definitely don’t mention your game room.”