A Better Man(48)

Not for the first time in her life did she regret her nonexistent fashion sense.

In eleven minutes, Jordan Kincade would arrive at her door, expecting her to be ready to go out.

With him.

Mr. Hotness.

Whatever possessed the man was beyond her. And even though she'd never really agreed to let him pick her up, he'd be on her doorstep in exactly . . . ten minutes and thirty seconds.

Holy cow.

From the foot of her bed Ziggy watched as she fluttered by, cursed under her breath, and attempted to find a good excuse not to go when he showed up. Maybe . . .

That was it!

Like a red light had suddenly appeared in the middle of her room, she stopped.

She'd feign illness.



       
         
       
        

No one would be the wiser if she answered her front door dressed in her robe with her hair a mess and a blotchy face that proved sometime in the past twenty-­four hours she'd developed a deadly disease that made it impossible for her to go anywhere.

She was contagious.

Yes!

And it would be cruel to subject him to something that would obviously make him feel as horrible as she looked.

Brilliant!

Trying not to cackle with devious laughter, she reached for her robe. In that moment conscience caught up with genius and pounded the idea down with a hammer. A wave of regret poured over her.

At the sound of her overly dramatic moan, Ziggy cocked his head, lifted his little doggy brows, and tooted.

"Don't look at me like that. I'm not crazy. And I'm not going to get you a treat just because you're cute either. Especially when you smell like that." Accustomed to her dog's stinky winds, Lucy patted him on the head, then shoved her arms into the robe. Anxiety tumbled through her stomach. "I'm just . . . disappointed in myself. No need to go into an explanation, I'm sure. You've seen the routine before."

Ziggy whined, then put his head down between his paws. His big brown eyes continued to watch her every move.

"Good thing you don't judge me or we'd be in a heap of trouble."

With no other option than to go through with the ruse, she grabbed her hair up into the messiest knot she could assemble. When the doorbell rang, she pinched her nose and her cheeks hard, shoved her feet into her house slippers, then shuffled off to answer the door. Hand on the knob, she did a few extra pinches, took a steadying breath, gave an Oscar-­worthy cough, and opened the door.

"Cinderella?"

Lucy stared at the trio of strangers on her doorstep. Tightly put together in a deep purple suit with a black and white striped shirt and a hot pink tie, the small-­statured man smiled and his head wobbled as if he was tipsy. The two women beside him appeared a little less dramatic in spring dresses and high heels that had to be at least five painful inches tall.

"I'm sorry," Lucy said, clutching the neck of her robe with one hand while she prepared to close the door with the other. "You must have the wrong house."

The man leaned back to check out the metal address numbers beside her mailbox near the door. "This is 173 Daffodil Lane, correct?"

"Yes."

"And you're Lucy Diamond, correct?" 

"Yes. But who are you?"

"Why . . . we're you're fairy godmothers, sweetie." The man waved his hand like a wand. "Bibbidi-­bobbidi . . . oh, fussbudget. Step aside, my darling, we're on a mission."

Panic reared its head as he pushed past her.

"Stop." Lucy tried to restrain her alarm. "You can't just barge in here. I don't know you. And you could be . . . a mass murderer for all I know."

"Sweetie. Do I look like Charlie Manson?" He waved a hand over his loud outfit. "No. I do not. The closest I come to a Charlie is via the Chocolate Factory because Johnny Depp is so delicious in that movie I can barely control myself. But I digress."

Not buying it, Lucy dug her cell out of the robe pocket to dial 911.

At that moment Ziggy rushed down the stairs barking. When he hit the landing he did a doggy dance as if he wanted to be a part of the party too.

"Put away your phone, my darling. We aren't here to rob you or steal your life. We're here to make you beautiful." The man stepped back and gave her a good once-­over. "And I must say, not a minute too soon."

The two women held up black carrying cases as proof, then they shrugged as if this was routine.

It wasn't.

More confused than ever, Lucy had to admit that the man seemed a lot more the type to flitter and fuss than stab or maim.

"This is the last time I'm asking before I call the cops. Who. Are. You?"

"I am Rashard. These lovely ladies are Gloria and Beatrice. They work with me at Stardust Creations in Vancouver. We're here to make you presentable for your date."