She was asking him another question. “Do you have a look in mind you want to achieve? Besides ‘pop star’?’”
Pop star had never been a look he aspired to. It had been a look he’d stumbled into, that he’d worn like too-tight clothing. And it sucked to think it was now something he had to work to attain. He shook his head.
“Particular people you want to see? Places you want to go?”
“I’m just not that guy.”
She nodded, like that made sense to her. Well, that was something.
He already saw the people he wanted to see—the guys he played blues with in the crappy little club in the Village, and the ones he shot hoops with at the gym near his apartment in Queens. But he was pretty sure that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. Haven Hoyt’s people to see and places to go were in a whole different league than his.
“I’m going to set up a bunch of appointments for you—hair, nails, skin.” She touched her hair and stroked the hot pink slickness of her own nails as she spoke, and his body heated. He had to look away. “For clothing, I’ll bring in a personal shopper—we can keep it simple at a department store.”
He hadn’t shopped anywhere other than his local secondhand store in nearly a decade. The whole idea made his skin crawl. He still remembered the way it had felt to be fussed over and groomed like a baby monkey when he was in the band. He didn’t miss that, not for a second.
He itched to get away from her scrutiny and her plans as intensely as he’d wanted to touch her earlier. His primitive brain screamed, Run away.
“Can’t I just promise I’ll get a haircut and buy some new clothes?”
A half smile appeared on Haven’s glossy lips as she tugged a bite of pasta off her fork. She shook her head.
“I hate this.”
He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but he liked Haven, and something about her loosened his lips. She wasn’t a ballbuster, and she didn’t come off fake. She had a way of looking at him that, yeah, maybe bordered on pity, but it was better than the other brands of female attention he usually got—scorn or leftover band worship from self-destructive women who wanted to flush their self-esteem down the toilet with him.
“I’ll try to make it hurt as little as possible.”
She said it without sexual emphasis, but it still made the blood rush out of his brain. He bet she would. If he swept the utensils and plates off the white cloth, the table would make the perfect surface on which she could make it hurt, or not, as she pleased. He’d take it either way.
Only he wouldn’t. Because women like Haven Hoyt didn’t sleep with men like him. He could tell by looking at her that, despite the softness of those curves, she had a thick, hard shell. He’d bounce right off if he tried to get through. But knowing that didn’t stop him from craving Haven and her sleek black hair and riveting mouth. The steak had become tasteless and chewy, and he hastily redirected his thoughts. No point in missing the prize he could have to fantasize about the one he couldn’t.
“I’ll get you a schedule as soon as I can. It’ll have the makeover stuff on it and then a whole bunch of events you and I will appear at.”
He set his fork down at the side of the plate. “Events.”
“Parties, concerts, clubs—we’re going to take you out on the town so you can get photographed and written about. Otherwise, your new image isn’t going to do you any good.”