Jane parked her denim-clad behind on the edge of the desk. “Hate to break it to you, especially now that you’re engaged, but despite his miserable track record, Nick is more than a one-night-only kind of guy. He’s got more substance than he’ll admit.”
Marianne sipped at the tea. Images flashed through her mind like a Technicolor filmstrip. Nick’s hands framing her face…his lips on hers…his thumb against her cheek.
Jane leaned over and peeked at the open database window. “Wondering just how hot a compatibility score can get?”
She flipped the tablet cover shut in one quick motion, her face flaming. The overheated matrix score she shared with Nick was a mistake. She was certain. The man couldn’t count his past relationships on two hands…and two feet. Conversely, she’d only had one relationship, a total disaster of Titanic-sized proportions. On a groan, she sank down into the chair.
How could she convince her ex, not to mention her family, she’d moved from Jilted Lover to Hot Fiancée of a man like Nick? Yes, he absolutely turned her inside out, but despite what the matrix said, despite last night’s kiss, when he looked at her, all he saw, all he could possibly see, was a woman in an unadventurous navy skirt and ivory cardigan. She set the tea down on the desk and yanked hard on the bottom of the sweater.
Her whole life she’d been nerdy and tentative with her thick glasses and quiet resolve. While her classmates had indulged in Seven Minutes in Heaven, she’d been hiding away with her books and writing computer code. Always the good girl. An image she’d allowed, or maybe, even one she’d created. A small pain stabbed at her heart.#p#分页标题#e#
Inside, she’d always been more than that quiet, cautious girl, so why had she never tossed the cardigans? Fear? A need to always do the right thing? Maybe. But what had chasing that standard gotten her? A pink slip and a scandalous ex-engagement written up on Page Six—thankfully they’d neglected to add a postscript, Jilted for former dominatrix. For these small miracles, she owed the tabloid gods a kiss. Or a gift basket.
But she hadn’t rallied her nerves and climbed into that cake for nothing. To heck with page six. Maybe it was time to stop living up to expectations and simply start living.
She wrinkled her nose and glared at the closet. That darned dress was calling to her.
Jane tapped her fingers on top of the closed tablet. “Know what your inner siren needs?
“A lobotomy,” she joked, thinking it was as good a place to start as any.
“No.” Jane laughed and shot her a look of excited anticipation. “A makeover.”
“A makeover?” Marianne sat up in her chair. Serious women—even ones reconsidering their inflexible standards—did not get makeovers. She shook her head, but her friend was prepared for objections.
“To make you feel more confident with the partners. Nothing major, just a little TLC to remind you how beautiful you are—inside and out.” Her friend flashed that persuasive smile and tugged on her ear. Never a good sign. “C’mon, M.A., you can trust me.”
Marianne scrunched up her face, starting to fold, half interested in creating a brand-new image, half certain this was not a good idea. “Fine,” she said. “But I’m keeping the glasses.”
“Yes.” Jane pumped her fists into the air, walked over, and pulled Marianne out of the chair. “We’re keepin’ the glasses.”
“But what about the office?” she said, glancing back at her desk, double-timing her steps to keep up as her friend strode over to the closet.
Jane tossed out another big fat grin and grabbed the dress. “Good thing I’m the boss.”
Chapter Seven
“I don’t know who invented high heels, but all women owe him a lot.”
—Marilyn Monroe
As music drifted from the speakers, Marianne stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows at the edge of the living room and stared at her reflection. Outside the SoHo lights twinkled, winking up at her as if in on her secret and, as she gazed up at the stars, the darkening sky at her feet, she felt transformed.
Dressed in the hot pink, strapless number from the closet, her hair a shade lighter, equal parts blond and sandy brown, she looked…well…still serious, still like herself, but different. Equal parts siren and Marianne.
Jane’s stylist had cut her shoulder-length mess into a stylish bob that seemed to flatter every curve of her face. Incredible, really, what the man had accomplished with a pair of scissors and massive quantities of tropical-smelling hair products.
Adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose, she twisted to glimpse the pièce de résistance, a pair of high-heeled, strappy gold and pink sandals that were absolutely to die for. Sure, she’d been testing out the occasional high heel in her quest to embrace her sexier side, and she’d worn the red stilettos, but these beauties were different. Delicate and sweet, but sexy, too. A perfect complement to the dress.