Isn't She Lovely (Redemption 0.5)(25)

I smile at the receptionist on the way out, and she gives me a smile that clearly invites conversation. I almost bite at the offer. She’s tall and slim, with wavy sex-kitten hair. Exactly the type of girl my parents would expect me to bring home. I need Stephanie to look like that, and it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a few face-framing layers. More like a personality transplant.

This was your idea, dude.

I still don’t know what planted the seed, or what compelled me to show up at her ex-boyfriend’s door like the perviest kind of stalker. I was changing my mind even as I knocked on the door. But she was looking all miserable and fifth-wheel, and I found myself wanting to stick around.

Then I went and f*cking kissed her, which mostly was meant to be a way of shutting her up for, like, five seconds, but instead it was kind of … hot. Not exactly what either of us needs.

I take my sweet time getting the coffees, even pretending to window-shop on Fifth Avenue because it’s a lot less terrifying than the estrogen-filled monstrosity that is the hair salon. I have no idea how long these appointments take, so I duck into a bookstore for some air-conditioning, finishing off my coffee before I start drinking Stephanie’s just because it’s there.

Forty-five minutes later I make my way back to the salon. Stephanie is sitting in the waiting area, clearly pissed that I’m late.

“Check your texts much?” she asks.

I pull out my phone, and sure enough, I have about fifty texts from her, all with increasingly violent threats if I don’t get my “preppy ass” back to the salon. But I’m having a hard time concentrating on the fact that Stephanie wants to kill me, because she looks … pretty.

I didn’t understand crap about whatever Maddie had been mumbling, but the woman knows her stuff. Stephanie’s hair is still the shiny dark brown I’ve gotten used to, but instead of hanging like a shield around her face, it falls in tousled waves around her shoulders and is pretty much begging to be spread out on someone’s pillow.

Not mine. But someone’s.

And it’s pretty hard to tell with the glare and the raccoon eyes, but I think there might be a babe under all that angst.

“No coffee?” she asks.

I give a wan smile, and to my surprise she doesn’t throw a fit.

“Whatever,” she says. “You always get my order wrong anyway.”

True.

I pull out a credit card and approach the curious receptionist. I didn’t have to do much coaxing to get Stephanie to let me pay. Not only does she not have the money, but if we are really going to turn our little adventure into a shitty screenplay, I have to be the one driving the makeover, Pygmalion style.

Which isn’t a problem. I’m evolved. I can tolerate a makeup counter and a women’s dressing room.

But I didn’t anticipate the extra hurdle of keeping my motivations focused. I’m here to create a version of Stephanie that will fool my parents. Not a version of Stephanie that appeals to me.

I glance over at her as she’s punching something on my phone and give her a thumbs-up at the haircut. She narrows her eyes and gives this little head wiggle as if to say, What? before shooting me the bird.

So … never mind. Guess I don’t need to worry about falling for this delicate little flower.

“So what now, a couple’s mani/pedi?” she purrs after we head back into the late morning sunshine.

“That’s nails, right?”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Yeah, well … getting rid of the tar you’ve smudged on your fingers is a given. But not yet.”

“Can we get a snack?” she whines as I drag her toward Bergdorf Goodman. A few Internet searches indicated that it’s the best bet for one-stop cosmetics shopping. And I’m all for one-stop shopping, not only for my own masculinity but also because Stephanie’s makeover stamina is proving to be dismal.

“Aren’t you hot?” I ask, glaring at her baggy black pants as I hold the door open for her.

She ignores me as she steps into Bergdorf’s. “I’m surprised they don’t charge an admission fee,” she says, staring around at the admittedly opulent decor.

Something in my chest tightens briefly, and even though I wasn’t totally paying attention to those stupid movies, the similarities aren’t lost on me. Her overwhelmed expression isn’t unlike Eliza Doolittle’s or that of the Pretty Woman hooker. She’s out of her league and she knows it. And doesn’t like it.

“Think of it as screenplay fodder,” I say, putting a hand on her back and guiding her toward the escalators. “Angry goth girl discovers Fifth Avenue.”

“I’ve been on Fifth Avenue before, fool,” she snaps.

She’s so lovely.

We arrive in the beauty department, or whatever, and for a second I’m paralyzed. There are so many f*cking options.

“Scary, isn’t it?” Stephanie whispers, looking enormously pleased that she’s not the only one out of her comfort zone.

I drag her toward one of the counters where a logo looks vaguely familiar, and I smile at the icy blond salesperson.

“My sister needs a new look,” I say, showing her all of my teeth.

“So it’s sister now, is it?” Stephanie mutters.

“Just until you look presentable,” I say under my breath.