The Lost Slipper (Fairytale Shifter #3)(28)

Ugh. Sometimes I wish I was human like these two. They seem utterly happy to let their men be the shifters and for them to be completely vanilla humans.

“Here?” Ryann asks. “The only reason Adelaide and I were single for so long was because we’re human. You being a shifter? You won’t stand a chance.”

My heart sinks, especially at the ‘so long’ part. Ryann’s all of twenty-one if she’s a day. If she thinks she was on the market for a long time, I’m going to be doomed to be hit on by every shifter in Northern Minnesota. “What can I do? I just want to be left alone.”

Adelaide thinks for a moment, then snaps her fingers. “A makeover.” At my frown, she continues. “Not you. You’re cute enough as it is. Someone else. You need to give someone everyone’s familiar with a new, impressive look. That’ll show everyone in town you mean business.”

It sounds kind of…stupid. “I’m not sure…”

“Ooooh,” Ryann coos. “We could make it a game! The next person to walk into the bar is the one that Maddie has to make over, no matter who it is. Man or woman. And once you do, I’d be happy to spread some rumors on your behalf that you have a long-distance boyfriend.”

“Or,” I say, “You could spread the rumors on my behalf because you’re good friends and we could skip the whole makeover thing?”

Ryann and Adelaide exchange a look. Then Ryann shakes her head, an impish grin on her face. “Here’s the thing, Maddie. It’s real slow in town. Real slow. People need entertainment.”

“Including my friends?” I ask dryly.

She winks at me.

I sigh and look at the door. “Okay then. Next person who comes through that door is getting the full Madison Thorne treatment. No pore will remain untouched, no follicle un-dyed, no cuticle un-trimmed.”

“Awesome,” Ryann says, and Adelaide gives an excited little hop in her seat. Boy, they must be right about things being slow around here if this is considered fun.

All three of us stare at the door to the bar, waiting to see who comes in. I cross my fingers under the table, hoping for a soccer mom who just needs a quick beer. Or something. Heck, I can even make do with a young, hot metrosexual who can wear a great fauxhawk and impress his girlfriend. Something easy.

The door creaks open.

The three of us tense in our seats.

Heavy, muddy boots stomp in. I look up in horror at the man who’s just walked through the door. He’s got a bristling, overgrown beard that sticks out in every direction. His hair is long, tangled, and hangs on the shoulders of his dirty plaid shirt. He’s enormous, and even from here I can smell the scent of were-bear and sawdust and sweat on his skin. I know that lumbersexuals are hot right now, but those guys are sculpted, almost effete versions of the raw man standing in the doorway of the bar. This man would give Paul Bunyan a run for his money. All he needs is a blue ox.

“There’s your challenge,” Ryann whispers. “Chance Eddington. I don’t know that he’s ever gotten a haircut. Or talked to a woman. Like, ever.”

Hoo boy.

I am so screwed. How am I going to get this guy to consent to a makeover?