A Better Man (15 page)

Not that she had a clue where they were g
oing.

She had work clothes, casual clothes, workout clothes, and sleeping clothes. Everything in her closet consisted of black, white, or blue, if you counted the jeans she owned that were not going-­out-­appropriate attire. Nothing she had sparkled, shimmered, or glowed. She didn't own pearls or even fun costume jewelry like her friend Claudia wore, so she couldn't even dress up a boring ou
tfit.

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

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

With
him
.

Mr. Hot
ness.

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 sec
onds.

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 wa
s it!

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

She'd feign ill
ness.

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 anyw
here.

She was contag
ious.

Yes!

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

Brill
iant!

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 to
oted.

“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 bef
ore.”

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 trou
ble.”

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.

“Cindere
lla?”

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 ho
use.”

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

“
Yes.”

“And you're Lucy Diamond, corr
ect?”

“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 miss
ion.”

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 k
now.”

“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 digr
ess.”

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 s
oon.”

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

It wa
sn'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 d
ate.”

“You're what?” She bli
nked.

“Are you sick?” Rashard leaned in for a better look. “Your nose is quite red and though I always enjoy a good robe for relaxing, yours looks a bit like . . . well, frankly, it's seen better d
ays.”

“I'm not s
ick.”

“Ah. I see. Faking it then? Was that your plan to get out of the date? Believe me, faking
anything
simply isn't worth the time.” The man turned to Gloria and flicked his wrist. Gloria set down her black case, then slipped out the front door. Moments later she came back with an armful of beautiful, sparkly, lavish g
owns.

“Have no fear. We'll have you looking marvelous and feeling like a beauty queen in just a short time.” Rashard clapped his hands and the two women sprang into action. “Now, my darling, let's get you somewhere a little more private so we can begin the transformat
ion.”

“
Transformation?
” Overwhelmed, Lucy stood there, gaping like a fish. “Wait. I'm . . . confused. Exactly
who
asked you to come h
ere?”

“Hired us, my darling. Rashard does nothing for f
ree.”

“Who
hired
you to do t
his?”

“I'm not quite certain,” he answered as he hooked his manicured hand around her forearm and began to lead her up the stairs. “The request came from several different directions. And while we were already booked for another special occasion and usually only work on bridal parties, we were offered a handsome sum to make sure
you
looked like a princ
ess.”

“I don't need to look like a princ
ess.”

Ignoring her, Rashard said, “Quite a beauty you are too, hiding behind those pinched cheeks and the paranoid look in your eye.” When they reached the top step he turned to look at her. “Why don't you just relax a little? Because we can't wait to work our magic on you. Am I right, gi
rls?”

Gloria and Beatrice uh-­huh'd as they came up the stairs, lugging the black cases and beautiful dresses with them. Barking and bringing up the rear was Ziggy, who was still in tail-­wagging party
mode.

“You don't happen to have a vanity, do you?” Rashard a
sked.

Lucy wrinkled her nose. “A van
ity?”

“I'll take that as a
no.”

When they reached her bedroom, a flurry of activity took place that told Lucy two things. One: Rashard, Gloria, and Beatrice knew what they were doing. And two:
she
had no clue. Her paranoia, however, was sliding into the amused category as she watched the trio buzz around her
room.

“Quickly.” Rashard clapped his hands again. “Let's take off the robe so we can decide which dress you'll wear. It matters, you know, to choose the dress first so we can apply the proper makeup and nail pol
ish.”

Lucy clutched the robe tighter. “Ummm . . . I'm not wearing anything under h
ere.”

“Well then, by all means put on your prettiest underthings. I'm sure your handsome prince will appreciate it. In the meantime, we promise not to p
eek.”

All three of them turned their b
acks.

What. Like she was going to strip down to her birthday suit right here with perfect strangers in the
room?

“Make it snappy, Ci
ndy.”

“L
ucy.”

“Whatever. We haven't got all
day.”

Lucy opened the top drawer of her shabby chic dresser. She might not have spiffy outerwear, but she did have nice bras and panties. Splurging on something that made her feel a little prettier even though no one else could see was the one thing she did for herself that she refused to feel guilty a
bout.

“Strapless bra, ple
ase.”

Lucy turned to look at Rashard. “Strapl
ess?”

“You don't have
one?”

“Yes, but I ne
ver—­”

“—­wear it in public?” Rashard sighed. “You do now, my darling. Don't you worry. Rashard will have you not only looking but feeling like a princess before you step out that door. Your man will never know what hit
him.”

Her
man?

Dear God. She needed a d
rink.

An hour and a half later, with her eyes closed as Rashard had requested, Lucy stood in front of the only full-­length mirror she owned, which happened to be attached to the back of her bedroom door with double-­stick tape. For the past ninety minutes she'd been buffed, puffed, powdered, fluffed, and schooled on not only how to look like a princess, but also how to actually act like
one.

Apparently time for the big reveal had
come.

Lucy still didn't know why these people had showed up at her door, didn't know why they'd come prepared with all the fixings to turn a toad into . . . well, not a toad. She didn't know what to expect but she was both excited and scared half to d
eath.

“Now. Take a deep breath.” Rashard demonstrated. “And once you've pushed all the air from your lungs, open your e
yes.”

Lucy gave up the f
ight.

Heart pounding, she did as instru
cted.

When her eyes managed to flutter open past the weight of the false eyelashes, she had no option but to
gasp.

“Is that . . .
me?”

On a daily basis Lucy knew she looked average, not dreadful. But for the first time in her life she looked 
. . .

“Gorgeous,” Rashard confi
rmed.

“Stunning,” Gloria clari
fied.

“Magical,” Beatrice corroborated. “Cinderella has nothing on
you.”

Glasses gone, contacts in place, Lucy blinked. “You weren't kidding about being my fairy godmoth
ers.”

“My darling.” Rashard took her now beautifully manicured hands in his. “It's impossible for a woman to look as dazzling as you do right now, every day. The trick is to do whatever it takes to
feel
dazzling. This proves you've got what it takes to look like royalty on the outside. You need to feel and believe that you are beautiful on the inside as w
ell.”

Guilty as charged. Lucy never gave herself much thought. The only time she'd ever really focused on herself had been when she was battling for her
life.

“Now. I want you to step out that door feeling like a princess, because you certainly look like one. Let your heart be light and step into the arms of the man who wanted you to have this experie
nce.”

The man who wanted her to have this experi
ence.

Gloria handed Rashard a sealed envelope, which he then handed to Lucy, then gave her an air kiss to each cheek. “Make us proud, my darl
ing.”

Lucy looked down at the envelope in her hands and the short bold strokes that spelled out her name. When she glanced up to thank her fairy godmothers, they were
gone.

She spun around but they were no longer in the room. If it hadn't been for the sound of the front door closing, Lucy would question her sa
nity.

Slipping her finger beneath the flap, she withdrew the card in
side.

Lucy,

Please come downstairs and join me for Wishes, Dreams, and Happily-­Ever-­A
fter.

J
ordan

Lucy's heart ski
pped.

Wishes, Dreams, and Happily-­Ever-­A
fter?