Sane or not, my PR guru ignores my sputtering fiancée and turns to me. “You need work.”
“I do?” I want to scream ”But I’m the one with the damn story! She gave you one line and a smile.”
“I’m not convinced you’re ready to settle down,” Margaret says. “That you’ve changed. You were dating someone else last week, and now you’re going to marry an old friend?”
“I wasn’t in love with Alexandra,” I explain, fighting to keep my voice level. “I’m in love Kayla.”
Saying those words out loud, I feel so close to believing them. I push that thought away and remain focused on Margaret. “It took a life-or-death situation for me to realize it. But now I’m ready to spend forever with her.”
“Hmm,” Margaret says again. “It’s a good story even if it is rather sudden. We can make this work if we refine your image.”
“Margaret, don’t start with the Alpha Male bullshit again,” I say.
“The dogs will help.” My publicist glances around the room as if I didn’t say a word. Then she sets her water glass on the table and stands. “I’ll send further instructions tomorrow. With a few simple changes in your behavior, the media storm will focus on your love story. The last thing we want is the press sympathizing with your ex-girlfriend whom you ditched overnight. You have told the poor girl, haven’t you?”
“She knows it’s over. I ended it before I went to see Kayla last night. We wanted different things from the relationship,” I say darkly.
“If Gavin has a makeover, no one will feel sorry for his ex?” Kayla asks.
“An earnest, love-struck man willing to abandon his playboy past for the girl next door?” Margaret asks. “I can sell that.”
“I’ll do it. The makeover and whatever else you want.” I point to the door. “Now please leave. I want to be alone with my fiancée.”
&n
bsp; Margaret nods and marches for the elevator. The dogs follow in her wake as if in awe of her authoritative presence. “Goodnight and congratulations.”
The elevator door closes and the four-legged herd trots back to Kayla’s side. She reclaims her spoon and dips it into her soup. It’s probably cold by now, but she doesn’t seem to care.
“I always thought you needed a good makeover,” she teases.
“Shut up,” I say. “I doubt it will involve much.”
“We’ll see,” she says.
Yes, we will. But I’m prepared to endure a dozen makeovers if it prevents everyone in New York from sympathizing with my blackmailing ex.
CHAPTER 7
KAYLA
Dogs do not understand the fine art of sneaking around on wood floors. I learned that when I adopted my first golden retriever five years ago. Lucky crossed the rainbow bridge a year before I broke free from my marriage, but I’ll never forget the way she greeted every new day with boisterous enthusiasm. Her nails would click against the wood floors as she celebrated morning and the promise of breakfast.
But Lucky is gone and I’m not in Westchester anymore. I’m leading Cleveland, Ava, Rocky, and poor cone-headed Luna down a billionaire’s corridor.
“Shhh,” I whisper to my eager pack as I tiptoe past the tightly closed bedroom doors. According to my cell, it is six in the morning. Not crazy early by my standards, but I haven’t seen Gavin yet. The fact that the coffee maker was still waiting for someone to hit the start button suggests he’s not awake. Still, I want proof that my pups’ frantic, excited barking didn’t disturb his slumber.
I reach his bedroom door and give it a gentle push. The dogs gather behind me. I use my body to block the narrow opening. I’ve already taken them out for a quick walk, but they are still full of energy. Even old Rocky found the stroll around the block insufficient when compared with his usual morning romp through the fields. And all of the pups hated the leashes. They made that abundantly clear, which was part of the reason I returned to the apartment after a single lap.
When I got back, Jimmy handed me a folder. The doorman explained that a representative from Margaret’s office had dropped it off that morning. I have a feeling Gavin’s faithful PR rep compiled the Project Makeover file years ago. She’s been waiting and hoping for the perfect moment to drop it at his doorstep.
I’m eager to read the instructions. For the past fifteen minutes, I paced around the kitchen distributing pet food and wondering if reading a folder clearly labeled GAVIN in bold, block letters would be an invasion of privacy. Part of me wants to read it before he’s awake so I can take a black sharpie to suggestions that cross the line.
My ex offered me a makeover when we first met. Being young and in love with him, I accepted. As a result, I’m familiar with the border between a hair appointment with a highly recommended stylist who only sees clients by referral, and instructions on what your hair should look like in the end. The former falls under the helpful category. The later threatens to strip away a person’s autonomy. That’s what Mr. Mistake did to me. Looking back, I know a makeover should inspire confidence—not that Gavin needs another dose—and leave the recipient feeling desirable.
Gavin knows he’s attractive. After everything he endured as a kid, he emerged remarkably unscathed.
But he didn’t really. He reinvented himself. He created Gavin Black—a new name and persona ready and willing to take down the bullies.