Page 23 of A Taste For Trouble
“Can somebody tell me what to do next?” I asked desperately.
“Umm, I think we need to post some loved-up pictures of the two of you to social media,” suggested Trevor. “I could take some candid pics of you in the hot tub.”
I whirled around to stare at Dom, open-mouthed.
“You have a hot tub?” I shrieked.
“Focus, Rose,” he said wearily.
I pulled myself together and cleared my throat.
“Sorry, go on,” I said, with a nod to Trevor.
“Let’s do something cutesy that talks of a bond beyond the physical,” he said thoughtfully. “You guys have known each other a long time, right?”
“They practically grew up together,” replied Grammy Cora.
“So let’s dig up some of your childhood pictures together, and do a then and now comparison image. That will imply a sort of permanence to your relationship, that you were meant to be together,” he said, clapping his hands in delight.
I wondered when he’d drunk Grammy Cora’s Kool-Aid. Did she pay him to spout this shit?
“That sounds ridiculous,” I said immediately, and he held a finger up in my face.
“You, shush,” he ordered. “Focus on making it to all your appointments today.”
“What appointments?” I asked warily.
“At the salon,” he said, sounding far too gleeful. “Babe, Mr Carlisle’s last date was with a supermodel. We should at least get your roots fixed and do something about that frizzy mop you call hair. And your skin is simply crying out for a HydraFacial. And while we’re at it, we might as well get a wax and a mani-pedi because those nails? Blech!”
‘Hey,” I yelled, insulted, just as Dominic snarled at Trevor.
“Don’t you change a thing about Rose. She’s perfect as she is!”
My lips wobbled in surprise at his defence of me. Perfect was a bit of a stretch, but I didn’t think my transformation from woman to swamp witch was as complete as Trevor seemed to imply. Still, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to visit the salon and see what minor miracles they could perform in a few hours.
Trevor tapped his foot impatiently as I drained my second cup of coffee, and then he swept me away to the fancy new salon on Trunk Street.
I dug my heels into the sidewalk and stared at the floor-to-ceiling glass windows in horror. Inside, I could see the hair stylists at work, snipping, brushing, and blow-drying their way to glory. And honestly, it looked terrifying and completely out of my budget.
“When you said salon, I thought you meant Joanie’s on Main Street,” I said weakly. “That’s where I always go to get my hair done.”
“Yeah, babe, I know,” he replied. “But this place is so much better.”
“It’s also out of my budget,” I hissed. “I’m not going into debt over a fake boyfriend.”
“Would I ever let you make bad financial decisions?” he demanded.
“Always! You have no impulse control,” I pointed out.
“Yes, well…we’re going to treat this as a business expense. You’re on your way to becoming a very successful romance writer. And it’s now time to look like it.”
“What do you mean? I thought we were doing this because you wanted me to look like a billionaire’s girlfriend. Like Cece Blair,” I said, in confusion.
“Not at all. I want you to look like the best version of yourself because, as a certain somebody said, you are perfect as you are - purple streaks in your hair and glitter and all. Now, stopdragging your feet and get in there. I’ve had to promise your firstborn to Jared, the head stylist, for an appointment today.”
I turned to stare at him in awe.
“You know what? Sometimes you scare me,” I said honestly.
