Page 134 of Saddle and Scent
Her laugh is bright and infectious, the kind that makes you want to join in even if you don't know what's funny.
"Okay, but don't blame me if you don't recognize yourself when I'm done. I may have missed my calling."
We set up in the small bathroom behind the post office, Piper spreading her supplies across the counter with the kind of organizational efficiency that speaks to serious skill. She's got brushes and sponges and tools I can't even identify, all arranged with the precision of a surgeon preparing for a complex procedure.
"You know," she says as she begins assessing my face with professional focus, "if I wasn't delivering mail, I probably would have tried to be a makeup artist. Or maybe one of those online tutorial gurus in the big city. But I was always too scared to really go for it."
"Why?" I ask, trying to hold still as she begins the mysterious process of 'priming' my skin with products that feel luxurious and foreign.
"Same reason most people don't chase their dreams, I guess," she says with a shrug. "Fear of failure, fear of not being good enough, fear of starving while trying to make it work. It's easier to stick with steady employment than risk everything on something that might not pan out."
There's wistfulness in her voice that makes my chest ache with sympathy, because I recognize the tone of someone who's talked themselves out of something they genuinely wanted.
"It's not too late," I say carefully. "You could start small, maybe do some freelance work on weekends, build up a portfolio. Test the waters before making any major life changes."
"You think?" she asks, pausing in her application of something that makes my skin feel impossibly smooth.
"I think you're incredibly talented, and talent like yours deserves to be shared with the world," I say, meaning every word. "Even if it starts as a side hustle, it could grow into something bigger if that's what you want."
"Maybe," she says, but there's something thoughtful in her expression that suggests the idea is taking root. "Though right now, I'm more interested in making you look so gorgeous that those three Alphas forget how to speak."
The next hour passes in a blur of brushes and colors, Piper working with the kind of focused intensity that transforms her from friendly mail carrier into serious artist. She explains each step as she works, teaching me techniques and sharing tips that suggest years of practice and study.
"The key is enhancing what you already have rather than trying to create something completely different," she says as she works on my eyes with shades that somehow make the purple in my hair pop without overwhelming my features. "You've gotamazing bone structure and naturally beautiful features. I'm just making sure they catch the light properly."
By the time she's finished, I'm almost afraid to look in the mirror. Because there's something about the way she's been working, the small sounds of satisfaction she's made throughout the process, that suggests the results might be more dramatic than I'm prepared for.
"Ready?" she asks, turning me toward the mirror with the kind of theatrical flourish that suggests she's proud of her handiwork.
The woman looking back at me is recognizable but transformed.
My eyes appear larger and more dramatic, framed by lashes that seem impossibly long and lips that are the perfect shade of red to complement the dress. My skin looks flawless, with a subtle glow that suggests health and vitality rather than obvious makeup.
"Oh my God," I breathe, unable to look away from my reflection. "Piper, this is incredible. I look like... like a different person."
"You look like yourself, just amplified," she corrects with obvious pride. "This is who you always were underneath. I just helped bring her to the surface."
The transformation is so complete that I almost don't recognize the woman in the mirror. The combination of the dress, the hair, and Piper's artistic skill has created someone who looks confident and sophisticated and absolutely nothing like the woman who collapsed from heat stroke in her own front yard just weeks ago.
"Thank you," I say, meaning it more than she probably realizes. "This is... I don't even have words."
"Just promise me you'll enjoy every second of tonight," she says, beginning to pack up her supplies with efficientmovements. "And maybe consider letting me practice on you again sometime. I'd love to try some different looks."
"Absolutely," I agree without hesitation. "And seriously, think about what I said. You're too talented to keep this hidden."
The harvest festival is already in full swing by the time I arrive, the town square transformed into something magical by strings of lights and the kind of organized chaos that only comes from genuine community celebration. There are booths selling everything from homemade crafts to kettle corn, a small stage where a local band plays country classics, and enough people to make the gathering feel festive without being overwhelming.
I scan the crowd for familiar faces, but the combination of evening light and my dramatically altered appearance seems to have created a kind of anonymity I wasn't expecting. People I know well enough to wave to pass by without recognition, their eyes sliding over me like I'm a stranger.
It's both liberating and slightly unnerving.
I'm lingering near the apple cider booth, trying to decide whether to announce my presence or enjoy the anonymity a little longer, when I catch sight of three familiar figures near the bandstand. Even at a distance, there's no mistaking Callum, Wes, and Beckett, though they're dressed more formally than I've ever seen them.
Callum is wearing dark jeans and a white button-down shirt that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders, topped with a black blazer that somehow manages to look both sophisticated and ruggedly masculine. His hair is styled differently, swept back from his face in a way that highlights the strong lines of his jaw.
Wes has opted for charcoal slacks and a deep blue shirt that brings out his eyes, with a sport coat that fits him like it was custom-made. His usual casual charm has been elevated intosomething that borders on devastating, and I can see several women in the crowd giving him appreciative looks.
Beckett is the most transformed of the three, wearing a full suit in deep navy that makes him look like he stepped out of a magazine. His beard is trimmed to perfect precision, and his hair is styled in a way that emphasizes the red highlights I've always found attractive.
