Page 7 of Stuff My Turkey
She straightened, chin lifting. "Is that how you see me? Some kind of extremist?"
"No," I said honestly. "I see you as someone who stands by her principles. That's... admirable. But these folks likely vote the opposite way from you on everything, so tread carefully."
The fight drained from her posture. "Fine. I'll be nice to the conservative investors. I can practice reasonable restraint."
"Much appreciated." I tried not to imagine the potential tornado of disaster barreling toward us. "Shower's down the hall if you want to clean up. I'll find you something to wear until we get to Laverne's."
She nodded and headed for the door. As she passed, her shoulder brushed mine. My fingers twitched with the impulse to reach for her.
"Heath?" She paused in the doorway, glancing back. "Thanks. For breakfast, I mean."
I managed a nod, not trusting my voice. When she disappeared down the hall, I released a breath and pressed a hand against the counter to steady myself.
Seven days of pretending she was mine, knowing she wasn't. This wasn't just going to be the longest week of my life—it might be the death of me.
***
An hour later, I parked outside Fringe Benefits. The pink storefront stood out among Bitter Root's weathered buildings like a flamingo in a cattle pen. A cold November wind had picked up, rustling the few remaining leaves on the pecan trees lining Main Street.
"You're sure this Laverne person can help?" Honey asked, eyeing the window display of mannequin heads sporting hairstyles that hadn't been fashionable since the first Bush administration.
"Laverne knows her business," I said, hoping I was right. Her taste ran toward the flashier side of country fashion, but the Vickerys might appreciate that.
The bell jingled as we entered. Perm solution and hairspray hit us like a wall, and I fought the urge to back right out again. Laverne sat behind the reception counter, flipping through a celebrity magazine.
"Well, butter my biscuit and call me breakfast!" she exclaimed, tossing the magazine aside. "Heath McGraw in my shop? Has hell frozen solid?"
"Morning, Ma’am," I said, removing my hat.
Laverne Tidwell barely cleared five feet but took up twice the space with her ample girth. Her bleached-blonde hair was teased into a perfect helmet that didn't move as she hustled forward, her leopard-print blouse tucked into jeans with rhinestones down the sides. She wore enough jewelry to sink a small boat, and her acrylic nails were painted a shocking pink that matched her lipstick.
Her sharp eyes zeroed in on Honey. "And who is this?"
"Honey March," I said, placing a hand at the small of Honey's back. "My girlfriend."
Laverne's penciled eyebrows shot skyward. "Girlfriend?" She stretched the word to about six syllables. "Heath McGraw has a girlfriend and didn't tell me? I'm more shocked than a possum at a rattlesnake roundup!"
"We've been keeping it quiet," I explained, sticking to our script.
"Mmm-hmm," Laverne hummed, assessing Honey like she was sizing up a heifer at auction. "And what brings y'all to my humble establishment?"
"Honey needs..." I fumbled for a tactful way to put it.
"A makeover," Honey supplied with a tight smile. "Apparently I don't look like I belong on a ranch."
"Well, sugar, you sure don't," Laverne said, snapping her gum. She circled Honey, taking in everything from her borrowed clothes to her erect posture. "No offense, darlin', but you look like a city slicker playing dress-up in her boyfriend's hand-me-downs."
Honey's smile strained further. "Can you help or not?"
"Can I help?" Laverne pressed a hand to her chest. "Child, I can turn a sow's ear into a silk purse blindfolded with one hand tied behind my back. The question is: are you ready?"
I swallowed hard. "The Vickerys are visiting today. They're potential investors, and—"
"Say no more," Laverne interrupted, her expression turning serious. "Earl and Dottie Vickery are Texas royalty. If you want them impressed, your girl needs to look the part."
"That's what I was thinking," I agreed.
Honey shot me a glare hot enough to brand cattle.
