Caitlin suppressed a smile. Hoisted with her own petard. “I’ll close up tonight.”
On time, Caitlin thought as she hung up the phone. She was confident Devon would view an hour spent in the reception area, with nothing to read but fashion magazines, with the same enthusiasm he’d have while waiting in a dentist’s office for a root canal.
The longer Devon waited for Caitlin to make an appearance the more he questioned his sanity.
If the glossy style magazines artfully fanned out on chrome-and-glass-topped tables hadn’t convinced him that he didn’t belong there, the wall of pictures featuring IMAGEine’s clients should have sent him running from the building. The photos provided all the proof he needed that Caitlin’s entire business centered around the warped philosophy that the only thing that really mattered was what a person looked like on the outside.
Because a First Impression Lasts…
The words, stenciled in gold letters below the IMAGEine logo on the wall, made Devon wonder why Caitlin hadn’t put her business’s tagline around a full-length mirror.
If it hadn’t been for Jenny, he wouldn’t be here at all.
Unfortunately, it had been his daughter’s turn to pick up the mail the day the letter arrived with IMAGEine’s return address stamped in the corner.
Jenny had immediately tracked him down and extracted the gift certificate with an enthusiasm Devon hadn’t seen since she and the boys had moved in with him. But when Devon had hemmed and hawed about actually exchanging the gift certificate for a free style analysis—whatever that was—Jenny’s copper-brown eyes had darkened with concern.
“You have to use it, Dad. You’re the one who’s over eighteen. Ms. McBride’s feelings will get hurt if you don’t.”
And because he cared about his daughter’s feelings, he’d given in. Jenny didn’t have to know that he planned to give Ms. McBride the gift certificate back and suggest she give it to someone else.
Someone who needed it.
“Mr. Walsh?”
Devon looked at Sabrina Buckley, wondering if Caitlin’s assistant ever spoke above a whisper. Studies did prove that a stressful work environment took a toll on a person.
“It’s two minutes to five. I have a date tonight and it takes twenty minutes to straighten my hair with a flat iron so I’m going to scoot out now.”
Whatever a flat iron was, it didn’t sound like something that should be used in the same sentence as hair. But what did he know?
“Have fun.”
Sabrina flashed a charming smile as she gathered up her things. When she reached the door, she paused and looked back. “It’s a shame you’re too busy to be in our makeover contest, Mr. Walsh. You do have really great cheekbones.”
“Thanks.” I think.
The young woman slipped out of the office, and Devon tilted his head thoughtfully.
It’s a shame you’re too busy to be in our makeover contest.
So that was the spin Caitlin had put on the situation. And it affirmed that his original suspicion had been right. For some inexplicable reason, she had let him off the hook.
When the door behind the reception area opened a few minutes later an elderly woman, dressed from head to toe in lavender, emerged and made a beeline for the exit. Muttering something about swatches and pumpkins.
She spotted Devon and pointed her finger at him. “Don’t let her push you around,” she muttered. “Everybody looks good in pink.”
Devon closed his eyes.
Tell me why I’m here, Lord?
When he opened them again, the first thing Devon saw was Caitlin. She swept into the room with the easy, unaffected grace of a ballet dancer. Clutching both of her shoes in one perfectly manicured hand while she tugged her hair free from a gold clip with the other.
Devon grinned.
She needed to change her logo. First impressions didn’t always last.
Chapter Four
She had to be dreaming.
Or hallucinating.
Those were the only explanations Caitlin could come up with when she saw Devon Walsh in a casual slouch next to the coffee station, his lean frame and tousled dark hair a striking contrast against the ivory and apricot wallpaper.
Caitlin ignored the sudden, erratic thumping of her heart and let her professional instincts kick into gear.
With a practiced eye, her assessment began at the scuffed loafers on Devon’s feet and went from there. Jeans so faded they looked more white than blue. The loose, uneven hem of his black fisherman’s sweater proved he hadn’t followed the proper washing instructions on the label: Hand Wash, Dry Flat. He’d pushed the sleeves up to his elbows, revealing corded forearms still tanned a golden brown from the summer sun.
But somehow, dark-eyed, unshaven and slightly rumpled, Devon Walsh still managed to spark the strangest feeling that he was the type of man a woman would run to for protection, not away from.
And if that unwelcome thought hadn’t been enough to throw off Caitlin’s balance, the slow smile Devon aimed in her direction momentarily stripped away her ability to speak.
Because that was the moment Caitlin remembered her shoes. The shoes she’d taken off on her way down the hall. The shoes she now held in her hand.
She’d had enough moments of acute embarrassment early on in her life to know that the floor, no matter how much one wished it, never opened up and swallowed a person whole, saving one from complete and utter mortification.
One had to save oneself. And one saved oneself by appearing confident and self-assured no matter what the circumstances.
Caitlin lifted her chin and met his gaze without flinching, resisting the urge to smooth back the strands of hair that had flopped over one eye when she’d pulled out the hair clip. “Good afternoon, Mr. Walsh.”
Responding to her tone, Devon’s smile obediently subsided into a small but beguiling twitch at the corner of his lips. “Ms. McBride.”
“You’ve been waiting a long time—” Caitlin’s heart jumped in time with the unsettling thought that suddenly came to mind. Given Devon’s guarded reception the first time they’d met, she could think of only one thing that might compel him to pace the floor of IMAGEine’s reception area for nearly an hour.
Or one person.
Even though it was none of her business, Caitlin found herself asking anyway. “Is everything all right with Jennifer?”
Devon frowned. “Jenny’s fine.”
Caitlin decided the unexpected relief she felt was due to empathy—after all, she’d practically relived her own adolescence every time her eyes had met Jenny’s—and not due to any…maternal…instincts.
Caitlin was fairly certain she didn’t have any of those.
Other than the etiquette classes she taught twice a month, her exposure to children was limited. She left the nurturing to her two younger sisters, who seemed to have a special knack for it. Evie and Meghan drew children in as effortlessly as the tinkling bells on the neighborhood ice-cream truck.
There were times Caitlin listened to her peers raise concerns about when to marry and start a family, but she’d never been inclined to join in the conversation. She paid more attention to her wristwatch than her biological clock. And it was difficult to hear the ticking of that particular clock over the voices of her clients.
Successful businesses didn’t