And the gift certificate.
Devon hooked his thumbs in the back pockets of his jeans as he silently scrolled through his options. And tried to ignore the one standing right in front of him.
For the first time, Devon pondered—very briefly—the timing of their meeting. It occurred to him that his tendency to avoid civilization was working against him at the moment. When it came down to it, he didn’t know many people….
But Caitlin McBride, Lord? You’ve got to be kidding me, right?
The woman was wound way too tight. Not to mention that she’d be impossible to work with. Devon had no doubt she could straighten up a platoon of soldiers simply by lifting one perfectly arched eyebrow.
Devon’s gaze shifted and he caught Caitlin in the act of surreptitiously blowing a few wayward strands of hair out of her eyes.
It seemed that every time Devon thought he’d figured her out, he caught an intriguing glimpse of another side of her personality. A softer side.
But that wasn’t the reason he decided to give in. He gave in because he could suffer anything for the sake of his children. He could even suffer through a brief consultation with a certain blue-eyed drill sarg—image consultant.
“So, what does this gift certificate get me?”
“Excuse me?”
“The gift certificate for the style analysis,” Devon said patiently. “I want to use it. What do I get?”
Silence. And then, “The initial assessment. You fill out a questionnaire and then we discuss the results.”
“How long does that take?”
“About two hours.”
“That’s it?”
Caitlin blinked. “For that…portion. Most people decide after that whether they want to take advantage of some of our other services.”
Call him a glutton for punishment, but he was actually going to ask. “Like what?”
“Like achieving the right look as it pertains to a person’s professional goals and lifestyle roles. Finding the appropriate clothing styles for um, specific body types.” To Devon’s fascination, the color in her cheeks deepened. “Choosing an appropriate hairstyle and appropriate clothing.”
Devon got it. Appropriate. The secret weapon for success. “Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay to everything you just said.”
Something that looked like panic sparked in her eyes. “Maybe you should just make an appointment for the assessment. The rest is rather…expensive.”
“How expensive?”
“I charge one hundred and twenty dollars an hour.”
The air emptied out of Devon’s lungs. His attorney hadn’t charged near that amount. “No pro bono work?”
She didn’t smile at the joke. “Mr. Walsh—”
“Call me Devon. We are going to be working together.”
“Fine.” Her husky voice crackled. “I’ll set up an appointment and have Sabrina call you.”
“Great. I hope you can be a little bit flexible with my schedule. Things get kind of hairy at home sometimes.” Speaking of which…Devon realized he’d been gone a lot longer than he’d originally planned. “I have to run. I promised the kids I’d be home to make supper.”
“Why are you doing this?” Caitlin’s voice stopped him as he reached the door.
When Devon turned around, she hadn’t moved. He had no idea how to answer the question, so he asked one of his own. “Jenny didn’t really take second place in the contest, did she?”
The flicker of guilty surprise in Caitlin’s eyes gave her away.
Bingo.
He smiled. “That’s why.”
Chapter Five
“That’s why.” Caitlin repeated Devon’s cryptic words as she fumbled with the key to her apartment. For some odd reason, her hands hadn’t stopped trembling since she’d closed up IMAGEine.
She blamed it on the drop in evening temperatures.
Mr. Darcy met her on the other side of the door, his ragged ears twitching a silent reprimand.
“Don’t blame me.” Caitlin shrugged off her coat and headed toward the kitchen. “Blame Devon Walsh. He’s the reason your dinner is late.”
The cat darted between her feet and cut in front of her, upsetting her balance and almost pitching her headfirst into the granite countertop on the breakfast bar. “We’ve talked about this before. If you kill me, there will be no one to feed you.”
Caitlin shook the contents of a gourmet can of cat food into a ceramic dish near the refrigerator and rubbed her knuckles against the sensitive spot under Mr. Darcy’s furry chin, a gesture which never failed to earn his forgiveness.
“At least one of us is happy,” she muttered, putting off her own dinner to seek solace in her favorite chair overlooking the Mississippi River. Her apartment building had been an abandoned warehouse before a developer saw its potential and converted it into a series of trendy loft apartments.
She stared down at the dark ribbon of water and tried to figure out what had happened in the past hour.
Caitlin hadn’t expected Devon to actually turn in the gift certificate for a free style analysis. The only reason she’d sent the silly thing in the first place was to make good on the first “prize” that came to mind after she’d made an executive decision to withdraw Jennifer’s entry.
A decision Dawn Gallagher was still lamenting over. Caitlin knew their second choice would work out just as well but Dawn didn’t think anyone else could compare to a “Mr. Makeover.”
Guilt tugged briefly at Caitlin’s conscience. The only explanation she’d given the Twin City Trends’ style editor was that Devon was too busy to be involved in the makeover contest. Maybe he hadn’t exactly said those words, but they had to be true. A single dad raising three kids…while writing the next great American novel.
What had she gotten herself into?
Devon didn’t really want her help. He’d swallowed his pride because of his children. And it was easy to see that the man was going to be a rebel. The “I hope you can be flexible with my schedule” comment was the first gauntlet he’d thrown down.
Caitlin picked up a tasseled pillow and buried her head in it.
“He’s not the only one with a schedule,” she complained. “I have a schedule, too. And it’s booked solid through the first of the year.”
“Cait?”
Caitlin dropped the pillow and jackknifed into a sitting position at the sound of a muffled voice behind her. “Don’t you ever knock?”
“Why should I?” Her sister Meghan grinned. “I have a key.”
“Number four on my list of mistakes,” Caitlin said under her breath.
“I didn’t think you made mistakes—what were the first three? I promise I won’t tell Evie.” Meghan flopped down on the couch and Caitlin caught a glimpse of knee-high beaded moccasins under Meghan’s long skirt.
She groaned. “Moccasins, Megs? You’re killing me here.”
“Aren’t