shook his head, the godlike aura of confidence dimming for a moment, as if my question had made him uneasy. “No, I haven’t had the pleasure.”
Even though I was sure he was right, the undeniable sense of déjà vu remained. Oh, well. Maybe any sane woman would have experienced this I-know-you-from-my-dreams spark.
“Why don’t we sit at one of the tables?” I invited. “We can talk about the tour schedule and what I need to do to prepare.”
“A sound plan.”
I told him I was just going to grab myself a soft drink before joining him. Declining a drink of his own, he stepped up into the railed-off side section that ran alongside a small dance floor. Watching Dylan drop his leather jacket over the back of a curved café-style wooden chair, instead of looking where I was going, I nearly collided with Todd as he circled the room to distribute the napkin holders and stacks of cardboard coasters.
When I reached the bar, I discovered I wasn’t the only one who had trouble tearing her gaze from the newcomer.
“I can’t believe your luck!” Amanda said. “Putting yourself in his hands for a few weeks? Mmm. When you said your image consultant was a man, I was expecting…”
“What?” I hadn’t given him much thought, too worried about what he’d think of me. Although, the word consultant had conjured vague images of a suit—maybe someone with wire-rim glasses who didn’t smile much. Instead, I got a honey of a man with deep green eyes that crinkled at the corners in tiny, sexy laugh lines when he smiled.
Amanda shrugged. “Well, how many men are renowned for doing makeovers on women? I think I pictured someone a little more Queer Eye for the Publicity Shy.”
“Amanda! What a stereotype.” Although, except for relying on further stereotypes, we had no way of knowing what his preference was. I pushed the thought aside, currently unable to bear the notion of Dylan Kincaid off-limits to women. “Guys can be fashion conscious and trendy. Trevor, for instance…”
Then again, I sincerely hoped Dylan Kincaid was nothing like the ex who had punted me from his heart and, given time and opportunity, possibly his restaurant. “Never mind. Just give me a diet soda before he wonders what I’m doing over here.”
I carried my drink to the table, at half my usual pace because all I needed to truly impress the guy was to trip and spill soda all over myself. Was Amanda right about this being a makeover? I hoped Dylan’s advisory capacity would be more akin to a Toastmaster’s tutoring, getting me ready for public speaking. The prospect of his prescribing heavy cosmetics and high heels made my stomach drop.
My expression must have conveyed my uneasiness, because he smiled as I sat across from him. “Don’t worry.”
“Is this where you assure me you don’t bite?” I asked, lifting my glass to my mouth.
“Actually, I do,” he drawled in a wicked tone. “It just doesn’t hurt.”
I choked on the soft drink, coughing as the unique sensation of carbonated bubbles stung the inside of my nose.
“My apologies,” Dylan said, his gaze sheepish. “I didn’t mean to alarm you, it was just a demonstration.”
“Of the inherent dangers in carbonated beverages?”
He laughed. “Of the kind of attitude you’ll want. I haven’t read your book yet—Joan’s expressing a copy to me—but I’ve discussed with her the content and tone. What you’ll need to project is a flippant, sassy magnetism.”
Uh-huh. No wonder he’d thought Amanda was the author.
“Um, Dylan…maybe you’ve noticed how I don’t exactly radiate a come-hither persona?”
“That’s what Hargrave is paying me for.”
It was going to be big hair and oral sex with strawberries all over again, I just knew it. “You know more about PR than I do, but isn’t promotion more successful when the subject is herself?”
That’s what you always hear: be yourself. Unless “yourself” was me.
“But you will be,” he said. “You wrote the book, right? So it’s in there. I’ll simply help you bring it to the surface a bit.”
A bit? I had the feeling it would be more like raising the Titanic.
I CANNOT DO THIS. Even as I thought it, I called myself a coward. This was my family. Not a den of serial killers.
But standing on my parents’ creaky wraparound porch Wednesday night, I found myself physically unable to press the doorbell. Partly because balancing the cardboard box of hardcover books was no easy task, but mostly because handing over the first copy would feel a lot like walking naked into a crowded room. I tried to focus on the positive, reminding myself that my family’s seeing the book in private surroundings might tone down some of the fuss they were bound to make in stores.
Originally, I’d scheduled my leave of absence to begin today because I assumed I’d be working with Dylan. But he’d called this morning to say Joan had sent him a copy of Six Course Seduction. He wanted to read it before we met again so he knew exactly what we were trying to sell with these publicity visits. At loose ends, I’d accepted Mom’s invitation to dinner, relieved that I had more time before I had to face the hot consultant again. January or not, thinking about him made me want to turn on the air conditioner.
I’d been fairly surprised to receive my own box of books from Hargrave this afternoon—why bother sending me a copy of the cover when I’d get to see the real thing twenty-four hours later? But it was no stranger than them overnighting me a set of giveaway pens for a book signing still weeks away, while they sent more important mail, like my contract, by Pony Express, using what I could only assume was a lame pony with no sense of direction. Publishing logic was a mystery to me.
The door of the two-story house swung open suddenly. Carrie stood on the other side, a confused expression on her round, pretty face and a twin balanced on one ample, khaki-clad hip. My sister-in-law is beautiful, but in a different way than Amanda. Carrie has this quintessential-woman glow about her that inspires men to take her home and try to make babies.
“What are you doing standing out here, sweetie? If you needed help with the box, you should have come in and asked Eric to get it.” She glanced over her shoulder past my parents’ living room. “Eric! For pity’s sake, get out here and help your sister.”
I started to tell her assistance wasn’t necessary when my brother, a middle-school teacher, appeared in the hallway behind her. He claims he’s put on a few pounds in the last couple of years, but they’re well disguised on his six-two form. We don’t look much alike, my brother and I. Aside from the height difference caused by my very average five foot four, Eric has Mom’s blue eyes, and his hair is a few shades darker than mine, so that it’s legitimately brown. Plus, I don’t have glasses. Or a goatee.
Eric held a small pink towel and dried his hands as he walked. “I was in the bathroom. Give a man a break.”
Carrie rolled her eyes, scooting out of the doorway. “You’re always in the bathroom. And that better not be one of your mother’s guest towels.”
Eric shot a guilty look at the scallop-edged terry cloth. “Technically, we’re
