secrecy about the fact that he had been born Raymond—narrowed his eyes and glared at her. Standing at six feet three inches and weighing in at over two hundred pounds, he looked as though he’d be more comfortable wearing shoulder pads and a football jersey. But Ramón was perfectly at home in a chef’s hat and apron. His four years in the marines allowed him to run his kitchen like a well-oiled military machine. “You dragged me away from my soufflé to solve a skirt problem?”
“Calm down. I need you to take my place behind the bar so that I can work a little fashion magic,” Daryl explained. “You know what a fanatic our friend Pierre is.”
Ramón glanced at his watch. “I can give you sixty seconds. No more.”
Winking at Chelsea, Daryl exchanged places with Ramón. “You may be able to run your kitchen like a boot camp, but we artists can’t be rushed.”
Chelsea bit down on the inside of her cheek to prevent a grin. In spite of the fact that they were total opposites and reminded her of Neil Simon’s odd couple, Daryl and Ramón were the best of friends. She’d met Daryl while waitressing at a tiny Italian restaurant in the village. Ramón had fixed her up with the job when she’d first arrived in Manhattan.
Ramón had been a line cook and Daryl had been bartending part-time while taking classes at the fashion institute. Soon, the three of them had begun spending most of their free time together, talking about their dreams of making it big in New York. Six months ago, each bearing scars from their battles in the Manhattan dating scene, they’d moved into an apartment together and formed a “singles club.” For the length of time that it took them to establish themselves in their chosen careers, they’d each sworn to steer clear of any serious relationships. If they even went out on a date, they had to pay a twenty-dollar fine.
“Okay. Off with the coat!” Daryl said, snapping his fingers. “And stand over there by the windows so that I can get the full effect.”
Chelsea shot one more glance around the dining room. Besides the man and woman seated a short distance from the entrance to the bar, there was a group of four women just arriving at the maître d’s desk. It wouldn’t be long before the restaurant was filled, so it was now or never.
If only she didn’t feel so torn about the skirt. In spite of what she’d let Gwen and Kate believe, the last thing she wanted in her life right now was a man. She hadn’t been able to forget that strange feeling that had run through her when she’d caught the skirt—nor the image of that man sitting in the chair with her.
“Fifty seconds and counting,” Ramón said.
Drawing in a deep breath, Chelsea pulled off her coat and tossed it on a bar stool. When she glanced down at the skirt, her stomach plummeted. It looked just as bad as it had in the mirror that morning, sagging at her waist and falling well below her knees. A man magnet, it wasn’t! Men were much more likely to take one look and run in the opposite direction. That was not going to give her the three articles she’d promised to deliver to Metropolitan.
“It’s too big,” Ramón announced. “And you now have forty seconds.”
“Stop making me feel like I’m on Cape Canaveral,” Daryl said as he circled Chelsea. “I think if I just nip it in at the waist and shorten it about six inches…”
“No, you can’t make any permanent alterations. The island woman who sold it to Torrie said that might interfere with the skirt’s power.”
Daryl’s brows shot up. “I thought you didn’t believe in all that moonlight and magic mumbo jumbo?”
“I don’t. I mean, I don’t really believe it, but I’ve just been offered a three article contract with Metropolitan magazine, and it would be nice if something happened when I wear this skirt.”
“You sold your idea!” Daryl gave her a quick, hard hug. “Hooray for you!”
Keeping one eye on his watch, Ramón gave her a thumbs-up salute. “Way to go, Chels! Thirty seconds.”
“Lighten up, Ramón. We should be opening a bottle of champagne.”
“No, he’s right, Daryl. You both have to get back to work, and I’m on my way over to Metropolitan to sign the contract right now. I just thought before I did, I should try the skirt on—” Pausing, she glanced around the restaurant again. The couple the maître d’ had seated were totally engrossed in their conversation, and the only people even looking at the skirt were her two roommates. She breathed a small sigh of relief. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s a bust,” Ramón said. “If that skirt has any special power, wouldn’t Daryl and I be affected by it?”
“Heavens no,” Daryl said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m not attracted to women and you’re her cousin, Ramón. I’m sure that makes a difference.”
“The secret to any successful endeavor is planning. Perhaps you should have tried the skirt out before you sold the idea, Chels.”
The sympathetic look that Daryl shot her nearly made her smile. Ramón’s little planning lecture was one they’d both heard before. Frequently. And it certainly had merit. If she ever found the time to follow Ramón’s advice, she wouldn’t have to go through life improvising her way out of scrapes. Like the one she was almost in right now.
“Torrie said it didn’t have the same effect on all men.” She glanced down at the skirt again. “Right now, I’d be happy if it could elicit something other than raucous laughter. I look pathetic in this.”
“Not to worry,” Daryl said as he slipped his hands beneath her sweater. “We’ll just use a runway model trick. Hand me the stapler, Ramón.”
Ramón grabbed the stapler from its position near the computer and slapped it into Daryl’s hand. “Twenty seconds.”
“A little tuck here…now one on this side…and one in the back. The trick is to make sure the tucks are small so they’re not so noticeable. There.” Daryl passed the stapler back to Ramón. “Now the tape.”
Ramón slapped the tape dispenser into Daryl’s hand. “Ten seconds.”
“This part would be easier if you could slip the skirt off,” Daryl said to Chelsea.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
With a shrug, Daryl dropped to his knees and reached up under her skirt.
“Enemy approaching at three o’clock,” Ramón said in a stage whisper.
Chelsea and Daryl turned in unison to see the maître d’ bearing down on them. He was a short man with a receding hairline and a mustache that curled up at the ends even when he was frowning. He reminded Chelsea of Hercule Poirot.
“What is going on here?” he asked in an accent that Chelsea pegged as wannabe French.
“Just a little fashion emergency, Pete,” Daryl said.
“The name is Pierre. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“We’ll be done in a sec.” Ripping off a piece of tape, Daryl folded up a section of Chelsea’s skirt and secured it.
“Stop that
