The Beauty Queen's Makeover

“I don’t mean to sound blunt—”

“But?” he said. “And before you ask, no one starts out like that unless there’s a but coming.”

“But,” she said, struggling not to smile. “What are you doing here?”

“I believe we said we’d talk today.”

“Yes. But I thought you were just being nice.” With no intention of following through.

“So you think I’m that superficial?”

“I hardly know you well enough to judge. I’m just being realistic.”

“Realistic about judging me?” One eyebrow lifted. “Let me see if I’ve got this right. You don’t remember me, but you’re making judgments about what I will or won’t do.”

“You’re twisting this like a pretzel.”

“Twisting is such an ugly word.”

“But accurate,” she challenged.

“To be more precise, I’m clarifying.”

“I’m not going to debate with you. Obviously you’d win.”

“I like winning,” he admitted.

“So what are you here to talk about?”

He straightened and slid his fingertips into the pockets of his jeans. “I tracked down Sandra Westport and talked to her on the phone.”

“I see. Did you convince her to back off on Professor Harrison?”

He shook his head. “No, but I talked her into having lunch with me so I could do that.”

“Good luck.”

“I could use some. Not to mention backup,” he said, giving her a pointed look.

“Me?”

He nodded. “Yeah. She might feel less threatened if there was another woman present. I’d rather not look like the big bad bully.”

“I couldn’t,” she said automatically.

“True. No one would ever mistake you for a bully.”

“No. I meant I couldn’t possibly go with you.”

He shook his head. “Technically, that’s not true. I’ll drive. All you have to do is sit in the passenger seat. We meet Sandra at the restaurant, order food and eat. That’s exceedingly doable.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Yeah.”

“Be serious, Nate.”

“I am. About needing some help.”

“Not mine. I’m probably the last person Sandra Westport wants to have lunch with.” Kathryn had turned down a request from the other woman, only a week or two ago. It was highly unlikely Nate would benefit by her presence at lunch.

“You’d really be doing me a big favor if you’d come along,” he insisted.

“What part of no don’t you understand?” she asked.

“The N and the O. I’m very fragile,” he teased.

There was nothing fragile about him, not in the way his shirt hugged his muscular biceps or the masculine way he filled out his jeans. But when she looked closer, for a split second, his eyes showed a hint of hurt. Then it was gone and she wasn’t sure she’d seen it at all. Just her imagination. She didn’t have the power to wound him. They didn’t know each other well enough. And why in the world would he even want to get to know her better when he could have his pick of perfect women? A man with his blow-in-my-ear-and-I’ll-follow-you-anywhere-good-looks would not be bothered by a rejection from someone who looked like her.

“Fragile my foot,” she blurted out. “This isn’t about you, Nate.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he asked, suddenly serious.

“No, I don’t think you do.”

“Then you’d be wrong. In spite of what you think, I’m not an insensitive jerk.”

“I don’t think that—”

“Obviously you do,” he interrupted. “In my own defense let me point out that I got it when you hid behind your sunglasses. I’m not so self-absorbed that I don’t get that you’ve been through something traumatic.”

“There’s no way you can understand what I’m feeling,” she retorted.

“There’s that jumping to conclusions thing again. How can you possibly know what I would or would not understand?”

“Come on. It’s not jumping to conclusions when the man looks like you.” She stared at him. “You belong in the sexiest lawyer section of People magazine’s sexiest man of the year issue. You couldn’t possibly know what it feels like to look in the mirror and know this is the best you’re ever going to look. You can’t understand what it feels like when people won’t look you in the eye because they see the scars and don’t know how to deal with it.”

He frowned. “This isn’t about other people. It’s about you, Katie. You can’t sit passively in a room. Life isn’t a spectator sport. It happens if you let it.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Nate. No one knows better than me that life happens. It happened all over my face and it isn’t pretty.”

“Now who’s twisting words?”

“I’m just saying, until you’ve walked in my shoes, don’t presume to know how I feel.”

“And I’m saying things aren’t always the way they seem. Have you ever heard that beauty is in the eye of the beholder?”

“That’s baloney.”