Chapter Five
McKenna stared intently at the lash line of her client, carefully dragging an angled brush coated with black gel liner to create the perfect flick at the corner of her eye. She leaned back to take in the bigger picture, her gaze sweeping from one eye to the other. They matched. Perfectly.
“I usually press a little black shadow over the top of the liquid liner to set it in place,” McKenna said as she dipped her brush into a pan of inky shadow appropriately called Jet. “Just be sure to tap the brush and remove any excess. You don’t want dark shadow falling onto your cheeks because it can be a real pain to remove.”
The client sat patiently with her eyes closed while McKenna put the finishing touches on her special date-night makeup. Friday afternoons were usually back-to-back with city workers on their way to parties and events. It was the best part of McKenna’s week, since she got to spend more time applying makeup than selling it. Although, she still had a quota to meet. Which meant a little would you like fries with that action.
“I’d definitely recommend a matte formulation for the black shadow. It’ll help the liner look more striking and it also comes in handy if you want to create a smoky look.” She studied the makeup with a critical eye, brushing a cotton bud over a tiny dot of mascara that had transferred from her client’s lashes. “The shimmery blacks don’t have the same punch. I’m sure we’ve got a matte one left if in stock, so I can put it with the rest of your purchases. Here, let’s see what you think.”
The client opened her eyes and her mouth hung open in a surprised O as she peered into the small mirror that McKenna was holding up. “I love it!”
Those three words never failed to make McKenna’s chest warm with pride. The big reveal was the best moment of a makeup artist’s day. Seeing the joy and confidence radiating from her clients’ faces made all the crappy bits—like sales targets and dodgy returns and lectures from her boss—feel worth it.
“I feel like I could never master the winged liner.” The client sighed. “Can’t you live at my house and do this for me every morning?”
“You’d be surprised how often people ask me that.” McKenna grinned. “But practice makes perfect and there’s always makeup wipes if things don’t go according to plan.”
She grouped the products together into categories—base, eyes, and lips. It was part of the CAM-Ready Cosmetics selling procedure. Never assume the client is only going to buy one product, because you might lose a sale.
“Now, I know you mentioned that you wanted to take the lipstick and gloss for touch-ups tonight. But I definitely recommend grabbing one of the gel liners and black shadow so you can practice at home.” She held up her angled brush. “A brush like this will be easiest because you can fit it against the lash line and ‘stamp’ the wing into place. It’s what I used when I first learned how to do winged liner.”
“Okay, you got me.” The client shook her head ruefully. “I’ll take it all. My credit card will hate me, but at least I’m having fun. Right?”
“Exactly. Makeup is meant to be fun. Stay here and I’ll go get everything.”
As she was scurrying around the store, excusing herself to squeeze between customers so should could get to the drawers containing the stock, she spied a male figure.
Beckett.
He stood at the edge of the retail chaos, hands shoved into his pockets, legs crossed at the ankles. Looking like a freaking GQ model in suit pants instead of his usual jeans. A white shirt was tucked in and open at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal a heavy silver watch. A neat tan belt accentuated his trim waist.
Their moment in the elevator was still fresh in her mind. The way he spoke to her in the pitch-black, his tone soothing and warm. The easy way he’d taken control of the situation—of making her relax—was enough to get her knees wobbling. The air had been filled with that snap, crackle, and pop of tension she knew to be rare. She’d used up every last drop of willpower not to reach for him in the anonymity of the dark.
Ducking her head, she opened the drawer containing the lipsticks. Rows upon rows of neat black boxes stared back at her, the tiny font of the shade names swimming as her eyes failed to focus. She knew Beckett was coming to meet her after work so they could discuss the particulars of their deal. So why was she shocked?
What if it wasn’t shock? That pulse-racing, dry-mouthed feeling might be a symptom of something else.
You’ve agreed to help him get his ex back. That makes him the very definition of the wrong guy to lust over.
If only her lady bits would listen to her brain. The brain was smart, the lady bits…well, not so much. And for some reason they remained disconnected, despite McKenna’s attempts to get them on the same page.
She cashed her customer out, slipping a few samples into her bag with a cheeky wink, knowing the woman would be delighted. Then she stood at the register, waiting for her daily summary report to print out so she could scrawl her tally on the piece of paper in their day folder. Two hundred dollars over her target, with an average Items Per Sale of 1.95. Not bad at all. She bid her team a farewell and grabbed her bag from the lockers out back before making her way through the store, her eyes immediately zeroing in on where Beckett stood.
“Hey.” She held up her hand in greeting.
He nodded. “Hello.”
“No grunting today, very good.” A cheeky grin spread over her lips. “I guess that means you’re getting comfortable with me, huh?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
As usual, she couldn’t tell if he was joking. Perhaps she’d try to work that into their plans—after all, clear communication was good for relationships. At least, that’s what she’d been told by people who managed to not get dumped every few months.
“So I thought we could grab a drink and bite to eat at Ca de Vin.” She hitched her bag higher on her shoulder as they walked through the Wentworth Department store’s front doors and out onto bustling Bourke Street. “It’s just here and I’m starving.”
“I forget to eat when I’m working, too,” he said.
McKenna had to stifle a laugh. Forgetting to eat wasn’t something that happened to her—being on her feet all day at work helped her maintain a healthy appetite. And she had a reputation for snacking. No bag of chips or chocolate bar was ever safe around her.
They headed into Ca de Vin and were seated at a small table against a wall. The restaurant itself was the epitome of Melbourne dining—stuck between two buildings in what used to be an alleyway, some industrious person had slapped a tarp over the top and voila! Instant restaurant. The city was like that—if there was an unused nook, someone would find a way to serve food there.
“This looks like we’re on a date,” Beckett said, his brows creased.
He had a point. The table was intimate, meaning they were seated close to one another. And a single tea light candle flickered inside a glass, giving off a warm orange glow.
“So what?”
“It isn’t a date,” he said.
McKenna rolled her eyes. “I am aware of that. Especially given we’re here to discuss how to get your girl back. Now I’m going to stop you before you accidentally insult me by assuming I want you, because I don’t.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
His blue eyes raked over her in a way that made it difficult for her to swallow. “I wasn’t going to say that.”
“Good. And I doubt anyone will assume we’re together because it’s not like there’s any chemistry.” Her traitorous mind flashed back to that moment in front of her door, where she’d been at risk of bursting into flames from his stare alone. “You’re not my type.”
Operation Self-Love step one: set boundaries to avoid self-sabotage.
“What’s your type?” His head tilted slightly.
McKenna picked up a menu and pretended to inspect the drink options while she grappled for a response. What was her type? “Men who are wrong for me.”
Dammit. This wasn’t the time to be telling the truth.
Beckett ran a hand along his jaw as though giving her statement serious thought. “So you have bad taste in men?”
“No need to kick a girl while she’s down, buddy.” McKenna pursed her lips. “But yes, I may have some trouble picking men who have long-term staying power. Not exactly my fault, most men aren’t looking to stick around and the older they get, the better they are at hiding those intentions.”
Her track record showed a sad inability to learn from her mistakes. She seemed to aim too high or too low, picking men who either missed the mark on her relationship dreams or the ones who labeled her a good-time girl. Where was her Goldilocks of men? Was it so damn impossible to find a guy who had a decent job, wanted to be in a committed relationship, and gave her the jittery feeling that only came with good chemistry? Surely that wasn’t too much to ask.
The waiter delivered a basket of bread to the table and took their orders. When he left, McKenna reached for a chunk and dunked it into a little dish containing oil and balsamic vinegar. “Besides, why do you care? We’re here to discuss your relationship failures, not mine.”
A flash of emotion streaked across Beckett’s face, but it was gone before she could figure out exactly what it meant. “I haven’t failed.”
“Call it a temporary setback, then. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” McKenna chewed. “So, have you figured out why you got dumped yet? That would be useful information to have.”
…
Beckett got the distinct feeling that McKenna was trying to wind him up on purpose. Though why, he had no idea. He was destined to never understand the female mind, hence why he’d agreed to accept McKenna’s help. She would give him the insight he needed…once she stopped verbally poking him with a stick, that was.
“I think it was a combination of things.”
“Which were…?”
“She thinks I work too much and that I don’t pay enough attention to her, for starters. She would always complain that we never went on enough holidays and that I spent too much time with my family.” He poured them both a glass of water. “Is that enough to go on?”
“She thinks you spend too much time with your family?” McKenna raised a brow.
“Apparently.”
Beckett had dinner once a week like clockwork with his mother and sister. The tradition had started when he’d moved out, because he still wanted to keep an eye on Kayla. She took her father’s comings and goings hard, and Beckett didn’t want her to think he was abandoning her, too.
“I invited Sherri a few times, but she said she felt like she was encroaching.”
“So she would have preferred you to not go at all.” She made a little noise of annoyance, but the waiter arrived before she could continue.
The guy was about Beckett’s age, with dark hair and olive skin. He had a slight Italian accent and stared at McKenna appreciatively as he announced the dishes, turning her from prickly interrogator to giggling flirt in less than a second. She all but batted her lashes at the guy, laughing sweetly at his jokes. For some reason that made a tight ball of tension gather in Beckett’s stomach.
For all the waiter knew, they were on a date. And as uncomfortable as he’d been with McKenna’s needy gaze on him the night they got stuck in the elevator, it felt even worse when she directed it at someone else.
“I don’t know,” Beckett said after they’d ordered their meals. “She seemed to be under the impression I should know what she wants at all times, even though she’s not always very forthcoming with information.”
Beckett sighed. It seemed to be a game that Sherri played with him—sometimes he got it right and was rewarded with her blissful smile. Other times he missed the mark, and bore the brunt of her cold shoulder for days at a time. He’d never quite figured out how to tip the odds his way.
But he shouldn’t be telling McKenna all this. Their issues were private, and it was only right to pass on what McKenna needed in order to help him.
“I do work a lot, though,” he admitted. “I get absorbed by my job.”
“You like what you do, huh?” McKenna smiled. “I’m like that, too. Sometimes when I’m working on a face chart I block out the rest of the world.”
“What’s a face chart?”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, it’s a map of the face that makeup artists use to plan out a look. We sketch out the design and fill it in using makeup products so when we need to recreate the look we have an exact guide of what to do.”
They paused as the waiter arrived with their food.
“So what’s your plan, Miss I’m an excellent matchmaker?” He drove a fork into his ravioli. “How do I fix this problem?”
“I need to figure out the situation before I devise a plan. No point jumping the gun, because you’ll only get one shot at this.” She twirled her spaghetti around her fork. “I need to understand why she left.”
“I told you, she didn’t say anything. She just…left.”
He’d been a little dumfounded, since her usual departures had been accompanied by lots of bluster and yelling. This time he didn’t even have the chance to argue, she’d already had her bags packed by the time he returned home from his meeting, and she’d walked past him without a word.
“You told me what her complaints were,” she said. “And women don’t always say exactly what they mean. You have to read between the lines.”
“Maybe they’d have a better chance of getting what they want if they came out and asked for it,” he grumbled. “I’m not a bloody mind reader.”
“In any case, I know why she left, because I know how women think.” She set her cutlery down as though about to make a very important announcement. “She thinks you don’t love her.”
“Because I work hard and make time for my family?” he scoffed.
“Because you don’t make her your top priority.” She looked far too smug for her own good. “She probably feels like she’s playing second fiddle to a whole host of other things, like work and other people in your life.”
“Those things are important to me.” His voice came out a little sharper than he’d intended, but this picking apart of his personal life was like having needles stuck into his skin.
After growing up the local “charity case” in his middle-class suburb—where everyone knew his family’s troubles—he craved privacy. It was his shield from the world. His protection. Because it allowed him to be anyone he wanted—so he’d chosen the path of an entrepreneur, where a little mystery was a good thing. But McKenna’s comments and questions were like tiny hammers against his outer shell, and the feeling of her trying to get closer vibrated through his body.
“Of course they are. But you’re a workaholic, right? You said yourself that you work a lot.”
“I’m working on a startup. Being a workaholic is in the job description.” Beckett forced his shoulders to relax, as they were bunching around his neck the way they usually did when he felt defensive. “Look, you want to start you own business so surely you understand. It takes hard work to get something off the ground.”
“Oh, I understand.” She bobbed her head, her dangling earrings making tinkling sounds. “But you work long hours, right? What time do you usually finish up at night?”
Beckett speared another ravioli. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d logged off before midnight. It’d been months. Some nights he didn’t even make it to bed, because he only had enough energy to collapse on his couch.
Okay, so maybe McKenna was onto something. “It depends,” he said. “I work until the job is done.”
“That’s a fallacy.” She offered a knowing smile. “Because the job is never done, is it?”
“No, it’s not,” he admitted. But the job wouldn’t be done unless he started taking action. In his experience, talk was cheap…and pointless. “Have we finished with the Dr. Phil portion of this meeting? Because I’d really like to know what the next steps are.”
McKenna stifled a smile. “Step number one is to stop treating this like a business transaction. Personal relationships aren’t always logical, trust me. If you’re going to do this, then you need to loosen up a bit.”
“Do I not seem relaxed?” He raked a hand through his hair, unsure how to deal with the bubbling frustration that was slowly swelling within him. All he could think about was how much work he had to do—and how delectable McKenna’s mouth looked as she pushed each forkful of food between her lips—neither of which were helpful.
“I’ve seen politicians in the middle of media scandals who looked more relaxed than you.” She laughed. “You’re uptight in a cute, Clark Kent meets Christian Grey kind of way. I’ll be honest, I dig it. But the first thing I’m going to do is teach you how to relax and enjoy a date.”
Questions ran through his brain like a bunch of toddlers high on sugar. He couldn’t even begin to unpack her comments—she thought he was cute? She wanted to teach him how to relax…on a date? And who the hell was Christian Grey?
“How exactly do you plan to do that?” he asked, shoving the rest of the questions aside.
“You’re going to go on a date with me and I’m going to critique you.” She grinned. “Think of it as me beta-testing your dating skills.”
“You’re kidding me.” He couldn’t even begin to list all the things wrong with that scenario. But right there, at the very top of the pile, was the rush of satisfaction knowing that he’d get to be with her alone again. And that was a very, very bad sign.
“Nope.” She reached for her water and sipped, leaving behind a perfect imprint of hot pink lipstick. “Not even a little bit.”
“Fine.” He nodded, digesting the information. “A test date it is.”
He didn’t like the self-satisfied look on her face, that subtle little smirk that told him she thought he’d fail. Beckett didn’t like failing, so he certainly wasn’t going to give her that satisfaction. If she wanted the date to end all dates, then he was going to give it to her.