Best Of Makeovers Bundle Part 90

He took a sharp left into her driveway and brought them to a jarring stop in front of her house.

"We're here," he announced.

Finally.

Thankfully.

Now all she had to do was open the door and slide out.

"Look, if you don't want to help me..." she said. He gripped the door handle and climbed out before she could finish. He walked around, opened her door and motioned her out.

"You don't have to help me," she announced, once she'd climbed out. "I just thought you were the obvious choice. I didn't mean to put you out."

Fine.

Thanks.

Have a nice life.

The responses echoed through his head and stalled just shy of his tongue when he glimpsed the sadness in her expression. The doubt.

"Look, I'm sorry about tonight."

"Don't be. I know you were just trying to make a point. A valid point. I'm nothing like those women at Wild West. I'm not half as pretty or as vivacious."

"You're right about that. You aren't half as pretty or as vivacious."

"Thanks a lot."

"You're more," he said before he could stop himself. Before she could voice the disbelief in her expression, he rushed on. "I just want you to be careful. Prepared. Understand?"

She nodded, but he could tell by the mix of emotions on her face that she hadn't a clue as to her effect on him.

"Tomorrow," he heard himself say. "I'll meet you for lunch."

"Could we make it Miss Jolie's? I really want to pick out some clothes."

"Miss Jolie's it is."

Relief flashed in her gaze before she gave him a stern look. "You better not be planning any funny business though, because I'm not changing my mind. I know this is a stretch, but I'm doing it. I have to do it. With or without your help."

That's what he was afraid of. "Don't get your feathers all ruffled." He winked. "I'll behave myself."

"I hope so."

So did he.

6.

YOU'RE MORE.

The deep, husky murmur echoed in her ears and followed her up the front walk into her modest home.

Not that he'd actually said the words. She hadn't even seen his lips move. It had to have been wishful thinking on her part. Because no way would Mason McGraw think such a thing about Charlie Horse Singer.

He-llo? You're all grown-up now.

Even so, she was still as far removed from his type as a woman could get.

For now.

The hair on the back of her neck p.r.i.c.kled and she knew he was watching her as she unlocked the front door and slipped inside. Once the door had been closed behind her, she scooted to the side and peeked past the drapes. She stayed there as he climbed into the truck, revved the engine and backed out of her driveway.

Charlene let the drapes fall back into place and headed upstairs. The upstairs hallway was lit, but otherwise, the house was dark. Quiet. Empty. A knot formed in her chest as she topped the stairs.

She hated coming home to an empty house, but that situation would soon be resolved once Stewart made a real commitment- Her thoughts careened to a halt as reality hit her. Stewart. As in her soon-to-be boyfriend. As in, she'd just kissed another man while unofficially committed to someone else.

Unofficial being the key word. Stewart hadn't actually pledged his undying devotion to her, much less suggested that they see each other exclusively. Even so, it was just a matter of time before he asked her to take that next step. Two weeks to be exact, once he returned from the conference.

Meanwhile, she'd kissed another man.

Worse, she'd liked kissing another man.

Her mouth tingled and she licked her bottom lip. Of course she'd liked it. She'd kissed Mason McGraw. Her fantasy for as many years as she could remember. She would have had to have been dead not to have enjoyed it.

That didn't mean that she liked him. He was too full of himself for one thing. And too good looking, like one of those guys in GQ. The ones you knew had to be the product of skillful airbrus.h.i.+ng because it simply wasn't possible for any man to have such intense green eyes and such a broad, masculine face and such a hot, hard body. And he grinned way too much. And-and this was the biggee-she had absolutely nothing in common with him.

No, she didn't like him. But that didn't change the fact that she'd kissed him back and enjoyed it. Even if Stewart was her soul mate.

At least she'd recognized as much. Meanwhile, Stewart seemed clueless, and so they weren't yet a real, committed, lay-around-the-house-and-scarf-down-ice-cream-and-watch-videos-every-Friday-night couple. With his hectic schedule, they barely saw each other. They'd yet to even hold hands in public. Sure, she'd met his parents, but that was it. He'd introduced her as his colleague. No "This is my girlfriend or my main squeeze or the woman I want to bear my children." He hadn't even hinted at a future together.

Even so, she intended to tell him about the kiss and how it didn't mean anything other than the fulfillment of a silly adolescent fantasy. He would understand because he'd had his own fantasies way back when. Of course, most of them had involved their high school physics teacher, Miss Worthenthorpe, instead of a real, accessible woman, but he'd had them nonetheless. She had no doubt that if Miss Worthenthorpe with her wire-rimmed gla.s.ses and MIT intellect walked up and planted one on him today, he would kiss her back.

Charlene sank down on the bed and dialed Stewart's cell number. He picked up on the fourth ring.

"How's it going?"

"Fine. Listen, I need to tell you-"

"Great, great," he cut in. "Listen, this really isn't a good time. I'm in the middle of dinner with Dr. Frankie Landau who did the study on herbal methods for treating pediatric colds." His voice grew m.u.f.fled as if he'd put his hand over the mouthpiece. A softer, more high-pitched voice said something incoherent in the background. "Can you believe I'm sitting across from one of the leading pediatricians in the country?" he finally asked, his voice loud and clear once again.

"That's incredible." She tried to tamp down the strange sensation that something was wrong.

Something was wrong. She'd kissed Mason McGraw, of all people.

"I've really got to go," Stewart continued. "I'm really busy. I don't know if I can call you back."

"But I-" A click on the other end cut her off and she found herself listening to a dial tone.

So much for telling him tonight.

She would just fill him on everything if he did, indeed, take their relations.h.i.+p to the next level If? What was it with all the stupid ifs? When, she reminded herself. When.

She ignored the strange sense of relief that washed through her. She wasn't relieved. She was frustrated. She wanted to get the incident off her conscience and out of her head.

At the same time, a small part of her wanted to keep the information inside, to play it over and over in her mind a few times and milk as much satisfaction from it as she could. It was her fantasy come true, after all.

Or, at least part of it.

The other part she buried in the Not in this lifetime file, along with becoming a rock star, winning the lottery and marrying Brad Pitt.

A kiss was one thing.

s.e.x...well, that was completely out of the question. She was Charlie Horse Singer, after all, and he was Mason McGraw. They were worlds apart and the kiss had been nothing more than a tool for him to prove how totally clueless she was when it came to being wanton.

A daring diva wouldn't have stood there dumbfounded while the hottest man in town kissed her. Sure, she'd responded, but it had taken a while. Even then, she wasn't sure if her response had been good enough. Mason had oodles of experience. She couldn't begin to measure up to all of the other women he'd kissed.

You're more.

No way had he actually said those words. It had been her imagination. Her fantasies seeping into reality.

Even so, the notion sent a strange sense of satisfaction through her, along with a rush of restlessness. Her nerves tingled and as much as she knew she should peel off her clothes and crawl into bed-she had an early patient tomorrow-she couldn't seem to make herself. She was tired. At the same time, she wasn't sleepy. She was...exhilarated.

Thanks to Mason McGraw.

Forcing the notion away, she punched the b.u.t.ton on her clock radio and a Gretchen Wilson song rushed from the speaker. She slid off her shoes and pushed to her feet. A few seconds later, she stood in front of her dresser and worked at the clasp of one earring. Her heart drummed and her lips tingled and her hands actually trembled.

She had to get a grip. She needed to stay focused on her three-point plan and prove her theory to everyone in town. That's all that mattered. Not Mason's kiss and its effect on her.

Then again, the kiss was important because it had showed her just how far she had to go to make the transformation. Determination could only carry her a certain distance. It wasn't about pretending to be a wild woman. It was about becoming that woman. The sort that wouldn't get all freaked out if Mason happened to kiss her. A woman bold enough and brave enough to initiate the kiss herself.

She finished with her earrings and set them in her jewelry box before unfastening her watch and placing it inside, as well.

Not that she wanted another kiss, mind you. Not from Mason McGraw.

She retrieved her favorite T-s.h.i.+rt-an oversized white cotton number that sported a picture of Minnie Mouse-from the drawer and turned toward her bed.

She'd satisfied the curiosity that had bubbled inside her all through high school. She knew now that Mason was every bit the incredible kisser she'd always thought he'd be and so she could lay that question to rest and turn her mind to other things.

Like what clothing colors drew a man's eye. And what hairstyles gave her that mussed, I've-just-rolled-out-of-bed-after-having-wild-s.e.x look. And what Mason's kiss would feel like on other parts of her body.

The last thought rooted in her head as the fast country song ended and a sweet, hip-swinging Gary Allen tune poured from the radio. The same song she'd heard playing at Wild West when the doors had opened and she'd caught her first and last glimpse into the notorious strip club.

Before she could stop herself, she set the T-s.h.i.+rt aside, turned the volume up and closed her eyes. The music surrounded her and she caught herself swaying from side to side. She'd never been much of a dancer except in the privacy of her own bedroom.

In fact, she'd never actually danced with a man in public, with the exception of her father at the occasional wedding or anniversary party. He'd always loved Bob Wills and so she'd learned how to waltz at an early age. She had a hunch, however, that the girls at Wild West hadn't been waltzing to this. The music was too mesmerizing. The beat thrummed through her and made her want to roll her hips this way and that way and...

The thought faded as her eyes opened and she caught sight of herself swaying to and fro in the free-standing mirror that sat in the corner of the room. With her conservative trousers, her cover-everything-up blouse and her hair pulled back, she was a far cry from the scantily clad redhead at Wild West.

Before she could stop herself, she pulled the clasp free and let her blond strands tumble down around her face. With trembling hands, she slid the first b.u.t.ton of her blouse free, then the next and the next. Her slacks followed until she wore nothing but her bra and panties.

She wasn't sure if it was the song echoing in her head and lulling her usually critical mind or if she was so tired that she'd pa.s.sed the point of caring. Either way, her legs didn't look quite as gawky as they usually did, or her b.r.e.a.s.t.s quite as small.

Her white bikini panties rode low on her hips, making them appear more rounded, her limbs more proportioned. The lace cups of her Super Duty Wonderbra lifted her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and hugged them tight, plumping the flesh that spilled over the top. Her mouth seemed fuller, her eyes brighter, her cheeks pinker.

Prettier.

Even her moves didn't come across as all that amateurish. She undulated her hips in a slow, seductive rhythm and arched her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and for the next few moments she wasn't in the safety of her bedroom. She was standing on top of a table, the neon lights blazing around her, a certain gaze pinned on her.

Watching.

Wanting.

She reached for the clasp of her bra. The cups fell apart and freed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. They bobbed and bounced, the nipples rosy pink and ripe. She touched herself then, swirling her fingers around the dark areolas, until the tips throbbed for more. She trailed her fingers down her belly and traced the edge of her panties.

She wondered if the girls at Wild West touched themselves like this when they were on stage.

Maybe.

Probably.

She wondered if it felt half as good for them as it did for her now.

Good, but not great.

Not yet.

She hooked her fingers beneath the lacey straps of her panties and inched them down her legs until she stepped free and toed them to the side. Naked, she kept moving, teasing her body with her hands. She fingered her nipples and traced the slick flesh between her legs, all the while envisioning the reaction it would have on Mason.

The bob of an Adam's apple as he stared at her. The flash of hunger in his green gaze because he wanted her. The feel of his lips as he leaned forward and pressed them between her legs- The thought stalled as the music ended and a commercial for Don's Pick Your Own Auto Parts blared over the speaker.

Charlene came to a dead stop. She stood there as Don talked ninety-to-nothing and studied her reflection.

The wild disarray of blond hair spilling down around her shoulders and framing her face. The faint indentation of her collarbone. The slope of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her hard, wine-colored nipples. The shadow of her belly b.u.t.ton. The slim V of gold pubic hair that covered her fleshy mound and disappeared between her long legs.

For the first time ever, she didn't feel the overwhelming urge to turn away or cover herself up. Sure, she wasn't all that, but she wasn't half bad either.

You're more.

The deep murmur echoed through her head again and she smiled.

Maybe there was some truth to it, after all.