Christy Jeffries - The Makeover Prescription

By the time he got to number three, he tried to tell himself that this obviously wasn’t meant for him to see. Yet like a pitch in midhurl, he couldn’t stop now. Why in the world would she write out such a ridiculous and pointless list? Or one so personal?

Assuming she was the one who’d written it in the first place.

It was her handwriting, though. He’d exchanged plans and inventories with her long enough to know that the woman put a ton of thought into every list she created. Freckles had made several offhand remarks this past week regarding her niece’s single status and lack of a social life. Maybe Just Julia was feeling inadequate in that department and was making an effort to step up her game.

His eyes bounced around the enlarged image, trying to take all the information in at once while he told himself that there was no way he’d make the cut. Not that he wanted her looking in his direction, anyway. Kane had to take a few deep breaths to focus on what he was reading. Hell, were there any qualities on here that he even remotely possessed? He read it through again.

Must be social.

That certainly wasn’t him. Sure, it used to be, before his career had taken a nosedive, but nowadays, Kane viewed social situations like most batters viewed a curveball—confusing and oftentimes unavoidable.

Must be educated and able to discuss current events.

Nope. Kane Chatterson barely sat still long enough in class to make it out of high school with a diploma. He had a feeling even that accomplishment was the result of sympathetic teachers and his dad’s generous donation to the library building fund.

Must be patient and not lose his temper.

Kylie once told him that he had the patience of a hummingbird, which said a lot, considering his sister’s only speed was overdrive.

Must enjoy swimming or similar civilized athletic pursuits.

Sure, baseball could be civilized if compared to rugby or ice hockey or cage fighting, for instance. But as any of the three million YouTube viewers would attest, the swinging bats and punches and profanity involved in the Brawlgate scandal two years ago were anything but civil.

Strong.

In terms of what? Before his shoulder injury, Kane could bench-press two-fifty and hurl a fastball ninety-nine miles per hour. But Erica, his ex, had once called him emotionally unavailable and a weak excuse for a boyfriend. So he was fifty-fifty in the strength department.

Good with his hands.

Kane looked at his palms, trying to imagine how his work-worn, callous hands would compare with the uppity doctor’s long, graceful fingers that meticulously saved lives. Meh.

Flannel.

He glanced at his open closet and the soft plaid shirts hanging in order by color. He had a feeling the prim Navy captain meant the man she was looking for must prefer wearing flannel pajamas or some other conservative outfit to bed.

Kane stretched out under his quilt and tried not to grin at how shocked Just Julia would be if she could see the complete lack of flannel between his sheets right now. Or the complete lack of any material, for that matter.

The sudden thought of the attractive woman seeing him naked in bed caused an unexpected response, and Kane had to shift his computer lower on his lap.

Speaking of lists, maybe he should rethink the set of rules he’d laid out for himself. Specifically, the one about him not dating his clients. Or thinking about their damp blond hair pulled back away from their high, flushed cheekbones.

Kane shook his head, trying to envision Just Julia in plain blue scrubs and an oversize white coat. If he concentrated hard enough, maybe he could imagine her green eyes looking through him, instead of being dilated from physical exertion and rounded in surprise when she’d glanced up from her cell phone and collided with him in the hospital hallway earlier today.

He slammed the laptop closed in frustration, then remembered their conversation and her plan to move into her house in a week. Kane needed to get as much work as possible done before then so he wouldn’t have to risk running into her upstairs. Near her bedroom. He opened the computer again and logged on to the building supply store’s website to place an order for the tiles.

That done, he set his laptop off to the side and turned out his lamp, knowing he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep for a long time. After a few minutes, he pulled the laptop over again, opened his email account and finally sent her a reply, using as few words as he dared.

Ordered tile. Should be in stock next Wed. Then, at the last second, he couldn’t help adding, Kitchen not done. Maybe that would stall her and he could buy himself some more time. And avoid running into the pretty doctor at all costs.

* * *

Julia carried the last box down the stairs from her officer’s quarters and shoved it into the backseat of her red MINI Cooper. How sad was it that all of her personal belongings fit into a car with the cubic space of a safe-deposit box? Well, technically, the attic at the Georgetown house was filled with family heirlooms and photo albums and her parents’ personal effects. Yet none of that had ever really felt like hers.

Still, she would have to face that mess eventually, or have one of her attorneys face it for her and send her an invoice. She looked at her watch and estimated that the sun would set before she made it to Sugar Falls. She’d purposely timed her move-in day to be more of a move-in evening. That way she wouldn’t have to see Kane Chatterson and risk him asking her in person if she’d gotten a cookbook like she’d promised her Aunt Freckles.

By the time she pulled onto Pinecone Court thirty minutes later, her stomach was empty, yet she was eager to see what progress had been made on her house. When she saw the Ford Bronco parked along her curb, now sporting a dull gray paint color instead of its usual rust spots, she wanted to throw her gearshift straight into Reverse.

Instead she took a deep breath and ordered her tummy to quit thrashing around. She would really need to become accustomed to seeing Kane sporadically. After all, she’d hired the guy to remodel her house. She couldn’t very well let her abdominal muscles get all tight and contracted anytime she saw his ugly old car.

She wasn’t some lovesick nineteen-year-old anymore, thinking an affair with her college professor was the real deal. In fact, technically speaking, she was Kane’s boss. She was a Navy officer, trained to issue orders. And she was an accomplished surgeon, known for her steady hand and her even steadier nerves. If she could command an operating room full of experienced hospital staff, Julia could certainly handle one small-town contractor who barely said more than a few words to her—even if his eyes drank her in as though they knew every inch of her body intimately.

She parked in the narrow driveway, then grabbed her leather satchel and one of the boxes out of the backseat and made her way up to the front porch and inside. She heard music coming from upstairs and smelled something garlicky drifting out of the kitchen area. She set the box down in the front parlor and climbed the newly finished stairway, uncertain if she should be walking on the freshly stained steps. But then she realized they must be dry, since someone was upstairs and had to have walked on them already.

She followed the sound of Duke Ellington—her classical cello instructor would’ve frowned at her recognizing the piece—toward her bedroom and stepped into the well-lit area, relieved that the antique chandelier had been installed already. When she got to the bathroom door, she froze. Kane Chatterson, wearing faded jeans and nothing but paint splatters on his torso, was standing behind her claw-foot tub, one well-defined muscular arm poised with a paintbrush above the top sill of the window frame.