Chapter Eight

Fifteen minutes later, Beckett and McKenna were seated on a hard-plastic Crayola yellow bench. They were separated from the deteriorating weather by a plastic tarp, which covered the “outdoor” dining area. Rain pelted steadily against the plastic. It could have been a dreary turn of events, if it wasn’t for the glorious twinkle in McKenna’s eye as she held a McChicken burger so reverently that it may as well have been a Michelin-starred masterpiece.

“McChickens are vastly superior to Big Macs,” she said, gesturing with a fry. “What the hell is secret sauce, anyway? I don’t want secrets in my food.”

“One, it’s ‘special’ sauce. Not secret sauce. And two, you’re eating highly processed chicken from a fast food restaurant.” Beckett took a bite out of his Big Mac. “There’s a whole lot of secrecy going on there.”

“Nuh-uh.” She flipped the lid on her burger and stuffed a few fries in, trapping them between the bun and the chicken. “God, I’m so hungry I could eat three of these.”

She chewed happily, a dot of sauce on her cheek that made Beckett want to grin from ear to ear for some stupid reason. “Trust me. I ate a lot of burgers in my formative years in university.”

“Your formative years?” She rolled her eyes.

“McDonalds is standard coding food,” he said. “Fact.”

“So you subsisted on a steady diet of Big Macs, cheap beer, and Twisties?”

“Cheezels,” he corrected. “But yeah, essentially.”

Her eyes raked over him, a skeptical quirk on her lips. “I somehow doubt you ended up with that body by eating junk.” A second later, her brain seemed to have caught up with her mouth and she grimaced. “What I mean is that you look too fit…uh, muscular.” She swore under her breath. “Well, I have seen you topless so I know you’re not skinny fat.”

He tried to stifle his smile. “Dig up.”

“Oh, be quiet,” she grumbled and took another bite of her burger. “You’ve got a great body. It’s a fact. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

Beckett wasn’t a gym junkie by any means, but he always seemed to have energy to burn. Going for a run was the best way to clear his head when the code wouldn’t cooperate—so he was fit. Muscular. That was a fact. But hearing her say it stoked some primal, egotistical part of him.

A part that usually only flared around work-related things.

“Okay, change of topic,” she announced. “Tell me about your sister. What do I need to know to make sure I nail my meeting with her?”

“You’re the makeup artist.” He shrugged. “How do I tell you about that?”

“Tell me about her. What’s she like? How does she dress?” She brought her drink up to her lips and sucked, leaving a perfect pink line on the straw. “That kind of stuff.”

“Kayla is very…” He thought for a moment. “She likes fashion. She’s outgoing.”

“Okay.” McKenna rolled her hand around. “Keep going.”

What else was he supposed to say about his little sister? He knew all the things that wouldn’t matter to a makeup artist—like that she was still terrified her husband-to-be would leave her just like her father did. That she was whip-smart, witty. Emotionally intelligent. Great with people. Basically, his opposite.

“She’s classic,” he said after a pause. “She likes Audrey Hepburn movies.”

“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.” He could see McKenna’s mind drifting. “I’m thinking winged liner, nothing too dramatic but a nice little flick. Some feathered false lashes, maybe. Or individual clusters. Fresh skin.”

Wasn’t all skin fresh? And what the hell were individual clusters?

“Why did you decide to become a makeup artist?” he asked.

“I’ve always liked makeup,” she replied. “I used to sit and watch my mum get ready for all these big events when I was little. I love the transformation. Makeup can turn you into anyone.”

Her eyes were alight with passion; it radiated from her like a wave of energy. It was exactly how he felt when he was talking about his business.

“I used to experiment a lot when I was younger, and all my friends would get me to do their makeup. It makes me feel like a fairy godmother.” She popped a fry into her mouth. “That moment when you hold a mirror up to the client’s face and see their confidence blossom is truly a wonderful thing.”

“And they always like the makeup?”

“Yeah, mostly. But I’ve had a few disasters in my career, too. They happen.” She chuckled. “One time, this woman brought her daughter to the counter for a special event. The mother stood over me the whole time, telling me that this bit wasn’t even and that bit wasn’t blended properly.”

“What did you do?”

“I handed her my makeup brush and told her that if she thought she could do a better job then she was welcome to finish it.” She nodded, pride etched into her features. “I thought the floor manager was going to kill me, but it worked. The daughter ended up loving the makeup and the mother didn’t make a complaint. I’m sure you have to deal with difficult people in your line of work, right?”

“It’s a different dynamic.”

“Because you work for yourself?”

He nodded. “And because it can take a while to create the product.”

“Does it feel like you’re in that grind for months and months? Must be, since you work such long hours.” She studied him. “How do you think you’re going to fix things with Sherri if your work isn’t going to change?”

Her question struck him in the chest. Of course his work wasn’t going to change, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t smooth things over with Sherri. She needed to see that he still loved her, that was all.

So why did he suddenly feel like a weight had settled on his chest? That caged feeling was back—the one that made his heart and lungs want to cave under the pressure of walls closing in.

“I have to fix it,” he said. “That’s why I need you.”

“You mean, need my help,” she corrected him.

He swallowed. “Right. Exactly.”

…

By the time Monday rolled around, McKenna was a bundle of nerves. Beckett’s sister, Kayla, had called over the weekend to set a time for their catch up. Instead of having a meeting, Kayla wanted to jump right into doing a trial. Turns out she hadn’t found a makeup artist she liked after four trials. Four.

What makes you think you’re going to be any better than any of these other artists? They probably have more experience than you, and a better portfolio. And I bet their families support them, too.

God, her inner voice was such a bitch sometimes.

McKenna sucked in a breath and jabbed at the doorbell to the stunning white townhouse. A tune played inside, something that caused a memory to spark. It was a classical piece. A failed ballet exam.

“Don’t panic,” she told herself. “Be cool, calm, and collected. You’re a cucumber. A talented, professional cucumber.”

A second later the door swung open and a gorgeous pixie of a woman stood in front of her. “You must be McKenna. Come in.”

“Lovely to meet you,” McKenna replied as she stepped into the house, rolling her kit in behind her. She’d fashioned a carry-on suitcase into her perfect travel kit, which made it a hell of a lot easier than lugging a case around. “You have a beautiful home.”

Kayla beamed. She had Beckett’s blue eyes but her hair was darker—more chestnut brown than his sandy dark blond. She also smiled more readily than he did—but the smile was similar. Slightly crooked. Charmingly off-center.

“Thank you.” She motioned for McKenna to follow her into the main area of the house. “Will we be okay to do the trial in here? I figured you’d need natural light and this room has the most at this time of day.”

“It’s perfect.”

“So, my brother was a little quiet on how you two know each other,” Kayla said, interest twinkling in her eyes. “Tea?”

“Yes, please.” McKenna stopped next to the dining table and dropped down to open her kit. “I live a few doors down from him.”

“He’s never mentioned you before.” The question wasn’t accusing, more curious.

“Well, we don’t really know each other that well. But when he mentioned you were getting married I sort of took the opportunity to pimp my business.” She laughed. “Honesty’s the best policy, right?”

“Absolutely.” The kettle whistled and Kayla poured the boiling water into two cups.

McKenna pulled out her brush roll and opened it up, and started to unpack the products she would need for skin prep. During their quick phone call over the weekend, McKenna had gotten necessary information—skin type, skin concerns, and a rough idea of the look that Kayla wanted for her big day. Audrey Hepburn old-school glam, with a touch of J-Lo. It was a unique description, that was for sure.

“So tell me about what disappointed you with the previous makeup trials,” McKenna said. “It’s not for gossip, but to give me a better idea of what you don’t want. That’s as important to know as what you do want.”

“Gosh, four trials and I’m still not happy,” Kayla said sheepishly. She set the tea down on the table and slid onto the fold-out stool McKenna had pulled out of her kit. “That must make me sound like such a bridezilla.”

“Not at all. Finding the right makeup artist is a very personal thing.” She looked closely at Kayla’s skin—it was flawless, which would make her job easier.

“Well, I suspect the first artist wasn’t as qualified as she claimed to be.” Kayla watched as McKenna massaged some anti-bacterial gel into her hands. “She was a friend of a friend, and the makeup wasn’t much better than what I could do myself.”

“Ah, I see.” She scooped some hydrating cream out of a pot with a tiny spatula and then proceeded to prep Kayla’s skin.

“The second trial was great, actually. I was going to book her, but she had a family emergency and then had to move back to Singapore suddenly.” Kayla sighed. “The other two…well, the makeup wasn’t what I’d envisaged for my wedding. It’s such a special day, and I want to get every detail right. One lady put way too much bronzer on me and she seemed keen on making me look as tanned as possible. The other one struggled with the winged liner I wanted, and kept trying to talk me out of it.”

“Got it. Winged liner, not too much bronzer.” She grinned. “It’s good that you know exactly what you want. It’s harder for me when the bride has no idea, then it becomes a bit of a crapshoot as to whether they’ll like the end product.”

“If there’s one thing people in our family don’t have an issue with, it’s knowing what we want.” Kayla chuckled. “I guess Beckett and I get that from our mother. She’s stubborn as hell, and so are we.”

McKenna pumped some primer onto her palette and used a soft brush to sweep it over Kayla’s skin, adding a dewy “lit from within” glow. “Better than drifting through life with no idea of what you want, I think.”

“Try telling Beckett’s fiancée that.” Kayla rolled her eyes. “She’s determined to get him to change everything he wants to what she wants.”

Was Beckett’s sister unaware of the breakup? Interesting.

“Don’t get me wrong, she’s a nice person. I know she doesn’t mean to treat him like crap, but they’re wrong for each other and it causes a lot of friction.”

McKenna bit down on her lip and concentrated on testing foundation shades against her client’s jawline. What was she supposed to do? She didn’t want to spill the beans if Beckett had chosen to keep the breakup a secret, but she didn’t want to seem disinterested, either.

“How long have they been together?” she asked carefully. Using her thumb and forefinger, she gently gripped Kayla’s jaw and moved her head to check the foundation swatches from a different angle. Yep, option two was a perfect match.

“They’ve been engaged for almost a year and they were together for a year before that,” Kayla said. “But they’ve broken up a few times, here and there. He’ll do something that pisses her off, she’ll have a tantrum, and then they split up for a week. I don’t know why he doesn’t send her packing for good. Probably because her father is so heavily invested in his business.”

McKenna frowned, but covered it quickly by pretending to intently study Kayla’s skin as she applied the foundation with a synthetic brush. “Oh?”

“Yeah, her dad is some huge bigwig. He was the main backer for Beckett’s latest project, so he probably feels stuck because if they break up then that money will likely go away.” She sighed. “I tried to tell him that my fiancé’s family might be able to invest, but he’s got this thing about making sure I’m not tied to Aaron for money’s sake. Which is kind of ridiculous, considering.”

A strange feeling churned in McKenna’s gut. Beckett had seemed so caring on their test date—gruffly caring…but caring none the less. The guy who’d tended to her injury, who’d walked away from a fancy restaurant to have dinner at McDonalds because she was too scared to go back, who’d dropped her off at her front door with a smoldering look and a respectful peck on the cheek…he didn’t seem like a guy who would be in a relationship for money’s sake.

“It’s sad. He deserves someone who’ll make him laugh,” Kayla added. “I think Sherri stresses him out. She doesn’t seem to take much interest in his work. Or his family, for that matter.”

“It sounds like you guys are close,” McKenna said, desperate to steer the conversation away from his ex.

“Yeah, he was my rock growing up. Now I have Aaron, of course.” Her eyes became dreamy and soft.

McKenna inspected Kayla’s jawline to make sure the foundation had blended properly, without leaving a harsh edge. “How did you two meet? Tell me all about it.”

McKenna breathed an internal sigh of relief as Kayla switched gears and started talking about her fiancé.

It had been all too easy to feel like her date with Beckett—post oyster fork incident—was real. They’d connected on some personal level, laughed and joked and chatted for hours over burgers and then sundaes. On the way home, McKenna wondered why she couldn’t have found Beckett before. They had a lot in common, they seemed to like the same things. And the chemistry fizzed and crackled like nothing else.

But that was just McKenna doing what she always did: gravitating to the wrong guy.

Which meant Operation Self-Love had to be priority number one. And if Beckett was the kind of guy who wanted to marry for money, then he wasn’t the guy for her anyway.