I form a terrifying mental image of me, postmakeover, with scarlet-slashed lips, heavy blue eye shadow, a fake beauty spot glued to my cheek, and false eyelashes so long they arouse Mr. Bingley’s hunting instincts when I blink.

“Um. That’s really nice of you, Mrs. Dinwiddle, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Pssh! Poppycock!” She waves a hand in the air. The seed pearls on her headband quiver madly. “It’s a capital idea! Don’t you think so, Cameron?”

“Sure. We want her to look her best for Michael, don’t we?”

His tone is casual, but his jaw is tight, and his back is stiff. Is he mocking me?

Mrs. Dinwiddle is vindicated. “Exactly!”

“Well, fine. If Cam thinks it’s a good idea.” I didn’t mean for it to come out sounding like a challenge, but it does, and Mrs. Dinwiddle is befuddled. She looks back and forth between us.

“Why wouldn’t he, Ducky?”

Cam and I stare at each other. The sudden tension is excruciating. I’m so confused and just want everything to go back to the way it was before that stupid kiss. That incredible, delectable, stupid kiss.

Leave it to me to mess up everything.

“Actually, I was just about to make dinner, Mrs. Dinwiddle—”

“No,” says Cam abruptly, pushing away from the counter. “You girls have a good night. I’ve got things to do.”

His tone is like “I’ve got better things to do,” and now I’m unreasonably hurt.

Without another word, Cam strides out of the kitchen, pulls open my front door, and disappears through it. In a few seconds, his apartment door slams, and then his godforsaken rap starts up at full volume, like a big musical middle finger in my face.

The cat chasing her hem, Mrs. Dinwiddle minces over to the door and shuts it. She downs the dregs of her martini and turns to me with a mysterious smile. “Ignore him, Ducky. Men are children.”

I mutter, “Some of them are more like juvenile delinquents.”

Her smile grows wider. “Now, while we wait for Blessica, let’s go through your closet, shall we?”

The evening was about as pleasurable as having my fingernails pulled off and all my toes smashed with a hammer.

By the time Blessica showed up with the makeup kit and another martini for Mrs. Dinwiddle, I’d finished the rest of the bottle of wine while being subjected to an elderly woman’s shock and horror at the contents of my wardrobe. You’d think she’d stumbled across a mass grave the way she carried on. Horrified exclamations of, “Good God, what is this?” were regularly heard from the bowels of the closet, along with disgusted clucks and muttered choruses of My word.

A confidence booster it wasn’t.

Then I was treated to the unforgettable experience of having a makeover by a person who’d consumed approximately half a dozen martinis and didn’t have the steadiest hands to begin with. Clowns have more attractive makeup. By nine o’clock, my face looked like a Rorschach test, and I was drunk and miserable.

For the life of me, I couldn’t get that kiss out of my head.

“What do you think, Ducky?” asked Mrs. Dinwiddle at one point, peering over my shoulder at my reflection in the mirror as she breathed gin fumes into my face.

“I think it’s perfect. If I’m starring in a play about a Kabuki warrior.”

Eventually, Blessica carted Mrs. Dinwiddle off to bed, and I fell asleep in my blue dress, still in all my makeup.

I’m awakened by pounding on my front door.

“Ow.” There’s pounding inside my skull, too. I lift a hand to my head, wincing when I touch my forehead because even that slight pressure hurts. The clock on the nightstand reads five minutes after five in the morning. I wonder if there’s an emergency and the building is being evacuated.

More pounding, then the doorbell rings. I swat Mr. Bingley’s tail away from my face and attempt to sit up. The room swims woozily, and I clutch my stomach, groaning.

“Joellen! Are you in there? Open up!”

Oh God. It’s Cam. I’m late for our morning run.

I’d rather die than go on our morning run.

I shuffle out of bed, fighting nausea, and pad out of the bedroom in my bare feet. When the cat meows for his breakfast, it’s like steel spikes being driven through my skull. It takes all my strength just to pull the door open.

Cam jerks back when he sees me. “Sweet mother Mary! What the hell happened to you?”

I grumble, “Mrs. Dinwiddle happened to me.”

“Did you lose a bet?”

“Ha. Go away—your voice hurts.” I try to shut the door, but Cam pushes it open and barges inside because he’s a pushy, obnoxious pain in my butt.

I shuffle away from him, waving a hand over my shoulder. “Do me a favor and feed the cat. I’m hungover. I’m going back to bed.”

“For how long?”

“Forever.”

“What about our workout?”

Bleary eyed, I turn around and stare at him. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m in no condition to exercise, prancer.”

He inspects my appearance, fighting a smile. “You have a point. It might be dangerous to allow you in public—you’ll frighten the children.”

I can’t be insulted, because it’s a legitimate observation. “Cat food’s on the third shelf in the pantry.” Without waiting for an answer, I head to the bedroom and crawl back into bed.

I hear Cam moving around in the kitchen, opening and closing the pantry door, murmuring to Mr. Bingley. Then he’s in my bathroom, running the water in the sink.

“What’re you doing?” I mumble with my eyes closed, irritated by his presence.

The edge of the mattress dips with his weight. He presses a cool wet cloth to my forehead. “Gettin’ this shit off your face.”

He starts to gently wipe the makeup off my skin as I lie there wondering if it’s weird that I’m enjoying it.

“Stop frownin’. I’m doin’ you a solid here, lass. I think your poor cat is traumatized from seein’ you like this.”

“Mrs. Dinwiddle had good intentions.”

“Or she secretly hates you.”

That makes me smile. “I’m glad to hear you don’t think it was an improvement.”

The washcloth pauses, then goes back to work under my jaw. “You don’t need makeup.”

I snort because he’s being ridiculous. “News alert: you need to see an optometrist. I don’t normally wear makeup, but I definitely should. My bare skin has caused many a man nightmares.”

Cam’s sigh is gentle and also disgusted. “You’ve got a head full o’ bullshit, lass. Your skin is beautiful.”

Beautiful? No, he can’t mean that. He’s screwing with me again. He feels pity. I’m so pitiful he’s forced to make up a lie to distract me from my pitifulness.

His voice turns dry. “Do you always freak out when someone pays you a compliment?”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“Oh, no? Then why did your entire body go stiff? And your eyes are rollin’ around under your eyelids. You look like you’re gettin’ electric shock therapy.” He returns to the bathroom and runs the water again, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable on the bed.

No one has ever told me I have beautiful skin. No one has ever told me I have beautiful anything. Well, there is Dr. Sternberg, my dentist, who always tells me how lucky I am to have such naturally straight teeth, but in the same breath he usually suggests a whitening product, so he can’t be counted.