Triplets Found: The Virgin's Makeover / Take a Chance on Me / And Then There Were Three. Judy Duarte
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done.”
She didn’t tell him, since it seemed like an insignificant thing for two people to have in common, that sitting on the deck in the backyard was how she always started her days.
“My great-aunt Clara has a front porch like this. It overlooks the stream that runs through her property.” Sullivan shot her a crooked grin. “You have a lot in common with her.”
“How so?”
He shook his head and chuckled, but didn’t answer.
For some reason, she had a feeling he wasn’t being complimentary. And that the commonality she shared with his aunt wasn’t something to be proud of. But curiosity got the better of her. “Speak up, or I’ll take my dog and go home.”
His eyes crinkled with mirth. “She wears comfortable walking shoes like yours. And she wraps herself in chenille and flannel before going to sleep.”
So, Lissa had been right. He was making fun of her. Yet there wasn’t a cruel edge to his laughter. And she chose not to be offended by his teasing. Heck, there was nothing wrong with choosing comfort over glamour and style.
“What would you prefer I wear?” she asked. “Stiletto heels and a silk scarf?”
His eyes lit up. “Do you have them hidden in your bedroom?”
She swatted at his arm. “No. But I’ve got drawers full of flannel and chenille.”
“Too bad.” He slid her a playful grin.
The conversation had turned a bit sexual, which might have excited her, had she been dressed in satin. But her chenille robe weighed heavily upon her shoulders.
“Well,” she said. “Those few minutes have flown by. And it’s time for me to turn in.”
“I hope you’re not mad. Great-aunt Clara is a great gal. And she’s got more spunk than her eighty-five-year-old sister.”
Lissa arched a brow. “How old is your aunt?”
“Ninety-seven. And she still mows her own yard and works in the garden.”
“Impressive. Then there’s hope for the flannel-and-chenille crowd.”
“Great-aunt Clara has a boyfriend, too.” He tossed her a dimpled grin.
“You don’t say.” Lissa figured she’d be ninety before a guy noticed her.
She glanced toward the house and saw that her parents had turned off their bedroom light. Her mother’s doing, no doubt. Trying to give Lissa a little push toward romance.
When she looked at Sullivan, he was gazing at her.
“Are you involved with anyone?” he asked.
The question took her aback—in part because the truth was too revealing. She didn’t mind if he knew she chose sensible shoes. Or that she wore flannel to bed. But she didn’t want him to think of her as the awkward virgin that she was.
So she said, “No one at the moment.”
He didn’t comment, merely studied her.
But she was afraid he’d see through her half truth, so she stood. “Well, I really need to go. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
He stroked Barney’s head. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
She nodded, then reached to pick up the sleeping pup. As she did so, their hands touched, and a warm shiver shimmied through her veins.
Before she could react—or run—Sullivan tugged gently upon her braid. “Do you ever let your hair down, Lissa?”
“Never,” she said, her voice a near whisper.
“You ought to.” His words settled over her like a cloak of crushed velvet.
She slowly straightened, pulling her braid from his hand. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”
As she strode toward the house, she tried to shake the adolescent fascination with a man who was out of her league.
Yet she couldn’t shake the thought of letting her hair down—for him.
Chapter Four
Do you ever let your hair down?
Lissa stood before the antique floor-length mirror in her bedroom, studying the brown mop that hung over her shoulders and down her back.
Why didn’t she just go to the salon in town and have it all chopped off?
Because she’d become so good at braiding it, so used to twisting it this way or that. Shorter hair meant styling gel, mousse, curling irons and spray—stuff Lissa had never been adept at using. Of course, she could always plop a hat on her head.
But not on a special occasion like tonight.
She’d dressed in a black, A-line dress with three-quarter length sleeves and a hem that reached midcalf. The simple style suited her.
Now, the only thing left to do was her hair. For a moment, she considered letting it hang loose—as Sullivan had suggested. But she felt incomplete, exposed. And far too vulnerable for a night like this.
Her dad planned to serve the new blend Lissa had created as a prelude to a bigger unveiling later this month. But with the exclusive guest list of local vintners and wine connoisseurs, Lissa felt this dinner party was critical and her nerves were on edge.
And to add more stress to the evening, her dad had invited that reporter from Through the Grapevine magazine to record everyone’s reaction.
Normally, Lissa preferred to blend into the crowd, to be discreet and unnoticed. But her basic shyness didn’t surface while she was making wine or discussing the vineyard she loved. So, for the first time in years, Lissa had actually primped—a little.
She decided upon a French braid that hung down her back. The style might be a bit more elegant than she was used to, but tonight called for something special, out of the ordinary.
If Eileen were here, she’d insist Lissa put on some makeup. A while back, her sister had given her a monstrous palette of colorful goop for no reason at all, volunteering to help her choose the perfect shades. Unfortunately, Lissa had declined the lesson.
She glanced at the unused palette that sat on the bathroom counter. As klutzy as she was, she’d probably smear on the stuff and look like a clown. Yet a tiny spark of vanity surfaced, and she picked up a tube of lipstick, lifted the lid and rolled out the stick. A pink gloss. She could handle something simple like that.
And what was in this blue tube? Mascara? Maybe a dab would be okay. She unscrewed the top and pulled out the small, curved brush. Leaning toward the bathroom mirror, she stroked the bristles along her lashes.
Gosh, this was tough. And some women fussed with makeup every day. Talk about gluttons for punishment.
Her mouth opened on its own, which seemed to help with her aim. Maybe a little to the left.
Ow! Damn. Right in the eyeball. Ouch. And it stung. By the time she rubbed and blinked, two black smears made her look like a raccoon.
Forget it. Vanity was definitely overrated.
Somehow, she managed to get her face washed, but her eyes still looked a bit dark around the edges. Well, that’s what she got for trying to be somebody else—somebody feminine and attractive.
She looked at her watch. Six forty-five. Oh shoot. People would be arriving any minute. She slipped on a pair of low-heeled black pumps—sensible shoes like good old Aunt Clara wore, she supposed—then headed for the kitchen to give her mother a hand.
Donna had hired a caterer for this evening, so there probably wasn’t much left for Lissa to do, other than greet everyone.
Just as she