Or more like I don’t want to find out who she would choose if it came down to that. I’m not so sure I’d beat Blain out, and I don’t want to find out where that line would be drawn.
No, this is enough for me, so I merely reply, “I’m good. I don’t need anything.”
Setting the brush down, she rises from the chair. Nabbing a robe from a hook on the wall, she says, “Get your clothes off and this on. We’ll do your makeup first.”
I do as she asks, because this is her night and I’m not going to do anything to ruin it in any way. Balking at letting her pretty me up would totally put her in a foul mood. My clothes go into a folded pile on her sink, my Chucks resting on the floor below, and I shrug into the soft robe.
I sit in the chair, trying not to squirm as Fallon starts to work on me. She grumbles about wishing I’d had time for a shower because “you smell like coffee” and “I have a great conditioner that would calm these unruly curls,” but I don’t say a word. I merely nod and agree with her.
Fallon starts with my face, applying creams, foundations, and powders. She uses sponges, brushes, and even her fingertips. My eyes take the longest, and I’m fairly sure she put at least four coats of mascara on me.
While she applies makeup, she chats amiably about her wedding. She had asked me the day after Blain proposed if I would be her maid of honor, and, of course, I accepted. Frankly, I was shocked the offer went to me. She has a host of close friends and sorority sisters from college who would have better served, so it is kind of an honor she wants me at her side.
And the one thing I’m eternally grateful for is that my sister has a ton of class, and she chose stunning bridesmaid dresses in a shimmery beige that are strapless, simple, and elegant. I might have had to kill her if she went with poufy sleeves or bows on the butt.
I listen as Fallon prattles about the details of the ceremony and the lavish reception, again genuinely pleased for her because her dreams are coming true. While we may not be all that close, I still love her more than anything in this world.
When she finally sets down the last makeup implement and steps back to admire her handiwork, I have to admit I’m a little shocked by my appearance in the mirror.
Sure, I’ve worn makeup before. I like wearing it when I’m going out at night.
Sure, I’ve dressed up before. I even own some sexy dresses and high heels that come out on extreme occasions if Rainey drags me out for a night on the town.
I am no stranger to girlie things; I even enjoy them.
But no matter how many times my face has been transformed, it’s never been done in a way such as this, and I’m thinking Fallon may have missed her calling in life.
My skin looks flawless and dewy, like I just walked through a misting rain. My cheekbones are accentuated in such a way as to make me seem almost aristocratic. My lips are full and lush, and whoa—my eyes—I can’t stop staring at them.
As I said, my eyes can usually stand on their own because of their unusual color and naturally long lashes, but the eye makeup she put on me is dark and sensual. My lids are done in a collage of grays, with thick liner cutting under. Whatever she put on my lashes makes them look ridiculously full, and the overall effect on my green-gold-blue eyes make them look like jewels floating in the middle of a stormy sea.
“Wow,” is all I can say.
Fallon smiles. It’s a knowing smile—that she could take me from a pretty girl to an enchantress with just a few brush strokes.
She frets with my hair a little bit, but I like what she does with it. She pulls the sides back, twisting and pinning so my curls look tame. Pulling the long mass to the side, she loosely braids it to hang over one shoulder. At the bottom, she fastens a jeweled hair cuff studded with what looks like diamonds and black onyx.
Fallon steps behind my chair, puts her hands on my shoulders, and squeezes me. “You are exquisite, Finley.”
“Only because of your talents,” I murmur, turning my face left and right to admire her handiwork. At this moment, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt more beautiful. I’m also positive if I tried this myself, I’d come out looking like a deranged raccoon high on meth.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s get dressed.”
She leads me back into the bedroom, right into their closet, which is at least three times the size of my bedroom, and moves over to a rack that contains nothing but formal wear. She pulls a blood-red strapless gown, holding it up for me to see.
“I’m wearing this,” she says, turning to put it on a wall hook. “I know it would look great on your figure, but the red will clash with your hair.”
When I don’t disagree, she goes right to a dress with confidence, which means she had already perused and considered the options before I arrived.
The dress is black, and I can’t tell much about it by the way it drapes on the padded hanger. She merely lays it over her forearm, then orders me to take the robe off.
I do so without hesitation or embarrassment. Growing up together, we’ve been naked in each other’s presence thousands of times.
“Bra, too,” Fallon says, so I unhook my white cotton bra to let it fall to the floor.
She moves to place the dress over my head. I thread my arms through what I think are the armholes, and she lets it slither down my body. The fabric is silky, but it has a glittery shimmer to it. Turning to the full-length mirror, I gasp.
It’s gorgeous, elegant, and totally indecent. It’s almost a Grecian design with pleated folds over my shoulders that crisscross over my breasts and bind tight at the waist. The plunge down my cleavage, though, is so deep that not only the inside swells of my breasts are visible, but also the underswell as well. The sides are almost nonexistent under my armpits. As I turn slightly, I can see parts of my breasts showing there as well.
“I can’t wear this,” I say, even though, deep down, I’m fascinated because I’ve never felt so sexy in my life.
“You can and you will,” Fallon says, giving me no choice in the matter. Or is it that I want to wear something a little daring and risqué, knowing I might not ever have an opportunity like this again because this just isn’t my lifestyle?
Fallon grabs a black pair of strappy, pointy toe shoes with a ridiculous heel. I’m already envisioning a broken ankle, but I resolve to plant myself in a corner and not move, thereby minimizing the risk of serious injury.
I sit on a padded bench to put the shoes on, grateful they are closed-toed as the paint on my toenails is chipping. Fallon drops her robe and slips into her red dress, which truly does look amazing on her with her coloring, which is so different than mine.
As she’s fiddling through her jewelry drawer to put the finishing touches on us both, I take the opportunity for some sisterly advice. If there’s something Fallon enjoys more than trying to push me to do things I don’t like to, it’s giving me guidance in life.
“So… um… Rich is going to sell the coffee shop,” I say.
She doesn’t look at me, but her tone seems genuinely interested as she pulls out a gold mesh necklace and holds it up for consideration. “Oh, really?”
“He wants me to buy it,” I add.
That gets her attention and her head snaps my way, eyes flaring. “You’re kidding.”