Made to be His ( The Archer Family 1)

Aside from the new dress she was wearing, they’d already filled five bags full of new dresses, skirts, and blouses. Logan had even given the sales team free rein to select jewelry and shoes to match every outfit. Just looking at all the loot made her head spin.

“I mean,” she went on, “I don’t think I could take any more.”

There was a beat of silence as Logan stared back at her, expressionless. She bit back a scream. Seriously? There was more?

Truthfully, it wasn't so much the makeover process that bothered her. In fact, that part had been sort of...fun. Not fun in the way watching a playoff game was fun, but enjoyable all the same. Then again, she couldn’t be sure if that had more to do with the shopping trip itself or the way Logan kept

staring at her.

She pushed the thought to the back of her mind. Maybe she thought she'd seen something, but it was all a trick of the light. They weren’t in college anymore. She wasn’t going to let herself imagine things that just weren’t there.

Not again. Not after the last time.

After all, there was no way in hell someone like Logan Grant would be looking at her as anything other than a charity case. His best friend’s helpless little sister. A GI Joe in a Barbie disguise.

No, whatever she'd thought, Logan was not interested in her.

"What else could there possibly be to shop for?" she asked.

"Make up. It'll be quick." He motioned for her to follow him, then set off for the neon-lit cosmetics counter.

"I've never had to work this hard for dinner before," she said.

He paused in his tracks and glanced at her over his shoulder, a mocking smile on his face. Then, after a moment, she realized the implications of what she'd said.

"I meant like—"

He held up a hand and started off again. "No need to explain. I won't mention it to your brother."

Perfect. At least with the way her face was heating up, he wouldn't push her to wear blush.

When they finally reached the florescent sample counter, they parked on the two stools in front of the wide, circular mirror and she began fiddling with the piles of compacts and palettes that were across the counter.

"Why do I get the impression this is going to be like the blind leading the incurably glaucomic?" she groaned, then coughed as a plume of dust wafted up from the powder puff in her hand.

"Don't be so dramatic. How hard could it be?" He took a palette from between her fingers and she crossed her legs as the thrill of contact rippled through her.

He's just not that into you. He's just not that into you. He's just not that into you.

"I've seen tons of women do that smoky eye thing. It's got to be easy."

He took a Q-tip from one of the clear, plastic containers on the counter and blotted at something that looked scarily like deep, black powdered eye shadow.

"I think—"

He shushed her and held up a finger. "Allow the master to work. We’re supposed to do things my way and that's what we're going to do. Now close your eyes."

She bit back the rest of her arguments and followed his instructions. She flinched as the cotton swabbed her, but it only lasted a minute before he spoke again.

"Do you mind if I move closer?"

The thrashing of her heart rose from the hollow of her throat to the constant, insistent pounding of her temples, but she shook her head. Because she was a dummy like that.

The metal chair scrapped along the ceramic flooring, but she didn't open her eyes. She didn't have to. The heat of his leg brushing against her bare thigh and the smell of his spicy aftershave were all she needed to know that he was way too close for comfort. Or, more accurately, for her sanity.

She swallowed hard and the brush swept over her again in a wide arc. She was surprised by the gentleness of his calloused thumb caressing the space beneath her lid.

"A little extra. Sorry," he said, then blew a steady stream of warm breath onto her cheek to remove the rest.