The Makeover Prescription. Christy Jeffries

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СКАЧАТЬ hours of sleep. But images of his client in all her spandex workout glory wouldn’t stop popping into his overactive mind, and he decided he might as well pull out his laptop and do some invoices in an effort to bore himself to sleep.

      He could go out to his garage and work on his Bronco, but because of his attention issues, once he got hyperfocused on a project, he would lose all sense of time and end up exhausted and cranky the following day.

      So, it was either crunching numbers or watching a late-night edition of SportsCenter, which he knew from past experience would only get him more frustrated.

      Picking the mentally healthier and more productive option, he sat up and switched on his bedside lamp before opening his nearby laptop. He logged onto his email and, in his inbox, he saw the very name of the source of his late-night thoughts. He clicked on the attached image and stared at her tile selection. He had to give credit to Just Julia. She wasn’t too outlandish in her remodeling requests. In fact, Kane had originally suggested white just because the doctor seemed like a plain vanilla kind of person. But seeing the bold colors of the tiles she’d picked—as well as the snug fabric of her high-end athletic wear—made him rethink his original opinion. She’d typed information about the brand and tracking numbers in the body of the email. But he squinted at the bottom left of the picture, seeing notes written on a yellow notepad off to the side.

      Although today’s encounter at the hospital made it a total of three times they’d seen each other in person, he’d emailed her with updates, and she’d stopped by the house in the evenings when he wasn’t there and left pictures carefully cut out of magazines along with handwritten descriptions on lined paper taped to the walls. Usually her notes were detailed instructions of what she liked or wanted, and even though they were long and tiresome to read, Kane would much rather deal with a client on paper than one in the flesh.

      Especially one whose curvaceous, damp flesh he’d been thinking about all evening.

      So when he saw the note by the bluish green tiles, his first instinct was to zoom in and see what special instructions she had for him now. Instead, he leaned closer as he read the words “Qualities I Want in a Man.”

      What in the world was this? His finger vibrated over the mouse pad, but refused to click on the button that would close the image.

      By the time he got to number three, he tried to tell himself that this obviously wasn’t meant for him to see. Yet like a pitch in midhurl, he couldn’t stop now. Why in the world would she write out such a ridiculous and pointless list? Or one so personal?

      Assuming she was the one who’d written it in the first place.

      It was her handwriting, though. He’d exchanged plans and inventories with her long enough to know that the woman put a ton of thought into every list she created. Freckles had made several offhand remarks this past week regarding her niece’s single status and lack of a social life. Maybe Just Julia was feeling inadequate in that department and was making an effort to step up her game.

      His eyes bounced around the enlarged image, trying to take all the information in at once while he told himself that there was no way he’d make the cut. Not that he wanted her looking in his direction, anyway. Kane had to take a few deep breaths to focus on what he was reading. Hell, were there any qualities on here that he even remotely possessed? He read it through again.

      Must be social.

      That certainly wasn’t him. Sure, it used to be, before his career had taken a nosedive, but nowadays, Kane viewed social situations like most batters viewed a curveball—confusing and oftentimes unavoidable.

      Must be educated and able to discuss current events.

      Nope. Kane Chatterson barely sat still long enough in class to make it out of high school with a diploma. He had a feeling even that accomplishment was the result of sympathetic teachers and his dad’s generous donation to the library building fund.

      Must be patient and not lose his temper.

      Kylie once told him that he had the patience of a hummingbird, which said a lot, considering his sister’s only speed was overdrive.

      Must enjoy swimming or similar civilized athletic pursuits.

      Sure, baseball could be civilized if compared to rugby or ice hockey or cage fighting, for instance. But as any of the three million YouTube viewers would attest, the swinging bats and punches and profanity involved in the Brawlgate scandal two years ago were anything but civil.

      Strong.

      In terms of what? Before his shoulder injury, Kane could bench-press two-fifty and hurl a fastball ninety-nine miles per hour. But Erica, his ex, had once called him emotionally unavailable and a weak excuse for a boyfriend. So he was fifty-fifty in the strength department.

      Good with his hands.

      Kane looked at his palms, trying to imagine how his work-worn, callous hands would compare with the uppity doctor’s long, graceful fingers that meticulously saved lives. Meh.

      Flannel.

      He glanced at his open closet and the soft plaid shirts hanging in order by color. He had a feeling the prim Navy captain meant the man she was looking for must prefer wearing flannel pajamas or some other conservative outfit to bed.

      Kane stretched out under his quilt and tried not to grin at how shocked Just Julia would be if she could see the complete lack of flannel between his sheets right now. Or the complete lack of any material, for that matter.

      The sudden thought of the attractive woman seeing him naked in bed caused an unexpected response, and Kane had to shift his computer lower on his lap.

      Speaking of lists, maybe he should rethink the set of rules he’d laid out for himself. Specifically, the one about him not dating his clients. Or thinking about their damp blond hair pulled back away from their high, flushed cheekbones.

      Kane shook his head, trying to envision Just Julia in plain blue scrubs and an oversize white coat. If he concentrated hard enough, maybe he could imagine her green eyes looking through him, instead of being dilated from physical exertion and rounded in surprise when she’d glanced up from her cell phone and collided with him in the hospital hallway earlier today.

      He slammed the laptop closed in frustration, then remembered their conversation and her plan to move into her house in a week. Kane needed to get as much work as possible done before then so he wouldn’t have to risk running into her upstairs. Near her bedroom. He opened the computer again and logged on to the building supply store’s website to place an order for the tiles.

      That done, he set his laptop off to the side and turned out his lamp, knowing he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep for a long time. After a few minutes, he pulled the laptop over again, opened his email account and finally sent her a reply, using as few words as he dared.

      Ordered tile. Should be in stock next Wed. Then, at the last second, he couldn’t help adding, Kitchen not done. Maybe that would stall her and he could buy himself some more time. And avoid running into the pretty doctor at all costs.

      * * *

      Julia carried the last box down the stairs from her officer’s quarters and shoved it into the backseat of her red MINI Cooper. How sad was it that all of her personal belongings fit into a car with the cubic space of a safe-deposit box? Well, technically, the attic at the Georgetown house was filled with family heirlooms and photo СКАЧАТЬ