The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,265

on a nearby wall hook and return to my station.

“Weak.” I slam my bag on the white porcelain sink and start digging inside for a hairbrush, a hair tie, anything to tame my damp baby-blonde waves. “Weak, weak, weak.”

I locate a mini wet-brush and a rubber band so stretched it could snap without warning, and then I rake my hair back, twisting it into a low bun and securing it at the nape of my neck.

When I glance up again, I realize my mascara has settled beneath my lower lash line—not exactly the smoky eye look I was intending.

Yanking a paper towel from the nearby dispenser, I fold it into fourths before running it under warm water.

Behind me, a bathroom stall door swings open and a leggy blonde in an ecru sweater dress and black knee-high boots saunters out, bending over the sink a second later to wash her hands. Our gazes intersect as I attempt to remove the remnants of my Great Lash, and she offers a sympathetic half-smile.

“You okay?” The woman reaches for a paper towel, unhurried. Her ballet-pink nails are shiny and shellacked, her fingers long and slender. Everything about her is soft and elegant, a jarring contrast against my current condition.

“Wasn’t expecting to get caught in the downpour. Supposed to be meeting someone in a few minutes. Kind of hoping he stands me up.”

“Too late to cancel?”

“I don’t know his number. A colleague at work set us up. It’s her nephew. All I know is he’s six feet tall with dark hair and his name is Garrett. She says he’s unbelievably handsome but she’s his aunt, so …” I laugh through my nose at the absurdity of this entire situation, and it’s then that I notice a section of hair still sticking out. Carefully I tug out the elastic and re-do my low bun, smoothing my palms over my half-dried mane. But there’s nothing I can do about the fully-dried mascara under my eyes. “I can’t meet a complete stranger looking like this.”

The easy-breezy siren of a woman studies my face before placing her oversized handbag next to her sink.

“It just so happens I work at the Catherine DeAngelo makeup counter at the mall on weekends.” Her voice is light, sing-songish “Which means I’ve got you, girl.”

Within seconds, she pulls out a travel-sized pack of chamomile-infused makeup remover towelettes and offers them with a wink.

“You’re a saint. Truly. Thank you so much.” I tug one wipe from the case and clean myself up, only when I’m done, I look more exhausted than fresh-faced.

I swear the circles beneath my eyes are a shade darker than before—probably from all the rubbing and scrubbing—and my pale lashes are practically invisible.

I exhale, reminding myself that looks aren’t everything, that there’s a chance he’ll find my drowned rat appearance … endearing?

“Uh oh. I know that look. Hold on.” Dipping a hand to the bottom of her bag, she feels around before producing a fistful of miniature lipsticks and mascaras. She checks the names on the bottom of the shiny gold tubes before handing me one. “This color would be perfect on you. Don’t get scared by how bright it looks in the tube. It’s completely different once it’s on. Oh, and here’s some mascara. These are brand new, by the way. In case you have a thing about germs.”

“Oh, honey. I teach kindergarten. Germs don’t scare me.” I bat my hand before graciously accepting her gifts.

Uncapping the lipstick, I’m met with a bold bullet the color of psychedelic poppies, but I trust this woman so I slick it over my lips. The payoff is sheer, like a wash of fresh color on my pale pink mouth, instantly bringing my pallid complexion back to life. I swipe on two coats of mascara next. It isn’t life-changing, but it offers a distraction from the dark circles, so I consider it a win.

“For the record, you look chic as hell—but you were beautiful before.” She flings her bag over her lithe shoulder, one hand on her hip. “And any idiot who would care that you got caught in a rainstorm wouldn’t be worth a second date anyway.”

“I know … it’s just … this is the first first date I’ve been on in … a long time.”

Five years to be exact.

I don’t go into the whole dead fiancé thing because I find it tends to depress people—myself included, and I don’t even know my new fairy godmother’s name.

Unpacking all that heaviness onto a kindhearted stranger