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She scrunches her nose up. “You look like Sister Agatha from primary school.”
“I do not!” Smoothing my hands over the leather, I say, “And this is your skirt anyway!”
Eyeing the skirt, her eyes light up. “Hey, I’ve been looking for that!”
I shrug. “You left it over a year ago. Fair game.”
“Looks better on you though, doesn’t it.” She studies my face. “I like your makeup.”
“Thank you.” I push the thought of Freya from my mind, knowing her loyalty to her brother is the reason I haven’t heard from her.
Carol Ann holds out her hand. “Here. Let me help. Give me that sweater.”
I shrug out of the cardigan and hand it to her. She stuffs it in her white leather oversized purse. Taking the hem of my short shirt sleeves in her fingers, she rolls them up, folding the material inward until it looks like I’m wearing a sleeveless shirt.
“Let me see.”
Stepping back, she eyes me again. She gives a firm nod. “Lose the scrunchie.”
I slip the scrunchie from my head, and my hair tumbles over my shoulders in waves. Carol Ann goes to work, fluffing and smoothing the curls into place.
“Much sexier.” She reaches into her bag’s pocket and digs up a black lipstick tube. “Here. Put this on.”
I take off the cap, revealing bright red. “You know I can’t wear the same colors as you. And the craziest I’ll go is a nice coral.”
“Come on, Fiona. It’s war paint.”
Popping the cap on, I hand it back to her.
She takes it back. “Fine, fine. You look good enough, I suppose.”
“Thanks?” I laugh.
She stuffs the lipstick tube into her purse with a roll of her eyes. “Come on. We don’t want to be late.” She throws the car into Drive, and we’re off. “So, what have you been up to,” she asks.
“Nothing. Same ol’, same ol’.” I’m half tempted to tell her that Callum Burnes kidnapped me to be his wife.
But I don’t.
I can’t say his name without crying.
Instead, I fill her in on my island life. “Dad’s been sober, so I’m keeping a close eye on him.”
“Is he! How long now?” she asks.
“Weeks.” Pride rises in my voice.
“Good for him. Good for you, too! If only your sweet mam could have lived to see it.”
“God rest her soul,” we say in unison.
We chat for the hour’s drive it takes to get to the nearest town, which has a population large enough to know we’re not related to most of the dating pool. She parks her wee black sedan, giving me a wide grin. “Ready?”
“Aye,” I lie.
Following her in, I discreetly roll my T-shirt sleeves back into place but leave my hair down.
Nerves hinder any excitement I may have felt earlier as we make our way through the crowded bar. Why couldn’t we just have done a lovely girls’ night? Why speed dating? Tons of people my age and a bit older stand around the bar, casually dressed, sipping beer or wine as they make small talk.
