Page 289 of The First Taste

I look up, cocking a brow. He steps more fully into the sunroom, which has become a de facto haven for me. It’s warmer in here than anywhere else in the house and it’s well-lit to boot.

The butler bows his head very slightly. "Your team is here. Shall I tell them to come in?"

Somewhat exasperated, I push out a half exhale. "Sure, why not? What have I got to lose?"

He bows again and then disappears.

As I watch, a whole team of stylists file into the room, descending like hawks searching for their prey. There are four women and two men, all dressed in stylish black clothes. The men are in impeccably tailored suits, the women in chic dresses and heels.

Something inside me wrenches as I watch them parade in, pushing a rolling rack of clothing and carrying the tools of their trades. One of the men carries six white shoeboxes, and everyone else has their hands full with manicure kits, a giant hairdryer, or a set of rollers for my hair. The man with the shoeboxes sets them down on one of the side couches and turns to me with an even smile. He extends his hand to me, bowing his blonde head. I can see that his nails are neatly manicured, and his suede loafers have been recently brushed.

"Hello, darling. My name is Stephen." He turns to the crew, pointing them out as he goes. "That is Jessica, Sam, Mary, Mathilde, and that gentleman over there is Percival. We’re here to make you feel and look your absolute best. I promise, this will be completely painless, and you will feel radiant after we’re done."

He sticks his hand out, raising his brows in inspection. My cheeks feel warm as I shake his hand, my gaze sliding from Stephen to the rest of the group. Suddenly, all the fiery passion that I had a few hours ago has vanished. When I introduce myself, I feel awkward and clumsy. "I’m Talia."

He shakes my hand and then looks at me with an assessing gaze. He gestures for me to turn around.

"Can we see you spin?"

Flushing even brighter, I do a quick turn.

To Stephen's credit, he doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash. Neither do any of the rest of his team, either. They are all diligently working to set up their own individual stations. One for clothing, one for hair, and one for nails.

I notice that two of the women leave the room and return with their arms full of what looks to be quite heavy fabric. In no time flat, the women have set up a privacy curtain and hung an opaque white paisley cover around the box that they have created. It’s about four by two, and just looking at it makes me nervous.

"Exactly what will I have done today that requires such modesty?”

"Oh, darling. Don’t get caught up in that just yet. Let’s just start with the basics."

Stephen escorts me to one of the couches, where Percival has spread a tarp over the whole seat. Percival smiles as he snaps open a large black rayon sheet with a neck hole cut out of it. Stephen introduces me, then hustles off to the rack of clothing, unpacking shoes and tucking them under corresponding outfits.

Percival cocks his head and says, "Do you mind if I take your hair down from its bun?"

I feel embarrassed, though I don’t know why. I unwind my hair, and it cascades well past my shoulders.

I’ve never even had it cut by a professional before. Since I was little, Aunt Minnie has always cut our hair at the same time, over the kitchen sink. I never thought much about it until I got older. But even then, I figured that it didn’t really matter because I always kept my hair put up in an untidy bun anyway.

Percival nods to himself, rubbing his hands together. He looks at my hair. "May I touch your scalp? I like to get a feel for the hair before I start cutting."

I swallow. "Sure, I guess."

He dives right in, and his hands work through my hair, from front to back. "God, I love your color. Who does it?"

I give him a curious look. "What do you mean?"

He bends his head closer, looking at the strands of my copper-colored hair. "Well, is this your natural hair color?"

"Yes," I say. "What else would it be?"

He smiles and runs his hands through my hair, combing out tangles with his fingers. "It’s so beautiful. You’re very lucky."

I feel my cheeks warm again, and I shrug. "Thanks, I guess."

He holds up a finger and, heading over to a full-length mirror, carries it back to me. I see myself in the reflection, my hair a ratty mass, my cheeks pink, and my skirt loose and ill-fitting.

"Can you take off your jacket?" He suggests. “Just set it right over there, if you don’t mind."

Swallowing hard, I peel my coat off and discard it. As I walk back, holding my hands wide, I look in the mirror. I am wearing a thin black shirt tucked into the waist of my black skirt. It looks cheap, like an ancient artifact or something. Honestly, I’ve probably had the shirt since high school. I release a huge dramatic sigh, and Percival smiles patiently at me.