My stomach clenches for an entirely different reason than when I took my dress off in front of Gabriel. I know that she isn’t looking at me like something she wants to devour, but she’ll still see my insecurities. How can a woman like her understand what it’s like to be too small in some places, too big in others, forever the wrong thing? How can she understand chili juice and the shame I always feel in my body?
I’m frozen with my hands clenched in fabric, my mind in a panic. How will I get through this? She’s just another turn, and I need to make it all the way to the center of the labyrinth.
Her hands grasp my shoulders and shake gently. “Avery, look at me.”
After a deep breath I meet her blue gaze.
“You’re beautiful, and you’re brave, and you’re unspeakably strong. Nothing those men do out there can change that. Got it?”
And somehow I realize she does know what it’s like—the shame and the fear.
That knowledge allows me to pull the dress away and reveal myself.
She nods in satisfaction. “We’ll have the boys eating out of your hand.” Her gaze drops between my legs. “But first things first, that has to go.”
“My panties?”
“Your hair.”
I glance down, part horrified, part curious. The navy-blue panties I’m wearing cover the neatly trimmed hair underneath. “How did you—”
“How did I know? Oh honey, I’ve been doing this a long time.” Her eyes study me as if they can read every secret that way. “You’ve never been completely bare, have you?”
It always felt unnecessary—and okay, a little scary. I shake my head.
She smiles, turning to a small pot that’s plugged into the wall. Something’s melting inside there. Wax. “It’s freeing, I promise. And it only hurts for a few minutes.”Chapter ElevenAn hour later I’ve been waxed and primped all over my body, whimpers escaping me while she murmurs sympathetically. Now I’m wearing a robe while she does my makeup, a natural look that’s somehow using more makeup than I’ve ever seen. Contouring, she calls it. I can’t deny the effect is stunning on my cheekbones. My eyes almost look bare, even though there’s shadow to make them wider. More like a doe. On my lips she paints a pale pink, like cotton candy.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
“Relieved the waxing is over,” I say honestly. I’m still feeling tender there.
“It’s not my favorite part of the process, but the extra sensitivity you get will help you. And the men, they go crazy for it.”
I’m not sure I’ve made a man go crazy for anything. “What if no one bids on me?”
She laughs softly. “Do you really think that will happen?”
“No,” I admit, but it doesn’t have anything to do with confidence. I had been to enough charity auctions to know that rich old men would buy anything—broken furniture that was owned by the Queen of England, the golf ball that lost a crucial championship. “I know someone will buy me. I just don’t know whether it will be enough.”
There isn’t an insurance policy on something like this. If someone buys me for less than the balance of that real estate bill, I’ll lose the house. And I’ll still have to sleep with him.
“Stand up,” Candy says, her command so effortless—and so kind.
When I stand, the silk robe falls open. I gave up on modesty around the time she ripped hardened wax off my most private places, but it will be very different with a roomful of men.
She picks up a small pot of pale pink shimmer. She sweeps the brush into the powder, every move almost sensual. I’m already wearing blush, and I didn’t have to stand up to apply it.
Her gaze goes to my breasts, still partially hidden by the sides of the robe.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
Her expression turns sympathetic. “It might seem over-the-top, but those men are used to over-the-top. And those lights will wash you right out. This is the palest color that will work.”
Her hands are gentle as they push the silk aside. The cool air brushes over my nipples, turning them into hard points. I’m shocked—in part because I wasn’t sure the men would see my bare breasts during the auction. And in part because my body responds to her gaze almost with arousal.
As if I’m a work of art, she applies the brush to my nipples. She’s right that it’s not a drastic effect. They actually look kind of pretty like that, something I never imagined I could think.
“Men are very simple creatures,” she says without looking up from my breast. “They like to feel important, to feel smart. They like to feel strong.”
I wasn’t sure women were so different when she put it that way. Those things sounded great to me, especially after feeling so inordinately weak. “How do you make them feel that way?”