Page 84 of This is a Kissing Book

Vivant leads me into a room where a woman in delicate pink scrubs waits, surrounded by glossy skincare products and shiny instruments. “You’re in great hands with Mirabelle.”

I want to keep hold of my phone as a lifeline, but Mirabelle gestures with an elegant sweep of her hand that I leave it in a mirrored tray by the door.

“We’ll start with the Rivière de Diamantes exfoliating treatment,” she says cheerfully, like she’s offering me a cup of coffee instead of a procedure I can’t pronounce.

For the next three hours, I’m buffed, polished, massaged, and transformed. Between treatments, I sneak peeks at my phone. Like the best friend she is, Oly doesn’t abandon me in my luxe time of need.

Oly: Still waiting for details. And the after picture.

Me: I’m currently covered in what the technician called a jade maske—no, that’s not a typo. Everything here seems to have the letter E at the end, and not because it’s old-tyme like that village we visited on our road trip a few years ago. At present, I’m cuisine.

Oly: Do I need to send the authorities?

Me: Autocorrect. It should say cuisiner.

Oly: If my three years of French serve, that means cooking. I’m not sure that’s much better. Don’t tell me Linc sent you into a Lion’s den of cannibals.

Me: No, that would be tonight.

Oly: You have me worried. NOT joking. I will be down there with a SWAT team in five minutes if necessary.

Me: Sorry, it’s possible that I’m high on lavender essential oil. I’ve never been so relaxed.

Oly: Last I checked, that’s not a controlled substance. But your mileage may vary.

Another technician interrupts my texting to have me rinse this mud off before cycling me through a moisturizing process. I send a few more no-context photos so Oly doesn’t bust into the building accompanied by men in black and body armor, but otherwise my phone stays in yet another mirrored tray until I get to the manicure and pedicure room.

Me: What I mean is we’re going to a fancy party tonight.

Oly: That escalated quickly.

Me: It’s not like that. We’re investigating something together.

Oly: Investigating or “investigating?” With air quotes and a wink, wink.

Me: The actual kind. Art fraud. Maybe. Keep it on the hush.

Oly: Juliana Grace Lindley!!! Art fraud is serious business. Do you trust this guy?

I pause, my fingers hovering over the keyboard while a technician works magic on my feet. Do I trust Linc? This morning, I woke up on his couch, feeling safer and more content than … I ever have. But trust is a luxury that I haven’t always been able to easily afford.

Me: I’m being careful.

Oly: That’s not what I asked.

The hair stylist calls me over before I have a chance to answer, which is probably for the best since I’m not sure what to say. I have no context for how I feel. The photo of me would be a big blank question mark. Maybe with heart eyes.

Two hours later, I stare at my reflection in disbelief. The woman looking back at me has perfectly styled blonde waves that catch the light like spun gold, skin that seems to glow from within, and somehow, they’ve made my gray eyes look twice their normal size.

Before I leave, a slender woman in a sheath dress leads me to a room with a large poof in the middle and surrounded by geometric mirrors and numerous garment bags.

This woman introduces herself as Jane, a personal shopper. “Mr. Sullivan wanted you to go shopping, but time is of the essence, so he sent me.”

She works efficiently, even though this feels very much like a paper doll game show as I change in and out of an assortment of dresses that border on gowns. Offering nothing more than a prim nod, Jane settles on a midnight blue frock.

With a spin of her finger, she instructs me to turn around and take a look in the mirror. The dress skims my curves in all the right places. I hardly recognize myself.

I take another selfie and send it to Oly.