Camille and Addison had made the arrangements, and here she sat, in a quiet deli on 16th Street, waiting for Dustin to show up.

If he actually materialized.

She still wasn’t convinced he was a willing guinea pig in this experiment, and that fact was something she meant to establish before this day was over. She wouldn’t blame him if he found somewhere else to be and didn’t make their meeting at all.

He was already twelve minutes late to their appointment, not that she was counting. She tried to distract herself by watching the people around her, the usual eclectic hodgepodge of faces and accents that made Denver so interesting. Coffee shops were the best for finding interesting people to view.

But no matter how hard she tried, her gaze kept straying back to the front door, her adrenaline rushing every time the bell indicated a new customer was entering or exiting.

She had purposefully taken a seat at a corner table where she could easily see the entrance. She wanted to have a moment to watch Dustin before they were formally introduced.

She wiped her palms against her conservative navy blue, calf-length-split rayon skirt, ostensibly to straighten it—for at least the tenth time. She straightened her back and adjusted her posture, an incidental habit she was hardly aware of but often performed.

Suddenly a man burst through the door like a Tasmanian devil, lifting his hat and scrubbing his hands through his thick black hair. He looked around, his eyes sweeping across the tables with a glazed, harried look.

He was obviously searching for someone, and he definitely fit the profile she’d been given for Mr. Fairfax—six feet tall, medium build, black hair, green eyes.

Isobel froze, not giving any indication she saw him at all. She lowered her eyes to the table and pinched her lips.

She was afraid this was how it would be.

Her first impression wasn’t good.

Dustin’s black hair, what she could see of it from under a backward-faced, navy newsboy cap, was long—nearly shoulder length—and thick and curly. She wondered if anyone had ever told him his hair-style had gone out in the eighties.

Way out.

The thought made her laugh, and she politely covered her mouth with her hand.

His big green eyes were friendly, though, and he was smiling. Those were immediate pluses, in her book. Not many people faced life with a grin these days. It was a rare blessing to see.

Polishing up the outside of a man would be a piece of cake for her, but how could she ever hope to turn some weirdo into a socialite?

Apparently, that was one worry she could cross off her list. Kindness showed in every line of his face. Somehow, after seeing him in person, she felt in her heart she could work with him.

His clothes were another matter.

He was attired in faded, holey blue jeans and a navy blue T-shirt that had seen better days. She couldn’t even decipher the writing on the front. And his old tennis shoes—once white, as far as she could guess, but now a scuffed gray—were abominable.

She bit her bottom lip thoughtfully. Part of her screamed to duck under the table, however ungracefully, and hide from the man. Back out of the plan. Get away from it all.

But then she remembered her purpose here, and with this thought came resolution. This was a job like any other job, however different in form it—he—presented itself.

It was time to buck up and do what she was hired to do.

Of course, Dustin was an unconventional scalawag who was continually late to his appointments. Hadn’t she discussed this very thing with Addison and Camille? Why else would Addison feel compelled to hire an image consultant to clean him up and generally organize his life for him?

And how hard could it be, really?

Her mind was already envisioning a sharp pair of scissors in her hand, lopping off great handfuls of his thick black hair. Her smile widened.

“Mr. Fairfax,” she called, waving her hand. “Over here.”

The man turned at her voice and smiled as he approached. “Please, call me Dustin,” he said, his voice deep and resonant. “All my friends do. And you must be Iz-a-belle,” he said, pronouncing her name with a crisp Italian accent. His emphasis was strongly on the last syllable. “Belle. It has a nice ring to it.” He laughed at his own joke, but Isobel just shook her head.

She stared at him for a moment, trying to get her bearings. No one had ever, in the whole course of her life, called her Belle before.

Everyone, even her mother, called her Isobel. Camille called her Izzy sometimes, but they had known each other forever.

“Isobel Buckley,” she corrected subtly, hoping he’d take the hint.

“Dustin Fairfax,” he said, turning his chair around and straddling it. “But of course, you already know my name.”

“Yes,” she agreed mildly, linking her fingers on the tabletop to keep from fidgeting. It was important that Dustin have confidence in her dignity and refinement if he was going to take any advice from her. It wasn’t his problem she was feeling as if she were walking on shaky ground at the moment.

“Don’t feel awkward on my account,” he said with a wink.

Despite herself, her heart fluttered. The man was certainly a charmer, if a badly dressed one. And how had he known she was feeling off-kilter? Had he seen it in her expression? She determined then and there to take better control of herself and the situation.

She cleared her throat and looped a lock of her deep brown hair around her index finger, twirling it in lazy circles. “Let’s start at the beginning,” she suggested.

“Sounds reasonable,” he agreed. That he was genuinely amicable was clearly apparent to Isobel and worked immediately in his favor. He appeared unusually relaxed and free of the usual stark brassiness most men his age wore about themselves like a cloak.

Dustin was simply himself, and he offered that openness willingly to her; and, she suspected, to all those he encountered in the—what was it?

Oh, yes. Flower shop.

If she was successful in her endeavor, she very well could be about to change all that. It was one of the things his brother had mentioned—in the negative category of Dustin’s life.

One small shop was all he owned. He didn’t even have a second one located across town at one of the many available malls and outlets.

She felt a shiver she couldn’t identify as anticipation or warning.

“You were late,” she said without preamble. She had to start somewhere.

“I had the worst time finding a place to park,” he explained with a shrug and an easy grin. “You know how Denver parking can be.”

“You drove your car?” Isobel asked, surprise seeping into her voice.

“Doesn’t everybody?”

She knew he was teasing her, but she couldn’t resist answering him. “I assumed—well—that you could walk here from your shop. Or take the mall bus, although I admit that doesn’t appeal to me, either.”

His grin widened. “I did walk. My shop is only a few blocks down from here. But what would have been the fun in telling you that?” He chuckled. “I drove my car to work, though, since I live in the suburbs. I’m telling you this in case you want to tool around in it later.” He gave her a wide, cheesy grin.

Dustin was clearly on the far side of sense. What had she gotten herself into?

“As I’m sure you’ll quickly learn,” he clarified, “I’m not everybody. Run-of-the-mill does not apply to me. I often walk, but I have a nifty little sports car and I like to drive it.”

“Oh,” she said lamely.

“And you came in…?”

The question dangled before her, taunting her silently for an answer.

She blushed. “A Towncar.”

“Yeah? Huh. Well, what do you know? That doesn’t surprise me in the least. You look the type. You wouldn’t catch me dead in a Towncar, though.”

“Why is that?” she asked, intrigued despite wondering if his attitude might be condescending to her. It didn’t show in his tone or facial expression. His smile was genuine and kind. He had a strong, masculine smile that made her heart beat faster in response.