She greeted me with a frown. “That’s not what you’re planning on wearing, is it?”

I glanced down at the gray J.Crew sheath I’d worn to work, trying to see it through Audrey’s eyes. It had always been one of my favorite dresses, an understated, easy piece with a matching suit jacket, but now I realized how boring it was.

“Of course not,” I said.

Her light eyes twinkled as she laughed. “Liar. But don’t worry. I’m here to help.”

From her bag, Audrey produced a black T-shirt with a plunging neckline.

“I can’t wear this,” I told her. “There’s no way I can pull it off.”

“You absolutely can.”

“No, Audrey—”

“It’ll look great on you,” she interrupted. “Come on, Kitty-Cat. Trust me.”

I eyed the shirt nervously, imagining my thin, pale chest exposed by the expansive V-neck. How would that be appealing to Connor?

“You trust me, don’t you?” she pressed.

I wanted to trust Audrey. I wanted to believe she could work a miracle.

“Of course,” I finally said. “I trust you.”

AUDREY SET UP her laptop on my bathroom counter and began searching for YouTube videos on eyebrow shaping. Shame burned in my chest as she clicked through video after video, a pair of neon-pink tweezers in her hand.

“Sorry about these masculine brows,” I murmured, running my fingers over them self-consciously.

“Are you kidding? You have amazing brows.”

I searched her face for signs of sarcasm, but saw none.

“I would kill for strong brows like yours. That’s why I’m looking up these videos—I want to make sure I’m doing you justice. I only have these little scraggly things to work with.”

I studied Audrey’s eyebrows, realizing with surprise that they weren’t the perfect, tawny arches they appeared to be. They were sparser than I thought, filled in with pencil and powder.

“Your eyebrows look great,” I said honestly.

“It’s all smoke and mirrors,” she said, taking hold of my face in one hand. “Now don’t move.”

AS AUDREY SMOOTHED creamy foundation over my skin, I couldn’t help but think of Emily Snow daubing Cover Girl on my face in our cabin. Look at you, she’d chirped. Just like a model.

I shuddered.

“Hold still,” Audrey said. “Unless you want makeup in your eye. Then you do you.”

“Sorry.”

“Suck in your cheeks,” she ordered, picking up a peachy-pink blush and a fluffy brush.

I complied, contorting my face and closing my eyes as Audrey dusted me with color. Next came contouring powder, multiple eye shadows, eyeliner, false eyelashes, mascara, brow pencil, brow gel, highlighter, and lip gloss, after which she turned to my hair. She smoothed a glossy serum through my mane and then twisted a few face-framing pieces with a curling wand.

She took a step back and studied me for a moment before breaking into a huge smile. “Take a look! What do you think?”

With trepidation, I rose and turned to the bathroom mirror. I gasped. Audrey had used so many products I’d expected to look like a pageant contestant, but I didn’t. I looked like myself, only better, as if I were lit from within.