Read Charleston with a Clever Cougar: A Dance with Danger Mystery #6 for Free Online

of red ankle socks rolled down at the top and a pair of my
chef clogs. All that I needed was my hair in braids and I could
pass for Pippi Longstocking. Either that or some deranged “Glee”
wannabe.
    Once I was presentable, I grabbed up my
pocketbook, my tablet, and my house keys and put them on the coffee
table in the living room, ready to go. As I waited, I dug my makeup
bag out of my purse and took a seat at the kitchen counter. I
pulled out my compact mirror and propped it against the side of my
antique cookie jar, so I wouldn’t have to hold it. Reaching into
the bag, I found my eye shadow and flipped it open. I picked up the
little stick with the foam pad and leaned in towards my makeshift
makeup table. Carefully swiping my eyelids with color as I followed
my progress in the tiny mirror, I then sat up and looked for my
eyeliner. I started to follow the shape of my lower lid. That’s
when the doorbell rang. With the speed of Mrs. Wiggins in an old
Carol Burnett skit, I crossed the room to greet my driver.
    “Morning.” It was the gnome with the green
eyes. He had traded in his oversized raincoat for a down vest,
which he wore over a black turtleneck, a fisherman’s sweater, and a
pair of faded jeans. On his feet, he wore a pair of black hiking
boots. Looking at him, I couldn’t help thinking that he was the
real-life version of the outdoor man in Ralph Lauren ads.
    “You! What are you doing here?” Even I heard
the accusatory note in my voice and flinched.
    “Does that mean you’re happy to see me?” he
wanted to know, one eyebrow lifted in curiosity.
    “I’m sorry. I was expecting someone else.”
Anyone else. Even Mrs. Pritchard, Old Saybrook’s most notorious
driver. She never went faster than twenty-five miles an hour, even
on Route 9. The cops gave up pulling her over with warnings about
traveling too slowly.
    “Disappointed?” He tilted his head, watching
me with intense eyes that burned slow and hot, giving off steady
heat.
    “No,” I insisted, suddenly feeling shy. I
reached for a more gracious tone. “No. I was waiting for my ride to
the shop. What are you doing here?”
    “I’m your ride to the shop,” he announced
matter-of-factly, with what seemed to be some healthy measure of
satisfaction.
    “Oh.” I was stunned.
    “You have a mark on your face,” he told me,
striding across the living room and taking a tissue from the box on
the end table. “Let me get that.”
    “That’s not necessary. I can do it.” Leaning
over the mirror again, I could see the black line, but when I
started to raise my right hand to wipe it away, the pain was
excruciating.
    “Ready to say ‘uncle’ yet?” He stood three
feet from me, tissue waving like a white flag. “I promise not to
bite your head off.”
    “I always do my own makeup,” I tried to
explain.
    “Well, if you want makeup done right, you’ll
have to accept my help. Either that, or go without.”
    Without makeup? The thought was impalpable.
But turning over my eyeliner to a stranger was equally
daunting.
    “Pretend I’m a surgeon and I’m going to fix
you up,” he told me. Reluctantly, I handed him the crayon. He
gently drew the lines above and below my lids before handing it
back and picking up the mirror to show me his handiwork. “How’s
that? Okay? Now what?”
    “Mascara.” I pointed to the tube on the
counter. “I usually just do the tips. And I hate clumps.”
    He carefully stroked the tips of the lashes,
used a finger to blot a clump of black goo, and then used the brush
to fluff them up, All said and done, he did a decent job on my
eyes. I wouldn’t be a walking ad for a zombie when I got to the
shop.
    “Lipstick?”
    “Lip gloss,” I corrected him. There was a
tube of Maybelline Misty Pink in my makeup bag.
    “I’ve always wanted to know the difference
between lipstick and lip gloss,” he told me. I could see the tiny
hairs on his masculine hand as he swiped my lips with the wand.
    “I have no clue. I only