The Contessa’s Brooch
I stripped off the flimsy plastic gloves that came with the dye and tossed them in the garbage can. Jake was still Jake, but a new and improved version with black hair. The beard might make a difference but would take a week or two to grow.
Still, I stepped back and walked around him to admire my work.
He studied himself in a hand mirror. “I hate it,” he said. “I don’t look like me. But I guess that’s the point.”
“It brings out the color of your eyes.” A little flattery might help. But that gave me another idea. Glasses. “Wait here.”
Like there was any place for him to go in my small apartment. There were several pairs of my old glasses stuck in a drawer. The prescription would screw with his vision, but if they changed his appearance, we could pick up a pair of low-level cheaters from the drugstore.
The first ones I found sported pink frames, bought on a whim, worn two or three times. While they would be a fun joke to play on Jake, I didn’t think he’d find them amusing. I dug deeper. The perfect pair with heavy black frames was in there somewhere.
He slipped them on and grinned. “I forgot how blind you are, Angel.” He squinted in the mirror. “I can’t see a darn thing!”
My eyesight wasn’t that bad.
He slipped them down his nose so he could peer over the top. “Makes me look like a professor.”
Not the ones I had in college. He was better looking. But I wasn’t about to say that out loud and inflate Jake’s ego.
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