THE NEXT THING MATT knew, Candy was hustling him past the shops toward his appointment with an optician, babbling about how contacts would let him see the world in a whole new way, and wouldn’t that be fabulous?

For a moment, he longed to be back at the beach house quietly catching up on work, not jangled and tugged and hassled by his chirpy colleague. He’d almost ditched the hangover, but Candy made his head hurt all over again.

“While you’re getting fitted for lenses, I’ll pick out clothes you can try on. Multitasking. Sound good?”

“Sure.” She was so damned eager to fix him up, he could hardly say no.

“Your hair appointment’s in an hour. In between, we’ll collect some business cards.”

“Business cards?”

“Networking practice. We’re competing for business cards, remember?”

“Uh, sure. I guess. Sounds…hectic.” He was having enough trouble with losing his glasses and whatever hair style she would cook up. No dye. Or bleach. He’d say no to that.

“That’s how I like to work, Matt. Efficient, organized, on top of things, never waste a minute.” She snapped her fingers three times.

“Unless a neighbor’s got a missing dog.”

“That was an unusual case.” She frowned at him.

“I’m joking, okay?” What was with her? She kept trying to hide her personality, pointing out how non-Candy she could be. It was as though she were interviewing for her job. That was a downside to becoming a manager. People stopped behaving normally around you. He hated that. In fact, he intended to talk about it at the first meeting of his new teams.

That made his gut clutch. He should be planning the teams now instead of dawdling at a mall. He had to consider skills, knowledge, work style, potential and, thanks to the PQ2, personality. Everyone had pros and cons and some people worked better with others.

Candy was one of his problem placements. She was creative and a high producer, typo-laden report notwithstanding. He wished he could clone her for all five teams.

He’d love to set her up to float, but that wouldn’t work. To ensure mutual responsibility, the teams had to be self-sufficient. Only outside consultants worked that way. If only Candy were one. She’d perform rings around the guy Scott hired when they were overloaded or stumped.

Matt had to figure out where to put her. And where everyone else would work best. The personnel aspects of the VP job were his weak point. It was related to his lack of people skills, he guessed. What had Candy said he was? Nonsocial. Yeah. He smiled.

Hell, Candy could put the teams together in a heartbeat. She knew everyone down to shoe sizes. He’d love to get her opinion, but that was impossible. Inappropriate with someone he supervised.

Even worse now that they’d slept together. Candy had had to shake him from his sexual haze, reminding him that a perfect storm of booze, vacation and opportunity had brought them together.

You’re not my type. She’d had to remind him. She was right, but it hurt to hear. He should be grateful she’d been so eager to forget what had happened. For all her wild ways, she was a practical person. He still felt uneasy, though. What he’d done was so out of character, even taking the Tsunami into account, he hardly recognized himself. After Candy was finished with him today, he’d look like a stranger, too.

At the eyeglass place, Candy signed him in and breezed off to select a new wardrobe, intent on her role as his female Henry Higgins, transforming him into Fun Guy.

When Candy returned, the optician was watching him practice putting the blasted lenses into his eyes. He’d flipped the right lens across the room, then onto his shoe. The left one was now tucked so far back under his eyelid it might require surgery to remove. No way would he go through this hassle every morning.

“Let me see how you look,” Candy said.

“Hang on.” He dug deep enough to bruise his eyeball, captured the plastic disk and centered it over his pupil. He blinked and Candy’s face swam into focus, almost making it worth the trouble.

“Oh, you look great,” Candy breathed. “Doesn’t he?”

“He has nice eyes,” the optician-Carol-said. “Very blue. They remind me of Greg Kinnear’s.”

“Exactly,” Candy said. “Or maybe Patrick Dempsey’s?”

“Oooh,” she said. “From Grey’s Anatomy? Him, too.”

“Thanks, I guess.” Matt cleared his throat, embarrassed to have two women carrying on about his eyes.

A clerk bagged up his paraphernalia-cases, cleaning fluids, spare lenses-and rang up the charges and he had to blink repeatedly to see clearly enough to determine whether he had a credit card or his driver’s license in his hand.

Once outside the shop, Candy danced backward in front of him as they walked. “Isn’t it great to be free of glasses?”

He blinked and squinted, fighting the lenses, which slid across his eyes like a car on ice. “I guess.”

“It feels funny at first, I know. That’s why you’re blinking so much. Soon you’ll be used to them.”

“I hope so.”

“It’s so worth it. No dents on your nose. Full peripheral vision. No steamed-up glasses when you make pasta. You can see to swim and in the shower and in bed at night. No bumping glasses when you kiss.” She stopped abruptly. “I mean…Anyway…I can really see your eyes now,” she said.

“So you feel closer to me?”

“Matt,” she said, warning him away from that kind of talk. He liked the way color flared in her cheeks, visible even under the pink from yesterday’s sun. “We’ve got thirty minutes before your haircut, so let’s go for some business cards.”

They agreed to meet at the hair salon and he watched her walk away, sandals clacking, butt tight, hips rocking in that irresistible way she had… Damn.

Thirty minutes and six business cards later, Matt entered the hair salon, which smelled so strongly of hairspray his eyes watered. Personally, he preferred an old-fashioned barber shop.

He was relieved to see he wasn’t the only male customer in the place. One guy was in a recliner at the sinks getting his hair washed and another was getting aluminum-foil squares painted into his hair. What? No way would he allow that to be done to him.

Candy waved him over, grinning and eager, and he realized he’d get cornrows and a lip piercing if she wanted it. What a chump he was.

“Here he is, Raul,” Candy said, when he reached her. “Raul, this is Matt. Matt, this is Raul and we are so lucky he could squeeze us in.”

“Sit.” Raul patted the back of the chair. “Let’s see what I have to work with.” Once Matt was in place, Raul ran his fingers through Matt’s hair, then fiddled with the ends, making shocked noises. “Look at that…So damaged…You’re using a harsh shampoo…And no conditioner. Men!”

He blew out a breath, then spoke to Candy. “Why they think it’s macho to neglect their hair, I’ll never understand.”

He braced his fingertips at the top of Matt’s head and wiggled them around, frowning like a doctor with a difficult diagnosis. “Light curl…lots of body…thick…” He fingered a strand, then dropped it, a scientist evaluating an experiment.

“Is that good?” Matt ventured.

Raul jerked his eyes to the mirror, as if startled that his victim was alive. “For some things.” He put his finger to his chin and stared at Matt’s reflection. “I’m thinking texturing, short in the back, tapered for style. Razor the ends. Oh, and a definite weave. Golden ash, I think.”

“A weave?” Matt said. Was that like braids?

Raul flipped open a notebook that held tiny whisk brooms of hair in a million shades. He held one next to Matt’s face. “Maybe honey blond?” He seemed to be talking to Candy now. “It’ll bring out his eyes. He has the best eyes. Brad Pitt without the smoky green.”

“The optician said Greg Kinnear,” Candy said. “But I was thinking Patrick Dempsey.”

“Not quite. Keifer Sutherland maybe? Anyway, gorgeous. So, honey blond it is.” He whipped away the hair and shut the notebook.