“Devon Adams?” Clarke questioned as he turned with the phone present to his ear before lifting his gaze to see the eccentric stylist spread his arms in a fantastical display of jazz hands. “May I introduce to you...your date.” With Clarke’s fingers lifted, Devon’s face altered from humored to emotionless; in such a way that made her nervous as Kayla made her way into view; better styled for the Met Gala than some rinky dink fundraiser. But as his expression dropped, she became increasingly nervous. She questioned if this had all been too much. However, both Clarke and Sydney had only amplified her already present beauty instead of layering her face with excessive makeup or adjusting her body type with a multitude of layers or padding. She was flawlessly herself to Devon; which is what made
