Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Macy exhales through her nose, shifting her phone so I get a dizzying glimpse of her bedroom ceiling. “Maybe he was nervous.”
I scoff. “Easton? Nervous?”
“Or avoiding you,” she amends, shrugging. “Which, fine, is also a dick move. But maybe he didn’t know what to say.”
“Um—hi? He could have said hi! Like a normal person!” Sheesh, as if it’s hard to have manners?
Macy winces. “Valid.”
“I know.” I flop onto my back. “It was humiliating.”
“Dial it down a notch, ma’am—it’s not that deep,” Macy says, but not as confidently as before. “Maybe he just—”
“Don’t,” I interrupt, holding one of my hands up to stop her. “Don’t try to make it better. It sucked. And it made me feel like crap.”
Macy sighs. “Okay, fine. It sucked. He sucked.”
“Thank you.”
A pause. I don’t want to dwell on this any longer, so I say, “Change the subject.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Show me your dress again.”
“Eh?”
“Your dress,” she repeats. “We’re manifesting here. I need another look at the outfit that’s gonna make every guy at prom—including a certain idiot—eat their hearts out.”
I let out a huff, feigning protest. “It’s literally the same dress as the other times you’ve seen it.”
“Doesn’t matter. Let me see it.”
“Fine—twist my arm.” I launch myself from the bed and go to the closet to retrieve my dress, holding it up for her so she can ooh and aah appropriately.
“Literally put it on, I want to see how it fits.”
Macy has in fact seen me in the dress twice already, but you know what they say: Third time is a charm.
“Isn’t it bad luck to keep putting it on before the big night?” I’ve already tried it on, like, ten times.
“No—that’s weddings. It’s bad luck for a groom to see the bride.” She rolls her eyes.
I hesitate, glancing at my gorgeous, spectacular dress.
Macy’s excitement is contagious, and part of me wants to see how it looks again, even if I told myself I wouldn’t keep touching it. No good comes from being impatient. The last thing I want is for it to get dirty.
Or god forbid something happens to the delicate fabric, like beads or sequins falling off.
“Okay. But if I split a seam or something, I’m blaming you.”
All too eagerly, I peel off my comfy outfit. I step into the gown with caution, giddy with anticipation, wishing I had someone to zip it up the back but not wanting to call my dad upstairs.
My best friend grins, eyes sparkling. “Hurry up, I’m waiting.”
I prop my phone on my desk, adjusting it so she gets a clear view. Carefully, I tug at the zipper, which I get only halfway up my back—I can’t reach it all the way. Partway will have to do. It slides over my skin perfectly, like a glove.
I smooth my hands down the front and turn to face Macy.
She gasps—as I expect her to. “Oh. My. God. You look incredible! Should I put my dress on, too?”
“Yes!” I do a little shimmy, letting the dress flicker and flare. “Uh, how is that even a question?”
Macy’s face is lit up with excitement and she claps a few times to punctuate her sentence.
“Yay! Let me grab mine! Give me a sec.”
For a few moments she disappears from view, leaving me grinning like an idiot—a very shimmery, well-dressed idiot.
I glance at myself in the mirror—my dress looks amazing, fitting perfectly. For the first time, I feel like prom night might actually be as magical as I imagined it would be back when I first started daydreaming about it, long before Easton came along.
Seconds later, my bestie reappears on the screen, grinning as she holds up her own dress—a gorgeous deep lavender-blue that suits her perfectly, bringing out the natural glow of her skin and the warmth in her eyes when she holds it against her body.
“I’m putting it on. Don’t go anywhere!” she tells me.
“I’m not. Where would I go in a prom dress?” I giggle, shaking my head. I watch as Macy props her phone on her dresser.
She changes quicker than I did since her dress isn’t as stiff and structured. Within minutes, she’s back in front of her phone, twirling and striking poses like a supermodel on the runway. The fabric flows effortlessly with her movements, gleaming under the bedroom light, and for a moment, I’m almost jealous of how princess-like it is.
“Look at you!” I cheer, unable to contain my excitement. “You look amazing!”
“You think so?”
“Of course I think so. It’s seriously fabulous! Totally fab—”
Three quick knocks tap on my door and I halt. “Harper?”
My heart almost flatlines. That is NOT my dad’s voice. Not even close.
I freeze, eyes locked on my bedroom door as the voice says my name again. It’s unmistakable; the realization slams into me like a freight train: Easton Westermann is in my house.
In my house!