I’m halfway through folding laundry when Mama calls, opening with a dramatic sigh that tells me everything.
“Delta, baby, I need you to come up to the house and get ready here.”
Lord. The prom-flashback headache hits instantly.
“Mama, I can get ready at my own house.”
“I know you can,” she says, sweet as syrup, “but I want to see you before you go. Indulge me. Please, Delta. Do it for me.”
There it is. The emotional blackmail. She barely uses it, but when she does, you’re done.
I exhale. “Fine, Mama. I’ll be there.”
“Good. And hurry up.” Click.
I stare at the phone because she really hung up like she didn’t just strong-arm me. I shower, lotion up, then slide into sweatpants, a T-shirt, and my fuzzy slides. I pack my makeup, shapewear, shoes, clutch, and jewelry in my garment bag and head to her house.
In my old bedroom, I slip into a black gown with gold beading that catches light like fire. The dress fits like it was poured on. Mama stands behind me at the vanity, smoothing my curls into a sleek, low bun, fingers sure and gentle.
“You look good, baby,” she murmurs, fastening the earrings Daddy bought me years ago. “These belong with that dress.”
Preston used to hate this jewelry. His name tries to crawl up my spine, and I shove it right back down. He doesn’t deserve another second.
I slide my feet into stilettos that already feel like torture devices, but there’s no turning back now. My clutch is on the bed, the dress is perfect, and I’m one deep breath away from losing my composure. I reach for the landline on the nightstand. The internal directory is taped beside it, though I don’t need it. I know all the extensions by heart.
I dial330 Cabin Three.
It barely rings once before he picks up.
“Buchanan.” His voice is low and warm and way too steady for what it does to me.
“Hi, Trace.” I keep my voice controlled, even though my heartbeat is doing the most. “Pick me up from Mama’s. We’ll head to the gala from there.”
There’s a pause; not hesitation, just acknowledgement. “Yes ma’am. I’ll be there.”
“Thank you,” I say, softer than I intend.
“My pleasure.”
I hang up and set the receiver back in its cradle, touch up my lipstick and spray on my perfume. When the doorbell rings, I grab my clutch, and head downstairs.
When I reach the bottom landing and see him talking with Mama, my lungs forget how to function. The tux hugs his shoulders and chest, his hair is brushed back, beard lined sharply, eyes warm and hungry when they land on me.
Every bit of air leaves him. I see it.
“Jesus, Delta,” he says, voice low, reverent. “You are… stunning.”
I try to play it cool, but my cheeks go hot. “Thank you. You don’t look too bad yourself.”
His hands go straight to his pockets, fingers flexing against the fabric. He wants to touch me. I feel it from here. His self-control looks like it hurts.
Mama claps her hands together. “Picture time! Get over here.”
We both give her that long-suffering look, but we go. Trace steps behind me, one hand gentle at my waist as Mama snaps the picture, and electricity shoots straight through me.
When we’re done, I glance at my favorite slides by the door, then down at the heels trying to kill me. “Lord, I wish I could take my sandals. These heels are going to murder me and they won’t fit in this clutch.”
Trace’s eyes flick to my shoes, then up my legs, then back to the slides. Heat curls low in my belly.
