Did I ever feel this way with Brittany?
But she’s the last person I ever want to think of, so I dropkick thoughts of her to the curb as I take in Skylar, with glossy lips, long eyelashes, and auburn hair falling in soft waves, styled like she’s stepped out ofThe Great Gatsby.
I can’t even stand how beautiful she is. “You are definitely my lucky color.”
She plucks at the fabric. “Can you believe I found this at Champagne Taste?”
I have no idea what that is, but I’m guessing it’s a thrift shop. So I just say, “Yes, I can. Because you find everything.”
Including…me.
Before I say that, I thrust out the box, blinking and still trying to take in this vision in front of me.
She flicks it open and gasps. “Ford,” she says softly, reverently.
She told me she was wearing a vintage dress, so I went to a jewelry shop and asked for a matching necklace. A vintage choker with a blue topaz pendant.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, then lifts her hair, her bright, big eyes full of vulnerability as she says, “Put it on me.”
My fingers are normally steady. They’re supposed to be. But I slip undoing it.
My mouth is dry, and my voice is hoarse as I say, “Turn around.”
She complies, hair piled into her hands, her summertime scent drifting under my nose and intoxicating me. I loop the necklace around her neck, willing my heart to settle, and I manage to clasp it without making a fool of myself.
But I can only be so strong. I lean in, press a decadent kiss to the back of her neck, and say, “You’re incredible.”
It’s easier than sayingI’m falling for you.
Maybe soon, I’ll have the guts to say that. For now, I take her hand, and we go.
When we arrive at the nearby hotel, we walk through the sleek lobby, with a modern waterfall structure set against a black stone wall. Mirrored panels reflect opulent chandeliers above. I’m holding Skylar’s hand the whole time, running my thumb between her fingers, unable to stop touching her.
This is a fake date. For my mother. To ward off hungry matchmakers—from the Cordelia Harringtons, Kahlia Mayamis, and Sunil Bakshis who were exhausting Mom with date offers.
But fending off romantic setups feels like a distant reason for this date, one born of another era. As I walk toward the ballroom with Skylar, nothing about us feels fake. There’s no ruse. There’s no facade. There’s only this…new reality.
“Thanks for coming to this. Mom appreciates it,” I say. But that’s not the reason I’m saying it.
Skylar must know it, too, because she says, “I like her, but I don’t think that’s why you want me here.”
Ah, fuck. She can see right through me. Her honesty excites me. And steadies me. It does something warm to my heart. “You are right,” I say. “And I know they’re your favorite words.”
“They are,” she says with a happy shrug.
I give her a quick kiss, then walk in, buoyed by the same kind of can’t-lose attitude I carry with me every damn time I hit the ice for a game.
As servers weave through a glittery crowd, offering trays of caprese-stuffed mushrooms and cranberry baked brie bites along with flutes of champagne, I nudge Skylar. “I know you like champagne,” I whisper.
“I knowyoulike champagne,” she counters.
“On you,” I say, stopping to grab two flutes and thank a server.
In the middle of the ballroom, with a string quartet in the corner playing pop tunes, I hold up my flute in a toast.
“To…” I stop before I sayfake dates.Because fuck it. Just fuck it. “To real dates.”
A smile ignites on her beautiful face. “Real dates, Ford Devon? You sure about that?” she asks with a sassy challenge.
