Page 92 of Underground Prince

I smiled. “So you’ll help me get ready?”

“Will I?” Verily pushed her books aside, lifting papers and binders until she found her laptop. “We must find you a dress. Let’s peruse Rent the Runway. Then we have to discuss makeup and hair, which I’ll do, of course. Because if you’re seeing Sax, then…” She left the rest unfinished, and I recognized the invitation. She might not agree with my methods, my stubbornness or my choice of crushes, but she was, and always would be, my support.

“Then I need to look unattainable as hell,” I said.

“And after that, I study. Twenty minute break starts now,” she said, and began typing.

“Good thing we’re such night owls, huh?” I said, bumping her shoulder. I wanted to pull her close, and let her know how important and needed she was. But I didn’t know how to do it without ruining this moment where we were smiling and giggling and allowing our friendship to coast the way it hadn’t in a long time.

So instead, I settled into the couch, cringing and laughing as she pretended to select hideous outfits for me, and believed that for once, all that occupied our minds were party dresses and lipstick.

* * *

Verily and I stayed up until well after three, slept in until ten, and made it to our Tuesday afternoon commitments—me at the pub, her at class. I hoped she aced her test, as it was entirely my fault that I distracted her with sequins and hemlines. But we were able to find the perfect gown, which I was expecting in the mail later this afternoon.

My own test was self-imposed, but it was more a fun study than forced memorization. I spent hours last night studying for it and planned to spend a few more this afternoon, before Verily got home and unleashed her hairspray on me.

Poker.

Utilizing the parts of my brain that were so good when starting out at college, I crafted notes, muttered moves, and observed particularly epic hands on YouTube. Being at the games also clued me in to watching reruns of the World Series of Poker on ESPN, and taking note of both body language and the cards dealt.

Once home from waitressing, I resumed my position on the couch, my study aids exactly where I left them, and got down to business, refusing to let my mind wander, my pencil to drop from my hands, my laptop to go on screensaver…

Theo Saxon.

My buzzer sounded, tearing me out of my mind’s hold and into the present.

Sure enough, it was my dress. I thanked the delivery man and, arms full of cardboard and plastic, raced up the staircase, excited to see what the gorgeous gown looked like in person.

I shouldered my door open, running into Verily’s room and grabbing her steamer before even thinking to release the dress from its clear confines. I threw it onto the couch before I balanced the hanger on the top of the bathroom door and exposed The Dress Theo Will Want To Tear Off.

It was a black lace gown with a sweetheart neckline and a boned bodice. An overlay of sheer lace tulle completed the look, with a criss-cross black ribbon at the waist and framing the bodice. It was cinched, it was sheer, and it was me at my sexiest.

I was already stripping by the time I took in the details. I steamed, nipped, tucked, and hopped, and was eventually able to zip up the back with a few more contortions. By the time I’d put on my high heels, Verily had arrived.

“Holy,” she said as soon as she saw me. Her keys landed with a clunk on the side table. “And you’re not even finished yet.”

“Yeah?” I asked, doing a little twirl. “You think?”

“Girl, I know. Now come on, let’s complete your Cinderella moment.”

My cheeks hurt. I poked at them, thinking maybe something in my moisturizer was causing a reaction.

Verily saw, and her lips trembled for only an instant. “Scar, you’re grinning like a fool. And I bet you’ve been doing it since long before I got home.”

I pressed my fingers to my lips, the heat of my long exhale coating the skin.

“Shoot.” Verily spun away and started doing motions that looked suspiciously like wiping dampness from her face. “Okay,” she said once she turned back around, dry-eyed. “Enter my boudoir.”

This time, I didn’t resist. I pulled her into a hug, digging my chin into her shoulder.

She smacked me on the arm. “Scarlet Denise Rhodes, don’t you dare make me fall apart right now.”

“Never,” I said, hoarse-voiced. “Now what were you saying? Boudoir? Makeup? Hair?”

She smiled through her tears, drawing away.

“I love you,” I whispered.

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