Page 55 of The Prince's Castaway Baby

“We?”

“Yes, we. Unless I would embarrass you if I came shopping with you.”

“No!” I say quickly, cutting her off from spiraling before she can even start.

“Good,” she smiles. “Let’s get to the mall.”

That afternoon, Mom’s staying true to her word and is dragging me around the shops. It isn’t, but all of a sudden my bump feels huge, and I’m convinced that everyone can notice it.

“We’re not going to find anything,” I say with a sigh as we have another failure. “What is the point of any of this?”

“We’ll find something. Don’t you doubt me. I’m not having my baby girl win a big award looking hideous.”

“I’m not going to look hideous. I just don’t think we’re going to find a dress that looks good.”

She doesn’t argue any further, but she does take me into every single shop. I was losing the will to live by the fourth one, but now we’re on number seven, and I’m close to tears.

Mom’s trying her best to be patient, but I can tell this is just as frustrating for her as it is for me.

“I need something to eat,” I say, hoping to put us out of our misery. “I can’t keep walking around without eating something.”

“Okay. We can stop for a while.”

“We could just go home?” I try.

But Mom shakes her head. We have a goal, and we’re going to achieve it. We’ll get ramen or burgers or whatever you want — and then we won’t give up until we find perfection.”

“We could be waiting a while,” I mutter.

Much as I hate to admit it, lunch does help me feel better. As I finish my noodles, I sigh. “Can we just go home now?”

Stubborn as ever, my mother stares me down. “No.”

“Mom…”

“I’ll make you a deal, okay? One more store, then I’ll let you give up. But I know we can find something if you’ll just try.”

“Okay, fine,” I groan. “But if I vomit, it’s not my fault.”

Turns out, listening to my mother is a good idea sometimes, because when we enter the final store, it turns out to be the one.

I wander among the racks, looking at satin and short skirts and despairing at how so many of them are close-fitting and have holes cut in strange places. It’s starting to feel like the only options are boob-window bodycons or frumpy layers designed to make you look like a five-year-old.

“Billie, come here,” calls Mom, and with a sigh I trudge over to her.

She holds up a dress, and I gasp. It’s blue, it’s flowing, it’s loose — but it’s still flattering, and it’s absolutely gorgeous.

“Where did you find this?” I ask her.

“I have my ways,” she grins. “Go try it on.”

I don’t hesitate, and when I come out of the changing room, I have to swallow hard to stop myself from crying. It fits around my bump in a way that would be obvious if you were looking for it, but hides it in enough layers of fabric that you could easilybypass it if you didn’t know. It goes to the floor and makes me look tall and elegant.

“It’s perfect,” I breathe, turning to stare in the mirror.

“No,” says my mother, coming to stand behind me. “You’reperfect.”

“Mom, come with me to New York,” I say. “I get a plus-one, and I want you to be there.”

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