Page 113 of Puck Your Friend
The call ends. I stare at my phone. I need to let them know what everyone has said and that it feels like we should bond sooner rather than later.
My thumb shakes as I open our group thread.
What if they tell me no?
Tears sting my eyes and I take a deep breath to force them back. They’ve been with me this far, they wouldn’t give up on me now. Lyra’s right. I need to stop letting my silly brain win.
Frankie:
HR won’t let me back unless I’m bonded, but they didn’t fire me.
They caught my supplier and Lyra looked into myissue using their archives on Omega health studies. She says it might fix my system, too...
I send the text and hesitate for a moment before I continue.
Frankie:
This is by no means pressuring you guys or anything. I don’t want you to do something you’ll later regret.
I go to delete the last bit, but my shaking thumb grazes the send and it goes through.
Shit!
I try to delete it, but it’s too late, all their bubbles drop down showing that they’ve read both.
My face grows warm. I can’t look away from the screen, wanting to know if they’ll respond but dreading the little typing bubble coming up. That wait for the other person to finish is always the worst.
I put my phone down, unable to watch. The second I do, it vibrates with a new text. It takes a minute of deep breathing before I can get up the courage to look at it.
Turning it over, I glance at the screen.
Ford:
Love, there’s a lot of things I regret in my life. You are not one of them. Now, go to my bedroom. You’ll find a box on the bed. Open it. I’ll be home in ninety to pick you up.
For the first time all day, I don’t feel braced for impact.
I push off the couch, shove my phone into the pocket of my sweats, and head upstairs, my curiosity getting the better of me. What does he have planned? He didn’t directly respond about possibly bonding, none of them did. I still don’t know where they stand on that.
I step quietly down the hall, trying to keep my pace steady. Light spills out from the far room before I even reach it.
Ford’s door is ajar. His room always catches the best afternoon light. Wide windows let it pour in, softening the deep green walls and giving the dark wood furniture a quiet warmth. The bed is massive and high off the ground, centered beneath a framed team photo. A shelf under it holds worn hardcovers and thick graphic novels. A masculine kind of comfortable.
A white box rests across the blanket. A crimson ribbon cuts through the center.
I cross the room. I slip my fingers beneath the ribbon and pull. It loosens and falls away. Lifting the lid, my eyes widen.
Gold fabric catches sunlight in a dense shimmer of warm glitter. I reach in and run my hand over the material. It’s featherlight, but not flimsy. Smooth under my fingers with no grit from the glitter. Lifting it out, I hold it up. I’ve never worn a dress this elegant before.
Are we going somewhere really fancy?
Beneath the gown lies champagne floral lace. I set the dress aside and pick it up. The bodice is structured, sheer in places to be sensual without crossing into lewd, with light boning stitched into delicate silk panels. It will be invisible under the dress.
A pair of champagne-colored block heels also rest in the box. Thin glittered straps cross over the toes and wrap around the ankle, delicate but stable, with a thicker heel. They go well with the rest of the outfit. Then I spot a black velvet box in the corner.
I feel like a kid on Christmas morning. I tuck the lingerie back into the box and lift the velvet one beside it.
Silver glints in the sunlight. A pair of ruby studs. They’re gorgeous.
