Page 205 of Cherish

Everything’s

Coming Up Graces

Macy hugs me as gingerly as she can in an effort not to wrinkle the dress.

“It’s okay,” I tell her with a roll of my eyes. “You can wrinkle me. I’m still Grace.”

“You’re Grace, yes. But that dress is…” She trails off.

“Everything,” I tell her. “I know.”

“Everything,” she agrees.

I look in the mirror one more time, marveling again that Imogen thought to pick out this dress for me. It’s not something I ever would have thought about or even imagined existed. But the fact that Imogen thought enough about my earth magic and what it means to me to choose this dress… All I’m saying is that it makes me regret all those times I’ve been annoyed with her about this ceremony over the last few months.

“You’ve come a long way from that hot-pink parka,” Macy says with a grin.

“I really have, haven’t I?” For a second, I think about confessing to her just how much I despise hot pink, but in the end, I decide that’s not even true anymore. It may never be my favorite color, but Macy is pretty much my favorite everything, and for that reason alone, I will always have a soft spot for hot pink.

“Today’s a big day,” she says, “and I thought you might appreciate a little reminder of those first days at Katmere to ground you for what’s to come.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” I tell her even as I turn into a giant gooey ball of emotion.

“Sure, I did,” she answers. “By the way, have you seen the shoes Imogen expects you to wear?”

I have, in all their five-inch-heeled glory. I’ve also spent the better part of the last hour trying to pretend they don’t exist. I’m not particularly nervous about being onstage in front of everyone today—especially since Hudson is going to be there, too. But I feel like wearing those is just asking to be humiliated in front of ten thousand paranormals.

“You got me shoes?” I squeal hopefully. And though I’ve never been a shoe girl, the thought of not being tortured for the next several hours by a pair of crystal-encrusted Louboutins has definite appeal.

She hands me a gift bag. “Guess you’re going to have to open it and find out.”

I do, and then I laugh like a hyena when I pull out the hot-pink satin ballet flats my cousin has picked out for me. “They’re perfect,” I tell her as I slide them on my feet.

“I know.” She grins.

Before she can say anything else, there’s a knock on the connecting door between Hudson’s and my rooms.

“I think that’s the sign for me to make myself scarce,” my cousin says with a waggle of her brows. “But don’t you dare let that man wrinkle you.”

“Oh, I won’t,” I assure her.

To which she just laughs and says, “Oh, who are we kidding?” on her way out the door.

Hudson knocks again, and for the first time since we got here, butterflies take off in my stomach. It’s stupid to be nervous about seeing him—he’s my mate. Then again, maybe it’s a good thing that just the thought of him still makes me all fluttery inside.

“Come in,” I call when I can finally find my voice.

And then wish I’d braced myself, because I should have known. If I look this good, of course Hudson is on a whole next level.

He’s dressed more simply than I would have expected of him—then again, Imogen would probably never forgive us if we clashed on the dais. But just because his tuxedo is a simple, black Tom Ford with a crushed berry–colored bow tie doesn’t mean he isn’t still the most devastatingly gorgeous sight I’ve ever seen. Add in his signature Brit-boy hairstyle and the small raspberry-colored flower in his handkerchief pocket, and I can feel myself starting to swoon.

Normally I’d quell the impulse—his ego doesn’t need any help—but I figure he deserves the extra thrill on his invocation day. So I wave a hand in front of my face and give my lip a little nibble, just to see the way his eyes darken to my favorite midnight blue.

“Looking good, hot stuff,” I tell him.

I expect him to grin and fire off some egotistical quip, but instead he just stares at me. And stares at me. And stares at me, until I start wondering if I’ve somehow ripped my dress.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, looking down at my skirt.

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