Tease (Cloverleigh Farms #8)(3)

I felt like the last MacAllister standing. It brought back memories of being the last kid picked for teams in gym class. I could still feel the rest of the kids looking at me and the other non-athletes from their side of the gym. The cool side. The chosen side.

Would tonight be the same thing all over again?

Resignedly, I cleaned up all the hair in the bathroom and swept the kitchen floor. Then I made myself a cup of coffee and checked my phone—Millie had called twice and left several text messages in all caps.

STOP CUTTING.

THIS IS NOT WORTH IT.

YOU DON’T NEED BANGS, YOU NEED CAFFEINE.

MAYBE A SHOT OF WHISKEY.

I called her back. “Hey.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Your reunion is tonight, right?”

I sighed and took a sip. “Yes.”

“Why don’t I pick you up and we’ll go downtown, grab some coffee, and beg a salon to fit you in for an emergency appointment?”

“It’s not really an emergency,” I countered, although the mirror might disagree.

“Is it better or worse than Dad and Frannie’s wedding day?”

“Worse,” I admitted. “But better than the night before the SATs.”

“Send me a pic,” she said in her bossy big sister voice.

I winced. “That’s probably not a good idea.”

“Send me a pic.”

“Fine, but be nice.” I moved closer to the window, like better lighting might help. After snapping a selfie, I sent it to Millie.

My sister gasped. “Sweet Jesus.”

“I said be nice!”

“Okay. Don’t panic. What are you wearing tonight?” Millie had gone into executive event planner mode, and her tone was no-nonsense.

“I don’t know.” Fashion was not my area of expertise. “Got any advice?”

“Wear a fabulous short dress with a great pair of heels. Show off your legs. That will distract from your hair.”

“I don’t own fabulous dresses. I’ve spent almost every night for the last five years in a kitchen. Can I borrow something from you?”

She laughed. “Felicity, my dresses are not going to fit you.”

“I could stuff my bra.”

“You’d have to stuff a lot more than that,” she said wryly.

I sighed, envious as always of Millie’s full, feminine shape. My body was mostly angles and edges, while hers was all soft, sexy curves. “I wish I had a date tonight. That would make it easier.”

“I’ve got another wedding here, but maybe Winnie would go with you.”

“Show up with my little sister?” I almost choked on my coffee. “That’s worse than going alone.”

“What about Hutton?”

My heart skittered a little at his name. “He said absolutely not the first time I asked. But I guess I could ask him again.”

Hutton French had been my best friend in high school, a socially awkward math nerd like me who preferred books to people, played in the marching band, and could have lettered in fidgeting if it was a Varsity sport. (Actually, we both lettered in cross country—running is the one sporty thing I am decent at, probably because it does not involve balls, nets, or hand-eye coordination.) The one big difference between Hutton and me was that when I got nervous, I blurted odd things, and when he got anxious, he clammed up.

But he never made fun of my bad haircuts or bloody noses, and I never minded his aversion to social events or occasional panic attacks in crowded places. I learned to read the signs and knew how to look out for him. Together we co-captained the Mathletes Team and co-founded the Chemistry Club, and on Friday nights, he’d sometimes come over and sit at the kitchen counter while I baked, and then we’d watch sci-fi movies, polishing off whatever I’d made.

We even had our own secret code, which was really just a pigpen cipher used centuries ago during the Crusades by the Knights Templar. For a while, we passed encrypted notes to each other during classes just for fun, and we thought it was hilarious when kids grabbed them and threatened to read our “love notes” out loud. It felt like we were pulling one over on them when they couldn’t decipher the text, although I’m not sure it did anything for our social status.

(And frankly, even if someone had cracked our code, what we mostly passed back and forth were quotes from Star Trek.)

My family was always convinced we were secretly in love and teased me endlessly, but our relationship was one hundred percent platonic. Honestly, I’d been shocked when he asked me to go to the senior prom—to this day, I have a hunch his mother bribed him with a fancy telescope or something—but we ended up having a good time, and he looked so cute in his suit and tie. We even danced once, and when the song was over, he said, “That wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.” I think we shook hands at the end of the night.

There was that one night in the library when I thought he might kiss me—and I’d wanted him to—but true to form, I’d blurted something stupid and the moment passed us by.

After high school, Hutton had gone to M.I.T. to study math and physics, and later he made a billion-dollar fortune thanks to some algorithm he’d created. In fact, he was the youngest self-made American billionaire ever. He lived in California for years, but he was in town for the summer, staying in a gorgeous cabin about twenty minutes from town.