I'm Not Charlotte Lucas(8)

I scoffed. When did I say that I thought he hurt his neck? It was almost as if Liam had intentionally misunderstood me. Another text shortly followed.

Liam: Can we move our date to tomorrow? I was dragged away from the office, and I’m going to have to work late to make up for it.

Well, he still didn’t seem to realize that he was texting the wrong person. Another text rolled in.

Liam: Love you.

Okay, how was I supposed to correct him now? An awkward chuckle spilled from my lips while my fingers hovered over the keyboard. I debated leaving it alone. He would figure it out eventually, right? When the person he was texting didn’t know about Spike getting hit by a car, he could go back into the thread and realize he’d messaged the wrong person.

But then his girlfriend would prepare dinner or meet him at the restaurant or whatever the plan was and wait for him. I groaned. I had too much of a conscience to let this go.

I typed out a quick text and sent it.

Me: I think you meant to send those to someone else.

The wait for a reply was slower than the line at the DMV. The little dots seemed to move for ages before I got a message.

Liam: Sorry.

That was it? Scoffing, I leaned back in the seat and hit my head against the headrest. That had been anticlimactic. Putting my car into reverse, I checked behind me thoroughly before slowly backing out.

Next time I bought a car, I was definitely shopping for something with a reverse cam.





Chapter Four


“Why do you keep buying evening gowns when you have so many already?” I shot the question over my shoulder, sorting through the rack in the back of Beth’s walk-in closet. A red satin caught my eye, and I pulled it out. I turned it over and let the smooth silk glide over my fingers. Oh, wait. Completely backless? No thanks.

I shoved it back onto the rack and kept perusing. The ball was tomorrow night, so I had to make a choice, or I’d be forced to wear my old prom dress that was probably dusty and wrinkled in the back of my mom’s closet. That could be awkward, because there was no way I would be able to get the zipper up on that little number anymore. I was still petite, but prom was almost a decade ago.

Yikes. That thought was disturbing.

“I use those gowns,” Beth shouted from her room. “Well, most of them.”

Beth was constantly lamenting her lack of funds, and right now I was browsing through the source of that problem. Though, after choosing to help out Vera’s grandson and go to this ball, I was glad Beth had these gowns at her disposal.

“Grab the pink one,” she called.

Obediently, I pulled a pale pink gown from the rack and ran my hand under the skirt. Not bad. The sweetheart neckline was more conservative, and the gauzy overlay . . . oh. My hand came to a slit, splitting the skirt as both sides cascaded to the floor.

“I can’t show that much leg,” I called, putting it back. “How would I sit comfortably at all?”

Beth scoffed. “The slit isn’t that high.”

I lifted both sides of the dress, and the slit nearly went clear up to the bodice. Yes. It was that high. “Maybe I should just go shopping.”

Footsteps padded into the closet, and I lifted the skirt of the pink gown again, raising both of my eyebrows at Beth.

“Fine. Yes. It’s a little high,” she said, rolling her eyes. Beth leaned her shoulder against the doorway, crossing her arms over her chest. Sporting light-gray sweats, with her hair in a messy bun, Beth still looked more glamorous than I could any day. “Oh!” she said, brightening. She pushed past me and began shoving hangers aside with purpose. Pulling a mauve gown from the rack, she held it up to me and grinned.

“Where’s the slit?” I asked, scanning my reflection through her full-length mirror. The boat neck was classy, slipping down to a gathered waist. The skirt gradually expanded down to the floor, and it looked like something a modern princess might wear.

“No slit,” she said, lifting three fingers, her arm bent at the elbow. “Scout’s honor.”

“I’m pretty sure that means nothing unless you’re actually a Scout.” I pulled my shirt off and took the gown from her, slipping it from the hanger. It fell over me in a wave of satin and lace, and I slipped my hands through the delicate, gauzy long sleeves, careful not to snag it with my naked nails. Beth came around the back and zipped the gown, and I pressed my hands to my middle, turning at an angle to see the back.

“Perfection,” Beth breathed.

I lifted my gaze, my heart hammering. This was the sort of gown that made you feel perfect. “I would almost be convinced that this gown was literally made for me if it wasn’t so long.”

Small lines formed between her eyebrows, and she reached down, lifting the hem from where it gathered on the floor. “Don’t insult my gown. It’s not her fault you’re short.”

The length wasn’t a deal-breaker. This dress was gorgeous, and it made me look like a princess. I felt like I could walk into the ball and hold my head high.

Beth came behind me, her fingers working through my collarbone-length hair before she gathered and lifted it, playing with the shape as her gaze flicked between the mirror and the back of my head. That was the trouble with having a hairstylist as a best friend: she never bothered to ask before touching my hair.

“It’s too bad you cut it last month, or we’d have more options,” she said, wrinkling her petite nose.