Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“I am not that girl. And neither are you!”
Macy snorts. “Oh please. You want to be that girl.”
I huff, peeling off my sheet mask and tossing it in the trash. “You are so ah-noy-ing.”
Macy grins. “Yet here I am, the only one of us with a plan to get you a prom date.”
I freeze. “Mace. Stop. I thought this was about Marcus?”
Macy props her chin on her hand, her smile growing. “I mean, it ninety percent is. But also, Harper, Easton is literally the perfect option. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. He’s Marcus’s best friend, so we could go in the same group. Plus he’s hot, and single, and didn’t you just tell me last night he signed up to be on the decorating committee with you? Why would he do that, unless—news flash—he likes you.”
Of course, I agree. Easton is hot, and single. But he doesn’t like me—not the way she thinks he does. And Macy also does not know that Easton was forced to be on the committee with me.
Nor does she know Easton has already agreed to ask me to prom on a technicality, i.e., extortion.
I hesitate, gazing at my reflection in the mirror. Hair a mess, sticking up along my hairline where the mask was. Skin still sticky—but glowing. I in no way resemble the girls from school who go to the rink, looking far too perfect in case a guy glances their way. But how can I convince Macy her plan isn’t going to work without revealing my pact with Easton?
Macy sees my doubt and takes advantage of it, wiggling her eyebrows like a weirdo. “Admit it. He’d be a great date.”
I groan. “Even if I did think that, I can’t just show up to the rink and start flirting. I’ll look desperate.”
Macy shrugs. “So? Desperate times, babe.”
True. I am desperate for the promposal—but I am not desperate for a date. Not anymore.
Not since I found him in my backyard.
Giving up, I stand, grabbing a hoodie my grandmother gave me for my birthday from the closet. It’s pink (obviously), embroidered on the back with an inspirational quote and flowers.
Next I pull on leggings, assuring myself as I begin braiding my hair that this is going to be fine.
I am just going to the rink to observe. I don’t even need to talk to Easton. Macy will be distracted by Marcus and forget about the whole promposal idea, and everything will be all right.
Strictly reconnaissance.
“You look like you’re running errands with your mom,” Macy informs me rudely.
I turn to glare at her. “I hate you.”
She grins. “Love you too, babe. Now get your ass moving—meet me in front of the rink in twenty.”
* * *
—
Macy is already lingering in the parking lot when I arrive, bundled up in a stylish cropped jacket that somehow makes her look effortlessly cool while I look as if I got dressed in three seconds. Which I did.
She taps on my window the second I park. “Let’s go.”
I take a deep breath before stepping out into the cold air. “I changed my mind. This is dumb.”
Immediately no. Why did I let Macy force me into this? Easton is going to think I’m stalking him, on top of the deal I forced him into.
Macy loops her arm through mine, dragging me toward the entrance. “Too late. You’re committed.”
The second we walk inside, the frigid air hits me at the same time the sound of blades on ice echoes through the arena. A few girls—mostly underclassmen I don’t recognize—are already lingering by the plexiglass, pretending to be deeply interested in their phones but definitely not-so-subtly watching the guys practice.
I swallow hard.
Strictly. Reconnaissance.
“Come on,” Macy urges. “I want Marcus to see me.”
I groan, dragging my feet.
And then—there he is.
Easton.
He’s in full gear, skating backward with ease, laughing. His helmet is tilted up just enough for me to see the sharp angle of his jaw, the stray pieces of dark hair curling at his forehead.
Dang, he’s so freaking cute.
Macy nudges me. “You’re staring.”
I snap out of it, forcing myself to look away. “I wasn’t staring.”
“Chill out. Staring isn’t a crime.” She grins. “Good news: He looks hot. Bad news: You look like you pooped your pants.”
Seriously. I hate her so much sometimes.
A loud whistle blows, signaling a break in practice. Several guys skate toward the benches, lifting their helmets to wipe sweat off their faces. A few of them continue taking shots at the net.
Macy’s eyes light up, and she straightens, her hair bouncing as she waves enthusiastically. “Babe!”
I follow her gaze and see Marcus skating over, a grin plastered on his face. His helmet comes off, hair damp and messy from sweat.
“Babe! You came.” He leans over the wall and plants a quick kiss on her lips, his gloved hand cradling her jaw for a few seconds before pulling back. “You cold?”