Page 14 of Destined for Him

I stare at her in disbelief.

The man who pinned me against the wall that time is not fucking gay.

But I’m not telling my mother that. She drapes herself all over Kevin whenever she sees him, even though he humors her, he doesn’t give her the wrong idea.

“Who knows?”

“Get dressed then,” Mom says, eyeing me carefully. “You can’t go out in that.”

I’m in my panties and a tank top—no shit, I can’t go out in this.

“Alright. Lemme shower and I’ll get ready.”

Mom beams at me.

“Let’s find you aman,Shelby, one that will shoot Finlay down for even looking at you.”

I hum in response, knowing exactly who would do that, but also knowing he probably isn’t speaking to me after Finlay got into a fight with one of his friends.

Burning anger stirs within me when I think of Finlay, and I vow to end our ridiculous relationship. It feels like I’m back in high school, which is the furthest thing away from what I want.

I want aman.

And I’m not willing to settle for a boy in the meantime.

5

Shelby

Living in a small town doesn’t mean you can’t get dressed up. Because I love getting dressy, and tonight, I’m wearing the shortest, tightest, whitest dress imaginable, and I have to say, I look great.

Seriously though, it stops just before my butt. And the top rests just above my breasts. It’s what Ivy used to call my slutty dress, and she wasn’t far wrong.

I’ve gone easy on my make-up but curled the ends of my hair, so it looks like I’ve made an effort. I slip on ice-white heels, spritz myself with Chanel, and put my hands on my hips.

I better not see Finlay tonight.

I’ve had enough of his bullshit and drama—and I’m not fucking him again.

I need to end things properly.

“You ready, honey?” Mom calls upstairs, and I glance at my jacket on the back of my door.

No. Girls that wear dresses like this don’t wear jackets.

I’d rather freeze if necessary.

Mom gasps when she sees me, demanding to know who I’m trying to impress.

I give her a sly smile.

“No one.”

“Well, you’re gonna get attention wearing that,” Mom says, hooking her handbag over her forearm. “Let’s go.”

When we arrive at Bill’s sometime later, I’m surprised to see how busy it is.

“People have come back from all over,” Mom whispers in my ear, her eyes scanning the room greedily. “Oh my God, Caz, isn’t that Tommy Charleston?”

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