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“May I?” He held the other shoe up, and I nodded.
“How did you know my size?” I asked, mostly to ignore the feel of his hands on my foot as he removed my old shoe and replaced it with the new one.
“I asked Penelope.”
I frowned. “Why didn’t you just ask me?”
“Because I didn’t want you asking too many questions about tonight.”
I inhaled sharply when his fingers brushed my ankle while he fiddled with the strap. Tiny shockwaves shot up my legs and ignited a ball of fire low in my belly.
“And before you ask,” he continued, “I didn’t tell you about tonight in advance for a bunch of reasons.”
“Which were?” I crossed my arms over my chest, pretending to be more annoyed than I was, though I hated surprises.
With a sigh, he stood and tucked his hands in his pockets. “For one, I wasn’t sure tonight would even end up happening because it required parental consent. Two, I was worried you’d totally freak out because it’s . . . a lot to ask. And three,” he cleared his throat and glanced at the darkened window of the limousine, then back again, “because I needed to convince my mother to come with us as a chaperone. And four, do I need to repeat three again?”
My lips quirked, but I refused to laugh. “So . . .?” I eyeballed the darkened car.
“Yeah. She’s in there.”
Oh crap. I was about to meet his mother. This was getting real, and I felt completely unprepared for reality. Maybe he was right not to tell me.
At my look of panic, Thorne laughed. “Listen, it’s fine. Once we’re on the plane, she’ll be drinking champagne with her headphones until she falls asleep. Trust me.”
Wait, did he say—
“Plane?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. You were right the other day when you asked. We’re going to the Addy Awards,” he said like it was no big deal. “And also, she doesn’t know about our arrangement, so keep it quiet.”
He turned while my jaw practically hit the floor, and like magic, the driver stepped out of the front and opened the back door, allowing Thorne to slide inside while I stood there, frozen in place, my mouth catching flies.
I craned my neck. From within the darkened exterior, a hint of leg peeked out from the corner.His mother.
My pulse jumped. I was about to get on a plane and fly to California to attend an award show I’d only ever seen on TV from the comfort of my home, all on Thorne Roberts’ arm.
It hardly seemed real, and as I stood there, I couldn’t wrap my head around it, much less move my feet to get into the car. I may not be shy, but that didn’t mean I was equipped to walk a red carpet where hundreds and thousands of adoring fans and equally impressive celebrities would be watching. Telling a few dozen people at school how Thorne and I met was one thing. Telling the whole world, along with a reporter and a camera in my face, was quite another. I was bound to choke.
“Hey, uh,” Thorne stuck his head out of the open car door, “I hate to interrupt whatever this is you’re doing here,” he said, waving a hand, “but we need to go.”
I released a shaky breath and nodded my head.
I could do this, I told myself. Mostly because I didn’t have a choice, and also because the chance of seeing a myriad of gowns from my idols—the designers I’d spent my life aspiring to—was too good to pass up.
Without overthinking it, I bent down and slid into the limo while the soft thud of the door shut behind me. Inside sat a woman I’d have never guessed to be Thorne’s mother, not in a million years. This woman looked too young to be a mother, let alone one to a nineteen-year-old. With smooth skin, an even tan, and blonde hair I wouldn’t know was artificial without looking at her son’s raven locks as a clue, she could easily pass for someone in her twenties.
Dark sunglasses perched on top of her head, and when her full lips parted, her youthful smile reminded me so much of Thorne she could be his twin. “Ah, Scarlett.” She reached her hand out, and I took it. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
I glanced at Thorne in question as I took a seat beside him, and he set a hand on my knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“Yes . . . same.” I winced at the lie, hoping she didn’t call me out on it while the soft rumble of the engine hummed to life between us, and the limousine pulled away from the curb.
I focused on the passing landscape, the familiar homes, the frost-bitten grass, and counted the seconds, unsure of whether I’d ever been in a situation as awkward as this.
“So, you live in Bel Air?” I asked, trying to make conversation. “What’s that like this time of year?”
Virginia’s mild winters meant, already, the first vestiges of spring had made themselves known. Yet, I imagined it was nothing compared to the mild weather on the west coast.
