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I’m torn from my thoughts of that day when my phone sounds with a text from Callie. I reach for the phone and notice the message is a photo of her sparkly green dress and Evan’s dark suit.
Shit, should I have asked Benson to walk me down?
Everyone will have a date, but I’ve been walking the carpet single since freshman year. Well, I take that back. I walked with Callie our freshman year. Damn it. I was so caught up in our exchange on the BullieBoards, I didn’t think about the Teal Walk, or even if he’d come tonight. He threw me off course by inviting me last night. We weren’t supposed to start this thing until Monday, but here we are. I shouldn’t want to ask him, but wouldn’t people wonder why he isn’t walking me down when I was there for him last night? I haven’t even asked him to come to my home opener. I went to his. Shouldn’t he come to mine?
This is why I wanted to wait until Monday!
Plus, could I truly handle him in a suit? Game days, that man always took my breath away with how delectable he would look, entering the rink in a tailored suit that hugged him in all the right places. He didn’t wear Crocs. Nope, he wore these sleek shoes that carried him like he was born to run a boardroom. Or a throne.
Oh, I hate Callie.
’Cause now all I can think of is me riding him in that stupid Miss Muffet outfit while he wears a suit on a throne.
A frustrated groan leaves my lips as I go to contact him, but my phone rings, and my mom’s face comes over the screen.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, praying my pupils aren’t dilated and my face isn’t red because it’s a full-on movie in my head with him pounding into me as layers of dress bounce around us. My ass slamming into his thighs, his cock so deep inside me that I feel it in my chest.
Oh God, help me.
I should be focusing on my mom, but I’m trying to figure out if I should email Benson or go to the BullieBoards again.
To be honest, I probably need to take a cold shower.
“Baby, you okay? You’re flushed.”
“Fine,” I mutter, trying not to look at the camera. “I might need to call you—”
Her excited voice cuts me off. “Are you ready for tonight? Your last Teal Walk.”
Well, that reminder threw some cold water on me. I have been so caught up in everything else, I forgot this would be my last Teal Walk. That’s sad. I tap my pen to the vase of flowers as my heart rate slows. “Kinda sad, but excited. I gotta finish up some work, and then I think the dress trunk will be here for us to pick out teal-carpet outfits.”
“What do you think you’ll pick?” Mom asks, but my mind is still reeling. Not of me riding Benson, but of how it would feel to hold his arm during this last walk of mine. It’d feel better to ride him—less sad and more exciting—but none of that can happen. I don’t want to be sad, though. I want to be proud. I worked my ass off to get to this last season, and I just don’t want to be sad anymore. “Baby doll? Are you okay? Are you sad?”
“I’m sorry. No. Well…yes, but I don’t want to be. My brain is going nuts.” I wave her off. “I’ll see you tonight, right?”
“Yes. Are you okay? Do you need to talk about whatever has your brain going nuts?”
Um. That’s a big hell no and only furthers my realization that I didn’t think through this Benson and me situation at all. My parents know who Benson is, and I’m not sure they’re gonna handle us “dating” just dandy. Fuck me, I might need to call this off.
Or I could be honest. Why is it so easy for me to flirt and be flirted with, but the layers of what our being together means mess with me. I don’t want to think about any of this. I don’t even want to deal with it. I just want to enjoy my life. I want to see how this project turns out. I want to graduate and then leave Tennessee. For good, maybe?
Thoughtlessly, I blurt out, “I need to be honest.”
What is wrong with me?
“Honest?” she asks, her brows coming in. “That sounds very loaded.”
“You could say that,” I say softly, and I don’t know if I can tell her. Why should I? I mean, it’s all for show, but I know she watches my social media, and I don’t want her to be blindsided when she sees us together. I think it would hurt more that way. But am I truly going through with this? I can’t deny the insights, though. Everyone is talking about it, and I know my project is going to be one that will be used as an example for future marketing students. Jesus, I feel like my brain is a herd of squirrels, and I can’t even grasp one of the damn vermin.
