Lucy, are you asking me out on a date? Because if you are, then the answer is yes.
No, you big headed egomaniac, I’m not asking you out on a date. Before I hit send on this, I reconsider. It’s probably not the best response if I want to get that extra ticket. I reluctantly delete it. Sure, whatever, I text instead.
You don’t sound very excited. I don’t know. This ticket seems to be in high demand. Maybe I should hold out for someone who really wants it.
What he means is that he’s in high demand. A single good-looking man in this town is more popular than a hero in a Jane Austen novel. Apparently, the only way I’m going to get this ticket is to grovel. I grit my teeth. I would love to go on a date with you.
That’s better. I’ll pick you up at six thirty.
Ack. I feel so dirty. I toss my cell phone back in my bag. “Okay, so I have a ticket to tonight’s event too.”
“With Fontaine?”
“Yep.”
Will frowns. “Does he know that you and I are together now?”
“News flash. You and I are most certainly not together.” If you’d told me just a week ago that I’d be saying that to Will, I’d have thought you were crazy. He starts to say something, but I stop him. “Right now, we have more important stuff to fix than our relationship. So, what’s it going to be? Are you going to tell everyone that you’re J.W. Quicksilver or not?”
“You’re right,” he says grimly. “I don’t have a choice.”
I nod, relieved that he’s finally gotten it through his thick skull that he needs to own up to this. “So how are you going to do it?”
He shrugs. “I’m not sure. What do you think?”
“What I think is that it never should have come to this, but since it has, it’s the perfect opportunity to come out. Everyone who’s bought a ticket is coming to see J.W. Quicksilver, right? So just march up in front of the room and tell everyone the truth.”
“You don’t think they’ll be upset with me?”
“Upset? They’ll be thrilled. J.W. Quicksilver, an international best-selling author living right here under their noses this whole time? Believe me, the whole town is going to be talking about this for a long time to come.”
Lucy, you absolutely can NOT wear that.
I read Brittany’s text and giggle.
I put together the most absurd outfit I could rummage from my closet—a too-tight latex miniskirt that I think I wore back in the eighth grade, fishnet hose (leftovers from a Halloween costume) and a sports bra. Then I took a selfie of me in the outfit and sent it to Brittany, asking her opinion.
I know it’s bad of me, but honestly, after the crack she made about my T-shirts, she kind of deserves it.
Why can’t I wear this? I text back. You and Betty Jean told me to try and look sexy. Don’t I look nice?
Lucy, please, I BEG of you. Take it off. Put on anything else but this.
Anything?
Yes, anything!
Oh, goody! I’ve been wanting to show off my new T-shirt. The caption reads: I LIKE BIG MUFFINS AND I CANNOT LIE.
I wait for her response, but nothing comes. Knowing Brittany, she’s contemplating how much time it will take her to dash over here to perform a rescue mission on my outfit. A few minutes later, I get a weak smiley face from her and a text that reads Sounds good.
I’m about to text and tell her that I’m messing with her when there’s a knock on my back door. Uh-oh. Travis. I was having so much fun with this that I forgot the time.
I take a quick look in the mirror to make sure I’m put together. Knee-length black velvet dress. Heels. Red lipstick. My hair is scooped up into a messy bun (it took me two hours to get it looking this good and messy), and I’m wearing contacts instead of glasses. I’m channeling my inner Anne Hathaway from the movie The Devil Wears Prada. Not the before look when she’s all frumpy and sad-looking. I’m aiming for the after lo
ok when the Stanley Tucci character takes pity on her and gives her a makeover.
I bought this dress a year ago on a whim, but I’ve been too chicken to wear it until now. It would probably hang in my closet until the moths ate it up, except Betty Jean dared me to look sexy, and I’m not one to back down from a challenge, especially when she’s the one issuing it. This irrational need to always have the last word or always be right is a huge character flaw of mine. I wish I could brush things off as easily as Sarah does. What do I care that Heidi’s Bakery is catering the church social? Or if she provides the refreshments for Betty Jean’s book club?