Shifting Gears

16. Hypothetically Speaking

I forgot about the gala.

It was now about two weeks after the Fourth of July, and my mom stuck her head in my room in the early afternoon.

"Do you have your dress?"

I looked up over the rim of the book I was reading. "What?" I noticed she had a sparkly navy dress on, and a cream shawl that covered her shoulders. Her blonde hair, the same color as mine, was pulled back into an elegant low bun, and golden earrings glinted in the hallway light.

"Your dress. I had your dress dry-cleaned, and I hung it in your closet. I thought it'd go nicely with those beige heels you have."

I bolted into an upright position. "Oh my lord, the gala."

My mom's brown eyes widened. "You forgot."

"I forgot."

"You have a couple of hours. Dad and I have to leave now to help set up, but the Ford will still be here for you to take."

"Where is it?" I asked as I stood up and jogged to my closet.

"The Lake House near the city."

I shot my head out of my closet to look at her. "The Lake House? That's like an hour away!"

She shrugged. "That's why you only have about..." she fished out her phone and looked at the time. "Well, actually, you probably only have an hour."

I pursed my lips, looking longingly at my discarded book on the plush covers of my comfy bed. Goodbye for now, Mr. Darcy.

Approximately an hour later, I was clothed in a sage green satin dress that gathered loosely at the front near my chest, elegantly furling out. A cream shawl that matched the one my mom had been wearing was also leaning over the hanger the dress came on, which I was grateful to throw around my bare arms, as the dress was held up only by spaghetti straps. I glanced in the mirror. My hair fell in curls around my face, the shorter curtain bangs twisted and bobby pinned to the sides, creating a crown. I had successfully applied eyeliner this time, and mascara darkened my blonde eyelashes. Complete with eyeshadow, some tinted lip gloss, and about two cans of hairspray on my curls, I stood up.

Then the doorbell rang.

I frowned, grabbing my phone and cream heels that were sitting on my vanity chair and running down the hallway and stairs. My parent's must have gotten a package or something.

So I hustled over to the door and swung it wide open, mouth open and almost saying, "Thank you," to the kind mailman who stopped by our house way too many times.

But the words died in my throat abruptly when, instead of a blue and white dressed old man, I found Greyson Ryvers in a suit.

"I—uh—what—what are you doing here?" I stammered, looking around quickly at the yard and driveway. I'd be dead if Clay caught him here.

He smirked. "Relax, Clay is still at the track. No need to be referee right now."

"What are you doing here?" I hissed again in hushed tones.

"The gala," he said simply. "I did tell you I'd take you. And my Uncle Jim did say I would be a wonderful escort."

"Absolutely not."

"Why?" Greyson asked. His green eyes sparkled. He was standing casually, hands tucked into his black suit pants. An ebony suit jacket that fit him incredibly well was slung over a cream shirt that weirdly matched my shawl perfectly.

His hair was actually styled, no longer sitting in a mess above his head. It looked like a it belonged on a model surfer, like if I had taken gel and just ran my hands through it back and down onto his neck.