PLAYBOY PRINCESS (gxg) ✓

17. Paris Young

           Maybe . . . maybe Rory wasn't the selfish, conceited princess she had once been. God help Paris, she was still the playboy, and she was definitely still a serial flirt. 

           And it was stupid, and it was cliché, and it was flat-out ridiculous. 

           But seeing Rory again―and that promise, that idiotic, moronic promise.

           I'm going to fight for you. 

           Paris hadn't realized there was something missing inside of her. It could have been for that teenage friendship. It could have even been for all of her firsts―first touch, first kiss . . . first time having sex.

           During these five years, that was how she'd convinced herself.

           I miss my best friend.

           I miss my first kiss. 

           But looking at Rory now, the softness of her mouth, the glitter in her burnt-sienna stare―Paris could only think, that for all those years, she had been wrong. 

           Maybe she did miss all of those things, but she missed Rory most.

           She had missed Rory.

           This girl who smiled brightly, with an edge that made something in Paris's blood chorus. This girl who said such outrageous, inappropriate things just to make Paris blush. 

           This girl who said, Beautiful, huh?  while looking not at the northern lights―but at Paris.

           I think I might be falling in love, Paris thought.

           Rory said, "Are you ready to skate?"

           "As ready as I'll ever be," Paris replied, and her heart began to pound.

           The skates Rory tossed into the snow seemed to be about her size―probably too big, but Paris shoved them on anyway as soon as they had climbed down the snowy bank to the edge of the wide, frozen lake.

           Mountains gleamed bright behind the treetops.

           Freshly fallen snow was smooth and unblemished and shimmering.

           And the night sky . . . it was quiet and clear and swimming with colour.

           But Paris couldn't think of anything but the girl beside her as she tied the laces of her skates with trembling hands.

           "What if the ice cracks?" she asked, her breath glistening in the air.

           Rory laughed. "It's the middle of winter in the heart of a snowstorm. It won't crack, I promise."

           Rory's skates were already on, and as she stepped out onto the lake, Paris held her breath. The crutches on either side of her made dents in the fine dusting of snow.

           "Are you coming?"

            Paris rose shakily to her feet.

            The blades of her skates were buried deep in the snow. Each step towards the lake felt like a tightening in her chest. Her breath stuttering.

           "Ready?" asked Rory.

           "Not at all," Paris said breathlessly.

           And she took Rory's outstretched hand.