“Market the good ideas!”
The three of them looked expectantly at Sebastian, who still looked dazed.
Seb’s mouth dropped open, as if he just realized what they were saying. “You mean, we’re...doing it? For real?”
“Don’t be a jackass,” Richard added helpfully. “Does it sound like we’re kidding?”
Ash practically bounced from the excitement. “You have no idea how hard it’s been to keep it from you! Before the summer is over, the app is going to go broad! We even named it! It’s called Red-Eye Flight!”
“It’s almost as good as Han Solo and the—” Dave started to say. It had been near impossible to convince him that was a stupid name for an app. Laila had had to do the work to tell him it was just not marketable.
“Why are you still talking?” Ash gave him a look.
“But...how? You guys said you were freelance web developing all summer!” Sebastian was still stuck on the first part of the conversation.
“We lied.”
“We’ve been conspiring for weeks!” Ash gestured toward Richard and Dave and speaking for them. “We all love you so much. You do so much for us. Lying and deceiving you was the least we could do!”
Sebastian continued to look shocked as Ash led him deeper into the dance floor. “Now, let’s make this an unforgettable night!”
* * *
“Thank you for this night,” Sebastian whispered in Ash’s ear.
“It’s perfect.” The last dance started and Ash was dizzy from dancing and happiness and whatever someone had put in the punch. It had been a perfect night. The comments on her dress had been in the hundreds, and Seb had blushed every time she had pointed at him when someone asked who the designer was.
A lifestyle reporter from a Seattle blog had even asked to take a picture of it for the headline the next morning.
Ash had barely even noticed when Armstrong Jones had swept by them, cell phone in hand, snapping pictures of little details around the ballroom. Jessica Moriarty was trailing him closely, looking desperate to not lose him in the crowd. He’d wasted no time finding another date.
Under the swirling lights of the ballroom, safely in Sebastian’s grasp, Ash now looked shyly up at him, hardly able to believe things had worked out the way they had. Perfect.
“It’s not a perfect night.”
“No?” Ash asked quizzically.
He gazed back at her, slowing down his twirling. Slower, slower... He finally stopped and pulled her tightly into his arms.
He brushed her lips with his fingertips.
Then finally with his own lips.
“Now it’s a perfect night.”
And Ash finally realized what the word unforgettable meant.
* * * * *
SAVE THE
LAST DANCE
Caridad Ferrer
A very special thank you to Tracy Sherrod, for her faith in my work,
and for asking me to be a part of this project.
Glenda Howard, it was refreshing to work with an editor with such infinite patience, and a true understanding that the creative process takes time.
Thanks to Katy Butler with www.thebullyproject.com for providing
valuable tools and resources with which parents, students,
and educators can use to recognize, prevent, and stop bullying.
Last but not least, thanks to my husband, Richard, for the infinite support and encouragement, and for being on #TeamDeidre for all these years. You really “get” what being the spouse of a writer is all about,
and for that I am eternally grateful. XOXO
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
One
“Man, I’m gonna miss you, Peyton.”
People hurried past, anxious to secure their place in the ever-massive security lines at Miami International Airport. Around us, the sounds of announcements and conversations conducted in at least a dozen languages hummed like a swarm of multicultural bees.
I gently butted my head into Eddie’s chest—about as high up as I could reach without heels—and held tight to his hands.
“At least it won’t be too long before we see each other again,” I said. “Barely five weeks until Claudia and I come back for prom.”
I glanced over to where my Warrington Prep roommate and Eddie’s cousin, Claudia, was holding tight to her boyfriend—and Eddie’s best friend—David, as they, too, said their goodbyes. The goodbyes we were saying after having come down to Miami for spring break because
1. it was Claudia’s hometown;
2. the boys were here;
3. it was Miami, duh; and
4. my hometown of Boston? For spring break? In April?
Wicked cool... Not.
Besides, with Dad off conducting business in London and Mom scouring Christie’s and Sotheby’s for treasures for the interior-design business she was starting “since, you know, darling, everyone just loves how I’ve been decorating our houses,” it would just be all Ghosts of Christmas Past, when Mom and Dad had informed me they wouldn’t be making it home from Hong Kong in time. They had been good enough to inform me I’d be taken care of because they’d made “arrangements.” Or if I wanted actual human company, I was free to go hang out with Ancient Aunt Regina and her Ricola-and-brandy-scented breath.
Still not sure if it was the “arrangements” part or the thought of Ancient Aunt Regina that had set Claudia off but either way, it had offended every sense of Cuban family sensibility the girl possessed on a massively deep, personal level. She’d immediately invited me to come stay with her family for the holidays and while I’d tried to decline—polite WASP reserve and all that—it had really been halfhearted.
God, listening to her description of a typical family holiday, I’d felt a longing like I had never felt before in my life.
They made her crazy, she confessed, her nosy, interfering family with some old-school notions that made even the starchiest of my Boston Brahmin relatives look hip and modern by comparison, but she wouldn’t miss holidays with them for the world. And she was inviting me into that world and WASP reserve be damned, I just couldn’t resist the temptation.
So I’d gone and without an ounce of hyperbole or exaggeration, I could honestly say it had changed my life. I’d loved it. I’d loved everything about it. I’d fallen in deep, intense love with Miami. The colors, the language, the culture, the food. Claudia’s family...
Eddie.
Who was as amazing as he was infuriating. And pretty hot to boot, but I had to keep declarations of such to a minimum. He was a Cuban boy and had quite the well-developed ego and sense of self.
Thank goodness the inherent sweetness and the fact he could kiss like no one’s business balanced the Cuban boy-ness out.
As if Boston for spring break ever stood a chance.
Of course there had been my parents’ other option—to join them because, “Darling, we know how much you love England and it would be lovely to give Oxford another look before you make a final decision, no?”
Not happening, either.
I mean, it wasn’t as if they’d be going out of their way to hang out with me or treat it like a vacation, and I knew they had no intention of going with me to Oxford to “give it another look.” Work, you know. Meetings to be conducted. Lunches to have. Cocktail parties to attend. Three-hundred-year-old enameled snuffboxes to be purchased.
And there in a nutshell, my family—epitome of New England work ethic with a soupçon of elitist WASP privilege.
Besides, not that they knew it yet—or would car
e if they did, really—but Oxford was already off the table and another look wasn’t going to change my mind. I’d made my decision.
Eddie’s long sigh ruffled my hair and teased the rim of my ear—sweet caress combined with genuine longing. “It’s gonna be a long-ass, miserable, craptastic five weeks.”
I squeezed his hands as I lifted my head to meet his gaze. “Oh, come on. You’re going to be so busy with school and baseball, you’ll barely notice the time passing.”
An odd shadow passed across Eddie’s face. The same one I’d seen on more than a few occasions during the past ten days. It had taken just a couple of those odd expressions for me to realize they only occurred when baseball was mentioned. As if...he had something on his mind. But he hadn’t said anything about it and honestly, baseball was one of those things I wasn’t sure how to ask about. As a native Bostonian, I was well aware of the history of the game—and my town’s love-hate relationship with the Red Sox. As a mathematician, I understood the game and of course, statistically speaking, had a deep appreciation for it—even more so since dating Eddie and keeping track of his season numbers—but the intangibles of what made the sport magical to him had escaped me until fairly recently.
Until I’d started cooking, actually. That’s when I’d begun to appreciate the visceral sensations that came along with physical engagement. With creation.
The complete and utter satisfaction of knowing you’d kicked ass.
How Eddie looked when he talked about baseball—how he sounded—was a perfect reflection of how I felt about cooking.
But just because I now understood the intangibles didn’t mean I was ready to go asking my boyfriend questions. Comfortable as Eddie and I were together, things were still too new and I was way too much a product of my reserved New England upbringing.
Maybe Claudia would have some ideas. Even though she was every bit as reserved as I was, she still had years of experience with her family poking their noses into everyone’s business. Some of it had to have rubbed off. Besides, Eddie was her cousin. And David was his best friend. Somebody had to know something, right?
A second later his expression cleared and he gazed down at me with those eyes—deep golden brown of the caramelized-sugar syrup that was the basis for a flan—that had captivated me from the first flirtatious glance he’d sent my way last Christmas.
Half “how you doin’?” half wondering, as though I was the fascinating one, and that never failed to make me just a little weak in the knees.
And here I’d thought myself impervious to knee weakness.
“Trust me, girl.” He leaned down far enough for his lips to brush my ear. “I am definitely going to notice you not being here.”
I smiled, part from the tickling sensation, part because of what I now knew I could say. “Hang in there, baby. Five weeks until prom, another four after that until graduation and then I’m back here in Miami for good.”
And back with Eddie, since he’d be going to University of Miami while I’d be attending Johnson & Wales, one of the best cooking schools in the country.
I’d have cooking, Miami and Eddie—a win-win-win situation.
I tilted my head back far enough for a kiss, but froze.
The shadow was back on his face, darker than ever, and for the first time I could recall, there had been no mention of baseball involved. Just me. And coming to Miami.
Oh, God.
He wasn’t sorry about all of this, was he?
But before I could ask, because New England reserve be damned, I had to know, I felt a hard tug on my arm.
“Holy shit, Peyton, we have got to go unless we want to flap our arms and fly our asses back to Warrington.”
I felt myself caught between Claudia’s impatient pull and Eddie’s tight hold on my waist as he leaned down and kissed me—hard enough to leave me seeing stars behind my closed lids and for my knees to do that watery/weak thing.
“I’ll call you tonight,” he whispered. “I love you.”
Thank God for Claudia. Without her hanging on to my arm the way she was, I might have just collapsed into an undignified puddle that would have shamed my ancestors right down to their Pilgrim skivvies.
It was the first time he’d ever said that to me.
Okay, then.
So the shadows weren’t my fault.
I should have probably been embarrassed by how relieved that made me feel.
I wasn’t.
I was just relieved.
Two
“That one,” Claudia said from behind me as we both stared into the dressing-room mirror.
“Are you crazy?”
“Nope.”
“You are crazy.”
“I believe that’s exactly what I said to you when you talked me into that obscenely clingy red number at Christmas and did you listen to me? No, I believe you did not.” Her smile was a thing of pure evil as she loomed over me—and I do mean loomed, since she stood five foot nine to my much shorter five-three. She thought it made her seem intimidating. Pfft. I’d known her too long for intimidating to factor into the equation any longer.
Besides, lower center of gravity. I could totally take her out at the knees.
“You’re suggesting I wear white, Claudia. White chiffon, at that. I’m going to look like some damned sacrificial virgin, waiting to be flung off the cliff into the fiery depths of a volcano.”
“You forgot to mention swallowed by the flowing lava.” She crossed her arms and hit me with her best Cuban Mother stare. Which was so not effective since I’d been on the receiving end of the real thing, courtesy of both Claudia’s mother and abuelita. Compared to them, Claudia was a mere neophyte.
“It was implied by fiery depths,” I grumbled as I fidgeted with the dress some more, although no amount of fidgeting was going to change the color.
White. For a prom. Clearly her mind was addled. Had to be the lingering effects of inhaling too much mineral dust in her geology labs.
“Oh, for God’s sake, would you stop, Peyton?” She slapped my hands away from the elaborate web of thin straps that began at the sweetheart bodice and worked their way over my shoulders, where they expanded into an even more intricate pattern across the back.
“First off,” she continued, holding up one finger, “one would think you’d be getting used to the idea of the color, what with the chef’s whites that are soon going to be your mandatory uniform, and second—” a second finger joined the first “—and perhaps more important, not white, ivory, which looks gorgeous on you and makes your hair take on those volcanic, lavalike hues.”
A finger of my own shot up, to which she just laughed.
As I returned to fidgeting with the straps, I said, “You say lavalike like it’s a good thing.”
Because bright red hair and its accompanying pale lashes and freckles were just so much fun to deal with in a society far more geared toward the “blondes have more fun and brunettes are sultry and sexy” mind-set. On the upside, at least my freckles were confined to a sprinkling across my nose and cheeks with only a slightly heavier pattern across my chest and shoulders, as opposed to the blanket my strawberry-blonde cousin Jessica had been gifted with.
I’d feel bad for her, except, well...let’s just say “sweet cousin Jessie” was a bitch of monumental proportions who’d once slathered me with sunscreen that she’d liberally cut with baby oil. I’d spent three days in the hospital recovering from a vicious case of photodermatitis—aka sun poisoning.
My insistences that it had been her fault fell on deaf ears—attributed to delirium and a long-held perception of me as absentminded. Clearly, I’d simply forgotten the sunscreen. Besides, what gains could “sweet cousin Jessie” possibly achieve by doing such a mean-spirited thing?
Well, according to her whispered aside when she’d visit
ed me in the hospital with her parents, it had been an experiment run a little amok. She’d simply wanted to see if it was possible to match the hue of my skin to my hair. In the interests of science. Offered with a smile that gave her an uncomfortable resemblance to The Joker.
Please. Science experiment my ass. To say Jessica had any genuine interest in science was like saying Velveeta was real cheese.
“Oh, please, Peyton, I know you’re not that disingenuous. Even if your looks aren’t to someone’s specific tastes, no one can deny you’re classically pretty.”
“I said nothing about not being pretty.”
“But you were thinking it.”
Busted.
And yet another one of those reasons to hate the fair skin and red hair? The blush I could see creeping its way up my chest, across my shoulders and over my face.
See? That’s just how stupid Jessica was. If she’d really wanted to see if my skin tone could ever match my hair, all she needed to do was embarrass me. Easy enough to accomplish—no nefarious plan necessary.
“You have this great bone structure your relatives were kind enough to hand down to you, skin that hasn’t seen a zit since sophomore year, you bitch, and lovely delicate eyebrows that require zero upkeep, also reason to consider you a bitch if I didn’t love you so much.”
“Gee, thanks,” I muttered, but she was on a roll.
“Then let’s talk about this hair of which you despair.” Before I could say boo, she’d reached for the elastic at the end of my braid and had loosened the heavy mass.
“Just look at this.”
“I generally do,” I said in another mutter, not that she was paying attention. “At least once a day when I do my best to get it the hell out of my way.”
“Do you have any idea what half the celebutantes who show up on TMZ pay to try to get these ‘just fell out of bed’ waves?” she demanded while I blushed again. Not at the description, but at the memory of Eddie, running his fingers through my hair, a look of wonder on his face the likes of which I’d never seen before from a boy. At least, not directed at me.
Prom Ever After Page 9