Prom King

by Penny Wylder

  PROM KING

  PENNY WYLDER

  CONTENTS

  Books By Penny Wylder

  1. Ollie

  2. Ollie

  3. Adam

  4. Ollie

  5. Ollie

  6. Ollie

  7. Ollie

  8. Ollie

  9. Adam

  10. Ollie

  11. Adam

  12. Ollie

  13. Adam

  14. Ollie

  15. Ollie

  16. Adam

  17. Ollie

  18. Ollie

  19. Adam

  20. Ollie

  21. Adam

  22. Ollie

  23. Ollie

  24. Ollie

  Epilogue

  Books By Penny Wylder

  Books By Penny Wylder

  Filthy Boss

  Her Dad’s Friend

  Rockstars F#*k Harder

  The Virgin Intern

  Her Dirty Professor

  The Pool Boy

  Get Me Off

  Caught Together

  Selling Out to the Billionaire

  Falling for the Babysitter

  Lip Service

  Full Service

  Expert Service

  The Billionaire’s Virgin

  The Billionaire’s Secret Babies

  Her Best Friend’s Dad

  Own Me

  The Billionaire’s Gamble

  Seven Days With Her Boss

  Virgin in the Middle

  The Virgin Promise

  First and Last

  Tease

  Spread

  Bang

  Second Chance Stepbrother

  Dirty Promise

  Sext

  Quickie

  Bed Shaker

  Deep in You

  The Billionaire’s Toy

  Buying the Bride

  Dating My Friend’s Daughter

  Big Man

  Trapped with My Teacher

  My 5 Bosses

  Good Girls Say Yes

  His Big Offer

  Dangerous Love

  The Roommate’s Baby

  Perfect Boss

  Cowboy Husband

  Knocked Up By Her Brother’s Enemy

  Flirt

  Lust

  Claim

  The Wife Arrangement

  Big Mountain

  1

  Ollie

  The doorbell rings, and I internally groan. I’m not even sure why I ordered food, I’m too sick to my stomach to eat. And I don’t want to see anyone. Not even the delivery guy. Closing my eyes, I lean my head back against the couch. Maybe if I ignore him long enough, he’ll just leave the food by the door.

  I’m in clothes that no one should ever witness me wearing and probably would be better off in the trash: A t-shirt that’s so worn it’s falling off my shoulders and ratty sweatpants that would never be decent in public because they have more holes than pants. But I didn’t want to put on anything nicer. Not after tonight. These are the only clothes worth wearing in my state of mind.

  The doorbell rings again.

  Just go away, I silently beg him. Leave the mozzarella sticks and milkshake. Leave me to wallow in my self-pity. But he rings the doorbell again, and then my phone starts to buzz. Damn it. Answering the phone is even worse than answering the door. I know it’s the just the unfortunate person who’s trying to deliver my food, and I cringe.

  “Hello?”

  “Delivery.”

  “Yeah,” I say, my voice squeaking. “Can you just leave the food by the door?”

  There’s an uncomfortable pause. “Sorry, you have to sign the receipt.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Okay, I’ll be right there.”

  Let’s get this fucking over with. I keep my blanket wrapped around my shoulders so that my ratty clothes are less visible, and go to the door. The guy is just standing there with my food and I feel even worse for making him wait. “Sorry,” I mutter, taking the receipt and not meeting his eyes. I give him a good tip before sealing myself back on the safe side of the door. My goal was no more humiliation for tonight. Missed that shot for a mile.

  I suppose it’s my own fault though, I didn’t have to go on that date. In fact, Lorraine told me that it was a bad idea. But he was cute and I hadn’t been on a date in a really long time. I think it’s going to be another very long time before I risk that again.

  Sinking back into the couch and my cocoon of pillows, I take a sip of the vanilla milkshake. Sweet bliss. I know that I shouldn’t drown my sorrow with sugar and fried cheese, but fuck it, I can go back to being healthy tomorrow.

  I’m re-watching one of my favorite TV series—an overly polite British reality show about amateur bakers. I mean, amateur my ass. They may not get paid for their baking but you better believe they’re experts. I’m the amateur. I can’t make a cake that doesn’t come out lopsided. It doesn’t mean that I don’t try, though.

  Stupid moron, I say to myself. I’m not sure whether I’m talking to myself or to Jason, my ill-fated date, but the words fit regardless. I try to lose myself in an episode about making the perfect identical little cakes, but the embarrassment keeps rolling through my head like my brain has the track on repeat.

  I thought it had been going well enough. We went to a little Mexican place on the Lower East Side, and it was nice. He was sweet and charming and the conversation was flowing. He works for one of the larger law firms downtown, and even though all of our interests didn’t align, enough of them did. In my mind, it was one of the better first dates that I’ve ever had. Until we walked to the subway.

  With an effort, I freeze the tape in my mind. I’d really rather not relive it again, though I know it’s only a matter of time.

  A text buzzes on my phone, and I glance at the screen. It’s Lorraine.

  How did it go?

  I roll my eyes. Of course she’s going to want to know. But she can know later.

  A couple of minutes later my phone buzzes again.

  Ollie…

  I turn the phone upside down on the other end of the couch. It vibrates a couple more times, but I don’t look. It’s judging time and I want to see how the raspberry mint cakes stack up against the orange cardamom. Even if I already know the answer.

  There’s a knock on the door and I jump. Did the delivery guy forget something?

  Then a loud, brassy voice. “Ollie, it’s me. Let me in.”

  Fuck. Lorraine. “Go away!” I want to wallow in my misery, and Lorraine isn’t going to let me do that.

  There’s the sound of a key in the lock and I groan. The door opens and her heels—Lorraine always wears heels—click on my floor. “I should have never given you that key,” I say.

  “Yes, you should have,” she says as she comes around the corner into the living room. She sees me in my nest of blankets and my comfort food. “What the hell happened?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Too bad.”

  I defiantly dip another mozzarella stick into my marinara sauce. “What are you doing here?”

  She flops down onto the couch next to me, ignoring both my glare and my personal space. “I was on my way home. When you didn’t answer my texts, I wanted to see if you were still out or if you were home. And here you are.”

  “Here I am,” I say bitterly, taking a sip of milkshake.

  “So what happened?”

  The judges on TV think that the orange and cardamom cakes are more successful, since the mint didn’t really come through in the cake or the frosting. “I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Lorraine, please,” I say, fighting off a sigh.

  She puts her arm around my shoulders. “No. You know why? Becau
se you hold onto these things. You overthink them, and bury them so you’re never able to let go. So you’re going to tell me about it, and then I’m going to give you some good news.”

  “Can’t you give me the good news now?”

  “Nope.” She steals a mozzarella stick and bites into it. “I’m holding it hostage for your date story.”

  I dig through the blankets for the remote and pause the show. Lorraine and I have been friends long enough that I know she’s not going to give in. If I don’t start talking, she’s just going to stare at me until I do. So I start talking. I tell her about the beginning of the date and how cute he was and how it seemed to be going well.

  And then I get to the subway.

  I take a deep breath. “Well, he was hot. And you know me, I’m not the kind of person that goes home on the first date. But it’s been…a while, and I thought, what the hell, let’s do it. So we were standing there at the subway, and I was wondering if he was going to kiss me or not, and I asked if he wanted to go back to his place.” I shove another mozzarella stick in my mouth.

  “And?” Lorraine prods.

  “And he laughed.”

  She gasps, “What?”

  “He laughed, and not like a little laugh. Like a big fucking laugh. Like people on the next block probably heard him crack up.”

  “Geeze.”

  I swallow. “And when he was done laughing, he told me that he wasn’t looking for some kind of slut, and that even if he was, I wasn’t really in his league. And then he asked if I thought that it had really gone that well.”

  Lorraine blinks. “Well fuck that guy.”

  I laugh once, but it’s not really funny. “Yeah, fuck that guy. Please don’t say that you told me so.”

  “Oh please,” she says, “I thought it wasn’t a great idea because he looked like a bro not because I thought he was going to be a complete dick.”

  “Yeah…”

  She snuggles against me. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’d hoped you weren’t answering my texts because you were getting some. And seriously, fuck that guy. I bet he doesn’t call himself a slut when he has first-date sex.”

  “Probably not.”

  Lorraine sits back up, curling her legs underneath her and facing me. “Now for the good news. It’s gonna cheer you up.”

  “Oh?” I raise an eyebrow.

  “Saturday is our ten-year reunion.”

  I think, and I’m drawing a blank. “For what?”

  “For high school.”

  My jaw drops. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not.”

  “Why on earth would you think that that’s good news? Or that it would cheer me up?”

  “It’s not the reunion that’s going to cheer you up, but one of the people going.”

  I feel sick to my stomach. If I’d known Lorraine was going to spring some sort of high school surprise on me, I wouldn’t have eaten this much cheese. “Do I even want to know?”

  “Adam Carlisle.”

  My stomach drops, and in spite of myself, my pulse jumps up so that it’s racing. “How do you know that?”

  She pulls out her phone. “There’s a Facebook page for the event. I’m sure they invited you.”

  “They did,” I say, suddenly remembering. “I deleted it.”

  “I figured. But I did a little stalking. Adam doesn’t post to Facebook very much, but he does have an Instagram. And god bless the fact that he does.”

  She shoves the phone in my face, and I understand immediately. Adam was hot in high school. And because he was hot in high school, the fact that he’s even hotter now is astonishing. There are several pictures of him at formal events where his suits are perfectly tailored to his body, and then there’s some…other pictures.

  Lorraine doesn’t hesitate—she blows up a picture of Adam on the beach, diving for a volleyball. He’s shirtless, and my mouth is suddenly dry. Adam was an athlete in high school. Basketball. And he had a killer body then. His body now would make his old body hang its head in shame. Even flying through the air in the picture, every line of muscle is visible. He’s pure power packed into a sleek package, and I look away.

  Even if I’ll never admit it, Adam has always been the guy. He’s the star of every fantasy that I’ve ever had. And even though I hadn’t seen that particular picture, I’ve definitely looked him up over the years. I’m well aware of how panty-meltingly gorgeous he is. I’ve had several pairs of panties ruined from thoughts that follow that train. But it’s not a good thing. I shouldn’t be hung up on a guy from high school that for all I know helped orchestrate the single worst moment of my life. It’s not healthy. I should really consider therapy.

  “He’s why you’re going to go with me.”

  I laugh, and this time it’s real. “No, I am not.”

  “Oh come on,” she begs, “It’ll be fun. Don’t you want to see Adam again?”

  I do. Oh, I do. I’d love the chance to see him in person. But now, just as every time I’ve have that thought in the last ten years, bright red embarrassment creeps in and I know that I can’t ever face him again. “You know I can’t.”

  “Ollie, all that was ten years ago. People probably don’t remember, and if they do…it was high school, so who cares?”

  “I care.”

  “Listen, I think you deserve another chance at your high school crush. Especially when your crush is this hot!” She shoves the phone in front of my face for emphasis.

  “He wasn’t my crush!” I say, probably too quickly. “I just…liked him a little.”

  Lorraine rolls her eyes. “Girl, you were crushing so hard I thought my ovaries were going to explode just by being in your proximity. Yours were already toast.”

  I shake my head. “That doesn’t make it better. The last time I saw him is when…everything happened. How do you move past that?”

  “Sasha is a bitch. She’s always been a bitch. That’s what I’d tell everyone.”

  “All that’s going to do is make me look bad.” I shove the blanket off my lap and gather the trash from my food. “I’m not going to go anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”

  Lorraine follows me. “Olllllllieeeeee,” she whines, dragging my name out, pleading. “Don’t make me go alone. Please? I’ll make sure you look so fucking fabulous that no one is going to remember prom night.”

  “Lor...”

  “Please? Please? I swear it will be okay. If anyone says anything to you, I’ll punch them in the face, and then no one’s going to bother you because they’ll all be talking about me. Please?”

  She’s trying to make me laugh and it works. “You promise?”

  “I do. You’re going to be so hot, Adam is going to fall over when he sees you.” I know that won’t happen, but my breath catches and I find myself blushing. Lorraine squeals. “See? I knew you wanted to see him.”

  “Shut up,” I mumble under my breath.

  She pulls me back into the living room. “Come on, we’ll look at dresses through my portal on the site and tomorrow you can come try them on.”

  Lorraine is a personal shopper at Bergdorf Goodman, and is undisputedly the best person in her department. Her supervisors know it too. She can’t legally tell me, but I know that she dresses her fair share of celebrities that live in New York. So borrowing a couple of dresses for a class reunion? No sweat given the amount of money that she makes for the store.

  My job is…far less glamorous. I’m an accountant. Don’t get me wrong, I like my job. I like the comfort of numbers and the way I can make them fall in line. And in a city with a whole lot of numbers to make fall in line, I can’t complain—I know that I’m a lot better off than many people in this city.

  My best friend has already kicked off her shoes and commandeered my laptop, logging into her shopping portal. Part of the time she works from home, prepping what she’s going to show her clients with a portal that has live listings of the store’s stock.

  By the time I
sit down with my glass of water, she’s already entered in my sizes and is scrolling through pages of dresses. “Aren’t reunions usually less formal?” The dresses she’s looking at belong on the runway and not in our old high school gym.

  “Do you remember high school at all?” Lorraine says, playful sarcasm filling her voice. “Think about who went there. You think there’s any chance that that group of people is going to plan an event where you can show up in a t-shirt and jeans?”

  “I’d be the luckiest person on earth if they did.”

  She laughs. “No. It’s at the Plaza.”

  “Are you serious?” I shake my head. “Well, at least that’s convenient.”

  “Right?”

  I lean back on the couch and let her go to work. She knows what looks good on me better than I do anyway. It’s amazing, I didn’t want to see anybody, and even though I’m still upset, she’s made me feel better. “Thanks, Lor.”

  “Anytime.”

  2

  Ollie

  The lights in this mirror are so bright that they’re blinding me, but the cheerful blonde girl applying make-up to my face assures me that they’re necessary for her to work. Her name is Maren and she works with Lor, who seems to have disappeared for the moment.

  I’m sitting in one of the make-up chairs at Bergdorf Goodman, and letting all the stuff that Lorraine has planned unfold. She made me try on about a million dresses and wouldn’t let me see how I looked in any of them, and wouldn’t tell me which one she picked. If I didn’t absolutely trust that she’s going to make me look fabulous, I’d be freaking out right now.

  Okay, I am freaking out right now, but not because of the dress. In an hour I’m going to walk across the street to the Plaza and into a ballroom of former classmates. I’ll probably throw up all over the dress Lor’s picked. I hope that’s within her discretionary budget.

  I’m trying to breathe. It must not be working because Maren asks, “Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” The high pitch of my voice makes it clear that I’m not. “Just nervous.”

  “Honey, after I’m done with you, you’ll have nothing to be nervous about.”

  “Oh, it’s not that,” I say. “It’s just that the last time I saw all of these people something really… I’m not looking forward to it.”