Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,146

Me and the girls are getting ready for a full day of torture.

G: Hair and makeup. Nails and flowers.

G: Oh and pretending our mothers aren’t the actual worst. FML.

I roll my eyes, falling onto the couch. Christ, the ball is like seven hours away. So much for a morning quickie. I look down at the photo, realizing this is how she’s going to look tonight. In that dress. Face glowing. Dancing with Ozzy. I can picture it now, her mother simpering over the two of them, telling them to move closer together for the professional photographer she’s probably paid to make Georgia look nice and normal and money. No one knows better than me, that’s how rich people roll. Debutante balls are just glorified people-husbandry.

H: You look like an erotic marshmallow

G: Ha. Yeah I guess I look pretty stupid

The pause before her response is a little too long not to read into. Georgia’s getting ready for an actual fucking ball. Maybe she thinks it’s dumb, and maybe she doesn’t belong there, but she’s still a girl. Of course she wants to look pretty.

“Shit,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. I type out a lightning-quick reply, and then immediately shove the phone in my pocket, glaring up at my ceiling. I expect the burn in my stomach, but not the one in my chest. The text told the truth. It doesn’t mean anything. I still dig my phone out of my pocket, looking for a confirmation it’s been read.

There’s a little check next to the message.

H: You’re beautiful, Georgia. I told you before. Perfect.

23

Georgia

H: You’re beautiful, Georgia. I told you before. Perfect.

I can’t help the smile that breaks out as I read Heston’s text, trapping my lip between my teeth as I struggle for something to type back.

“Who’s that?” Vandy asks, neck craning to get a look at my phone.

I quickly stow it back into my purse. “No one.”

She gives me a skeptical look. “Then why is your face all red?”

Caroline turns to look at us, eyes brightening. “Oooh, was it your new fella?”

“Caroline,” I hiss, but Vandy flaps a hand.

“She already told me.” Vandy pats some more concealer on her chin. Even though we’re having our makeup professionally done later, she’s been stressing about a blemish all morning. “I don’t see what the big deal is. I think it’s cool you’re seeing someone.”

“Even if he doesn’t take you on dates,” Caroline points out, sounding disapproving.

I’d groan into my hands if it wouldn’t just make my face redder. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you two. You have this idea of how relationships should be, and if that works for you, great. But maybe other people do it different.”

What I don’t say is that if I had a choice of being taken to a fancy dinner or Heston bending me over his couch and fucking the daylights out of me, I’d choose Heston every time, and wow. That’s a weird realization to have.

Vandy frowns at her pimple. “You make us sound like judgmental jerks.”

“You just sounded like you might be interested in that,” Caroline says, shrugging. “As long as you’re getting what you want, we’re happy for you.”

“Super happy,” Vandy agrees.

It nags at me while we’re having our nails done, this question of what I want. Maybe I had sounded a little wistful when I talked to Caroline about dates and dinners and sweet goodnight kisses. But none of it could possibly be better than that night in Heston’s bed, curled into his side as his fingertips skated over my naked hip.

That’s what I want.

Later, my mom stands behind me to oversee the hairdresser, making unhappy noises. “The tiara won’t work well with it that high.”

I pull a face when the stylist tugs a lock a bit more aggressive than necessary. “Maybe I don’t need the tiara,” I wager, sending her a look.

She sends a look right back. “You’re wearing that tiara, missy. It’s special. I wore it to my first ball, and your daughter will wear it to her first ball.”

The stylist tries it on, making sure the curls frame it just-so. It’s over-the-top, with dozens of tiny, gaudy crystals. Even though it sparkles like new, it looks old and ill-suited for me, like I’ve just pilfered it from a dead widow’s jewelry chest.

“I think we’ll go with the bouquet of lilies for the pictures,” Mom says, fingering one of my curls. The look on her face is full of excitement. “Oh, I wish you’d chosen the