The Season Read Online Free Page B

flowing off the handlebars.
    â€œHave fun at the ball! Be home by midnight!” Mariah called.
    â€œLet us know if you meet Prince Charming!” Lachelle shouted.
    I waved and left to the sound of kazoos. Halfway across campus I noticed they had replaced my nasty old water bottle with a brand-new pink one.
    And what I’d remembered as “a few blocks” from SMU to Turtle Creek Country Club turned out to be ten—a solid mile and a half. And there were two lights. Now I was sitting at the second. When I’d arrived at the first, the crosswalk was blocked by a column of toddlers returning from the park to their day care.
    Recalling my dress blowing out behind me that morning, I suddenly wished I were Superman, that I could fly or instantly cool the entire world to subzero temperatures. Most of all I wished to spin the earth backward at hypersonicspeed, thereby reversing the clocks by, say, an hour. Lacking all of these skills I smoldered, inside and out. One last glance at my watch—4:45 p.m. Best case scenario I would arrive twenty minutes late, flushed and sweaty.
    The entrance to Turtle Creek Country Club was, naturally, uphill. Unable to quell the rising tide of panic, I stood on the pedals and cranked my bike up over the crest. Suddenly, as if she were right next to me, I heard my mother offer that “Megan, dear, you
never
get a second chance to make a first impression.” Thanks for that, Mom.
    Ahead now I saw the shaded portico and the front doors. I imagined the other girls arriving before me—early of course—pulling up in their vacuum-sealed cars, the air- conditioning cranked so high they’d be wearing cashmere cardigans. Exiting oh so carefully—don’t muss your hair or chip a nail—they’d take the valet ticket and have a mere eight steps to the cool confines of the club. Not enough time to melt an M&M, much less mar their Kabuki makeup.
    Lost in my bitter reverie I hurtled into the entrance, screeched to a stop, and locked eyes with the valet. He was young, dressed in black shorts and a white polo. He was also handsome, ridiculously so, with big brown eyes, wavy hair, and a dimple in his chin big enough to bathe in. I stood waiting, but he didn’t move, just hovered with a ticket in his hand.
    â€œWell?” I said. He just stared at me, slack-jawed.
Poor fella, got the looks but not the brains
, I thought. “What, you’ve never parked a bikebefore?”
    That got him. He stepped forward and held the handle bar.
    â€œSorry—good afternoon . . . ma’am,” he said. Now he smiled. And what a smile—brighter than the lights at Westcott Field. “Welcome to Turtle Creek Country Club.”
    â€œThanks.” I unbuckled my helmet and handed it to him. He noticed the tiara, and smiled again. He really was handsome. Must do well with the older ladies. I considered explaining about the tiara, but really, what plausible explanation could I offer?
    And then, harried, and distracted by his looks, I caught the hem of my dress on the saddle and tore it as I dismounted. We both looked down at the sound of cloth ripping. My stylish red linen dress now had a tear from thigh to hip, a generous hole through which my sunflower panties and a decent amount of skin showed.
    â€œPerfect,” I said. “Just—perfect.” He gave me a sympathetic look. I squeezed my dress shut, handed him five bucks.
    â€œOh, thank you very much, ma’am.” I sensed some private joke now, a gentle tease in his voice—probably the tiara.
    â€œYou’re welcome.” I quizzed his face for the answer, and his smile grew.
Definitely the tiara.
I nodded at my bike. “Keep it running?”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” he said, the smile widening. It made my heart thump. He was beyond cute. Typical—on the doorstep of fabulous wealth I swoon for the valet. I walked away holding my dress together.
    â€œAnd no