Page 43 of The Fake WIfe Playbook

I blast some music and make it an event.

I picked through them, overwhelmed. Satin, sequins, silk—colors I’d never worn, price tags I didn’t dare ask about.

So I did what any rattled girl would do.

I FaceTime Shay mid-spin, and she immediately screams, “Oh my God, this isyour Pretty Womanmoment!”

“Minus the shopping montage,” I grin.

“Girl, you’re living thedeluxeversion.”

I angled the camera toward the rack of gowns. “Help.”

She gasped. “Oh,hellyes. What’s the occasion, your coronation?”

“Some fancy dinner thing. With Finn.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Is that code for ‘he’s about to cook you something that’ll end with clothes on the floor?’”

“Shay!”

“I’m just saying, the man grills in Armani. You’re gonna want to wear something that peels off easily.”

Dress after dress, I twirl, pose, and strut. Yes, strut!

One is gold and slinky, one is red and dangerous, and one is silver with feathers, like I’ve stolen a cloud. I make a mess, tossing hangers, laughing at myself in the mirror.

It’s ridiculous. It’s indulgent. It’s the most fun I’ve had in days.

After ten more changes, I find it—the one. Midnight blue. It will go with Finn’s eyes and make me feel like we belong together.

The dress is satin. Off the shoulder with a slit that says I’m not here to behave. It hugs me in all the right places and makes my waist look scandalous, while my legs appear to have gone on for days. But mostly? It makes me feel like someone worth watching.

Shay approves with a dramatic chef’s kiss.

I step in front of the mirror and stare at myself.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t see the girl from Pine Hollow.

I see someone else. Someone I might want to know better… the woman I’m becoming.

I picked the blue designer dress because it will go with Finn’s eyes.

And right on schedule, a black SUV pulled up out front, and a woman, whom I assume is the stylist, got out and walked to the front door.

18

FINN

GLITTER AND GALA

Forecheck Pressure:A relentless forecheck, where a player fully commits to chasing down defenders and forcing turnovers, even if exhausted.

She walks out of the bedroom, and my heart stops.

Midnight blue. Satin. A slit high enough to make my knees weak and a neckline that demands the world look at her—but it’s her face that does me in.

Her brunette-colored hair is pinned up, with a few soft curls framing her cheekbones. Her makeup is subtle. It’s warm, like starlight caught fire. She’s all elegance, confidence, and vulnerability wrapped into one impossible woman.