Putting together a prom night wasn’t easy, and there really wasn’t a way I could get her to a formal dance, so I did the next best thing and put together all of the silly things that go along with the prom. Our first stop was the Olive Garden, because that’s the kind of place you think is a fancy restaurant when you’re in high school. Two pasta bowls and two basketfuls of breadsticks later, Rowe and I left to climb back into the limo, sleepy from the carb overload.

“Okay, I’ll admit it. That was pretty fun,” she says, crossing her long legs in the car and completely putting me in a trance. “So, what’s next?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah…” I shake my head.

“You were gawking,” she says, pulling the edge of her skirt up a little higher on her thigh just to tease me.

“Don’t start something you don’t intend to finish, Rowe. I can put up that privacy glass anytime I want,” I say, my eyes moving quickly from hers back to the newly exposed flesh on her leg.

“Well, isn’t that part of the Nate Preeter Prom Experience, too?” she teases. I slide my arm around her to tug her close to my body, and I spend the rest of the short drive torturing her while I kiss her neck and slide my fingertips along the temptingly high hem of her dress.

I knew the next stop would get to her. I had to come up with something that would serve as a prom, so when I saw the Friday-night square-dancing notice posted at Sally’s this week, I jumped all over it.

“Uh, Preeter? I’m pretty sure this is not what a high school prom is like,” she says as I hold her hand and help her from the car to the curb.

“Really? ‘Cause I was trying to be authentic to Arizona, and that’s how y’all dance there pretty much, ain’t it?” She slaps at my side with her small handbag, and I swing my arms around her and lift her into me, spinning her around until she giggles. God I love that sound.

“Wow, you really did your research on my home state. I suppose after this we’re going to meet up for a shootout, and then take our horses down to the waterin’ hole?”

“Don’t be silly,” I say, opening the door to lead her inside. “Everybody knows shootouts only happen at dawn.”

I never would have expected it, but the square-dancing nights at Sally’s are actually pretty happening. Granted, Rowe and I are the youngest people in the building by about forty years, but everyone thinks we are so sweet that they teach us new formations, buy us drinks and appetizers, and even make a special crown for Rowe to be named queen. We leave after two full hours of dancing, and I actually worked up enough of a sweat to have to lose the jacket and undo the tie.

Rowe kicks her shoes off in the car, and I pull her feet onto my lap to rub them. It’s all I can do to keep my hands from running completely up her leg to the small, white panties I keep catching a glimpse of, and if she weren’t looking at me with those eyes, making that face, I probably would.

“Thank you,” she says softly, letting her face fall to the side along the headrest of the car.

“For what?” I say, my fingers pressing into the arch of her feet.

“For caring about me so much,” she says, and her words cut into my heart completely.

“Rowe,” I say, carefully setting her feet down on the floor and sliding myself closer to her so I can touch her face. “I would do…anything.”

She leaves her eyes on mine for a long time, and I just keep stroking the side of her face as we pull back onto the main road to campus. “Anything?” she says, finally.

“Name it.”

“Hold me again tonight?”

“Done.”

Chapter 21

Rowe

Nate’s dad came through with the ticket hook-up, and when I called his business associate, the man turned out to be a huge McConnell baseball fan, and he gave me the pair of third-row seats for free.

When I gave them to Nate after our prom experience, he was thrilled. There isn’t much in the way of professional sports in Oklahoma, and the Thunder has a huge fan base, so good seats are tough to come by. Now, I just need to work up the mental stamina to be able to sit in a full arena for three hours—without having a panic attack. And I have six more hours to do it before tipoff.

“Hey, he’s talking to you,” a voice behind me whispers and jolts me back to attention.

“Huh, oh…sorry,” I say, startled to have someone talk to me during art history, or in any class. My circle of friends hasn’t really expanded beyond my dorm floor, and I haven’t really made an effort to be social in class. I look up to see the professor tapping his pen on the side of his podium, waiting for me. Crap! I have no idea what the question was, and judging from the look on his face, he’s been waiting for my answer for a while. I swallow hard and shift my posture in my seat, pretending to work to get a better look at the slide showing on the screen.