Page 175 of Wild Card 13

My mouth curved before I could stop it.

Naomi made a small pleased sound. “That smile is embarrassing.”

“It is a normal smile.”

“It is a my-boyfriend-is-downstairs smile.”

I tried to smooth the front of my dress even though nothing needed smoothing. My palms were damp. My pulse had moved into my throat again, but differently this time.

Naomi stepped in front of me and placed both hands on my shoulders. “Breathe.”

“I’m breathing.”

“Good.” She squeezed once. “You look beautiful. He is going to be ridiculous about it.”

Dad stood at the bottom of the stairs with his camera already in hand. Arlo leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed, expression arranged into something deeply unimpressed. Ty stood in the entryway beneath the soft light from the chandelier, one hand tucked into the pocket of a gray plaid suit that should have looked absurd.

On Ty, it was devastatingly perfect. The suit fit him almostunfairly well. The jacket pulled across his shoulders, the pattern subtle but bold enough to be entirely Ty. His shirt was buttoned all the way to the collar, no tie, because of course he had found the line between formal and trouble and planted himself directly on it. His blond hair was neater than usual, though one piece had already fallen forward like it had rebelled on principle. He looked older and eighteen at the same time. Handsome in a way that made my steps slow without permission.

When he saw me, Ty went completely still. His mouth parted slightly. He forgot, as far as I could tell, how to operate his face.

Heat rose up my neck and into my cheeks.

Arlo looked between us, then sighed. “I hate this.”

Dad took a picture. The flash startled all of us.

“Dad.”

“It’s called candid.”

Naomi came down behind me and stopped on the last stair. “Medical event,” she whispered.

I elbowed her gently without looking away from him.

Ty blinked once. Then again. His gaze moved over me with such open, helpless wonder that my entire body seemed to forget it was supposed to be guarded. “Shortcake,” he said finally.

My heart turned over.

“That is not a sentence,” Arlo said.

Ty ignored him. “You look…” He stopped.

I swallowed, suddenly aware of every inch of the dress, every curl brushing my bare shoulders, every place his eyes landed and softened.

“You look really nice too,” I managed.

Naomi made a sound suspiciously close to a snort.

Ty’s mouth curved then, slow and dazed. “Really nice?”

“I’m trying not to overinflate your ego before we’ve left the house.”

“Too late. I’m already there.”

Dad took another picture. And suddenly, it was a full event. Dad directed us to stand by the fireplace, then by the front door, then near the stairs because apparently the railing had “nice lines.” Arlo muttered that Dad had become a lifestyle photographer. Naomi posed dramatically with one hand on her hip while Ty informed her she looked like she wasabout to judge a baking competition. She told him he looked like a very attractive tablecloth. He bowed slightly and said he accepted.

I stood in front of the fireplace while Dad looked through the camera, adjusting something with far too much concentration.