CHAPTER forty-three #9
"Idiot," I mutter under my breath, scolding myself for hoping, for slipping back into that same lovesick high school girl who used to dream up fairytales about him.
For believing, even for a second, that things would be different this time.
Had I made a mistake giving him another chance?
Because these last few days—him being quiet, distant—it felt like he was slipping through my fingers again. And God, I wasn't sure my heart could take that twice.
I exhale sharply, forcing my thoughts to a stop. "Not now," I tell herself. "You've got a performance to nail. Sponsors to impress. No time for heartbreak."
I start pacing, dress swishing softly with every step, trying to calm the nerves twisting in my stomach. Ten minutes tick by—no sign of Lucy or the girls.
Then my phone buzzes.
LUCY
Care, I'm so sorry, we can't make it back to you right now—things got crazy.
LUCY
The sponsors just arrived.
LUCY
Meet us backstage, okay?
I groan, running a hand through my curls. "Great. Except I have no idea where backstage even is."
ME
Where exactly?
LUCY
Go straight down the east hall, take a right at the end, then the double doors on your left.
Phone in hand, I take one last glance at the mirror and heads out.
The hallway feels too long, the air thick with the faint patter of my ballet flats against the floor. Each turn looks the same, each step feeding my doubt.
Was I even going the right way?
I frown. Backstage should've been closer to the locker rooms, right?
And where the hell is everyone?
Just as I'm about to give up and turn back, movement flickers at the end of the corridor.
A tall figure stands a few doors down, his back to me—broad-shouldered, dressed in a red and gold Nutcracker Prince uniform. The ornate coat gleams faintly under the muted hallway lights, gold buttons lined like armor down his back. Relief floods my chest so fast it makes me dizzy.
"Adam," I breathe out, half-laughing as I start toward him. "Oh, thank God. I thought I was—"
The words die somewhere between my throat and the air.
Because he moves. Slowly. Purposefully.
The turn feels like it happens in slow motion—the kind of cinematic pause right before everything changes. His hand drops on his sides, and when he finally faces me, it's like the entire hallway exhales.
It's not Adam.
My breath catches—sharp, involuntary—as my gaze drags up from the black boots to the gold-trimmed coat and finally, to the face I know too well.
That jawline. Those dark, smirking eyes. That grin. God, that maddening, sinful grin I've memorized in every version of my dreams.
Zach.
My pulse stumbles, the air caught somewhere between my ribs and my throat. For a second, I just stare—because seeing him there, in that ridiculous prince costume of all things, feels like every fairytale and heartbreak I've ever known crashing into one impossible moment.
Then his mouth curves—soft, teasing—and his voice washes over me, smooth enough to undo my knees.
"Hi, Sugarplum Princess."
CHAPTER forty
CAROLINE
Istare at him, heart tripping over itself, "Zach? What are you doing here?"
He flashes that maddening grin—the one that always makes my chest tighten. "What do you mean? I'm here for our date."
I blink, the words not computing. "What? No, I have to perform in a few minutes. Didn't you read my text?" My eyes sweep over him again, taking in the regal red coat, the gold trim, the tall boots, the stupidly perfect fit of it all. "Wait—why are you dressed like the Nutcracker Prince?"
His grin widens, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I told you. I'm here for our date."
"I don't..." I shake my head, completely lost. "I don't understand."
Zach tilts his head, that infuriatingly calm look softening into something that makes my stomach flip. "Come and see," he says quietly. "They've been waiting for us."
They?
My brows furrow. "Who's they—"
But he's already extending his arm toward me, all gallant and annoyingly charming. I hesitate, confusion and curiosity warring in my chest, but when he flashes that grin, the one that always makes my pulse stutter—I cave.
Feeling absurdly giddy, I slip my hand into the crook of his arm.
As if on cue, the double doors swing open.
And my breath catches.
Right in front of us is a massive balloon arch twined with fairy lights, shimmering in gold and blush pink. Above it, in sparkling letters, reads:
RIDGEWATER U PROM NIGHT 2025.
I just... stare. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
Before I can make sense of it, one of Zach's teammates—Martin, I think—walks up and hands him a small box. Zach takes it with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder. "Thanks, man."
Then he turns back to me.
And God, that grin should be illegal.
He flips the box open, revealing a delicate pink corsage, petals so soft they almost glow under the lights.
"Caroline Bernadette Pennington," he says, voice low and teasing, "will you do me the honor of being my date to prom?"
I blink at him, laughing under my breath. "Aren't we a little old for prom?"
His mouth quirks. "We're never too old for prom."
"Pretty sure it's supposed to be homecoming," I shoot back.
"Well, technically, yeah." His mouth tips into a lopsided grin. "But I didn't want homecoming, Caroline. I wanted prom. The prom. The one we never got three years ago."
He pauses, his voice soft but steady. "I always thought about what that night could've been—what it should've been. So..." his grin deepens, a spark in his eyes, "I figured it's about time I make it happen."
He tilts his head, that familiar mischief flickering across his face. "And since the next prom isn't until May—which feels like a lifetime away—I thought, why wait?"
His smile widens. "I'd rather bring prom to you."
I roll my eyes, cheeks burning. "You're ridiculous."
"Ridiculously romantic," he corrects, leaning closer. I can't help it. I giggle. The whole thing is absurd and sweet and so very him.
He steps closer, the grin turning softer. "Stop making me wait, Sugarplum. Will you be my date or not?"
I arch a brow, playing along. "Do I have a choice?"
"No," he says without missing a beat, smirking.
I sigh dramatically and hold out my wrist. "Then of course, Zachary James Westbrook, I'll be your date."
His smile—the real one, the knee-buckling one—spreads across his face as he slides the corsage onto my wrist. Then, gently, he places my hand back on his arm.
When we step through the archway, the world transforms.
The gymnasium—normally plain and echoey—is unrecognizable. Twinkling chandeliers hang from the rafters, fairy lights drip like stardust, and a soft pink glow casts the whole room in a dream. The floor gleams like glass, reflecting couples twirling under a shower of glitter.
It's enchanted fairytale perfection.
A red carpet stretches before us, and a photographer snaps a photo as Zach guides me forward. I barely notice; I'm too busy staring, completely dazed.
If Zach weren't beside me, his hand tightening around mine every few steps, I'd swear I'd fallen asleep and dreamed this whole thing up.
Music hums through the air. Students—our classmates, his teammates—fill the room. Lucy, Katie, and Tammie are dancing nearby, all dressed like woodland fairies, their wings catching the light. They spot me and wave, giggling like maniacs.
I narrow my eyes and mouth, Traitors.
They just laugh harder, spinning their partners—who, of course, are Zach's teammates.
We pass the refreshment table, where Sam—dressed like some ethereal elf princess in white satin—is trying to drag Elijah onto the dance floor. He's in a dark, princely outfit that totally matches hers, yet he's stubbornly sipping his drink, pretending not to hear her.
Unbelievable. She was in on this too?
And she actually looked genuinely worried earlier when I told her about Zach.
The nerve.
I shake my head, laughter bubbling in my chest.
Zach squeezes my hand gently, drawing my gaze back to him.
He stops in the middle of the dance floor, lights dimming to a warm, golden glow that glitters over us like a thousand tiny stars. Zach looks down at me, his voice dropping low—almost teasing, almost careful.
"Dance with me?"
I don't even think. I just nod. Hard. Probably too fast.
He laughs, that deep, quiet laugh that feels like it starts somewhere in his chest and ends in mine. His fingers lace with mine, and he pulls me closer, guiding me to the center as the music slows to something soft and sweet. The kind of song that feels too intimate for a room this big.
His hand slides around my waist—warm, steady, possessive in the gentlest way—and my breath stumbles. He pulls me closer until I can feel the rise and fall of his chest against mine, and just like that, the rest of the world disappears.
It's just us.
His heartbeat.
My pulse trying to keep up.
His thumb moves in slow circles against my back, and I swear every nerve in my body turns into static. The scent of his cologne—clean, woodsy, him—wraps around me, dizzying. My head tips slightly toward his shoulder, and for a second, I let myself melt.
No overthinking. No doubts. Just this.
"Did I ever tell you," he murmurs, voice rough enough to make my stomach twist, "that I've imagined this a hundred times?"
My head tilts up to meet his gaze. "You have?"
His grin softens, almost shy. "Yeah. Except every time, you'd disappear before I got to hold you like this."
Something in my chest tightens—pain and warmth tangled together, the kind that makes it hard to breathe. I rest my head lightly against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my ear. It's strong, calming... achingly familiar.
"I used to fantasize about this too," I admit softly, the words muffled against him. "Longer than I can even remember."
His hand stills on my back, just for a second.