“This is what you think I should be?” I cut in. “A fake schemer?”

Sam shrugged then. “Fake or not, it’s how the most successful people get ahead. They plot, forge alliances, and they execute their plans.”

“If that’s success, then I want no part of it. I’d rather fail and have a conscience.”

Sam huffed out a breath. “Be a bitch if you want, but I know you’re just scared to go to prom. Alone.” She flounced out then.

That decided it; I went with Mama to buy a dress. Because I wasn’t going to be called a coward. I chose a classic floor-length sheath dress with little cap sleeves in kelly-green satin. I felt ridiculous and overexposed, but Mama swore I was beautiful.

I went alone. Logically, I knew I wasn’t the only person without a date; that didn’t stop the flutter of nerves when I walked down the main corridor to the hotel ballroom where our prom was being held.

Then I saw him.

Macon stood just beyond his group of friends, his expression bored as Sam held center court. I didn’t know what alerted him to my presence, but he turned his head just as I walked into view. Our eyes locked, and I found my steps slowing.

Dressed in a tux that fit him to perfection, he looked . . . frankly, like he didn’t belong there. He belonged with the beautiful people, partying on a yacht or walking down a Parisian runway, perhaps. I didn’t know why I hadn’t realized it before: he didn’t fit in our town any more than I did. The difference was, when it came to Macon, no one cared that he was an outsider—they were simply happy to have him around.

I didn’t remember moving, but we ended up face to face, his dark eyes sliding over me, a frown pulling at his mouth. “You came.”

Okay . . . “Was I not supposed to?”

His frown turned into an outright scowl, his gaze roving as if he was unnerved by my appearance. “I didn’t think you would.”

I shrugged, all too aware of my fancy dress, the makeup I wore, my hair styled in loose curls; I didn’t feel like me, but I felt pretty. “Sorry to disappoint.”

When he finally answered, his voice was low, almost a mutter. “I’m not disappointed.”

We both paused, equally shocked and confused. He might not have been disappointed, but he didn’t seem pleased. And neither was I; I didn’t trust Macon Saint. As if by silent agreement, we both turned and walked in the opposite direction.

Insides jittery and my heart beating too fast, I went to the ballroom. Most of the senior class was either dancing or milling around in small groups. A long buffet had been set up along the side of the room, and the line for food had already started.

I didn’t pay it much mind since I was too unsettled to eat, but a ripple started running through the room, an undercurrent of startled laughter. As if feeding on itself, the noise grew, turning less shocked and more malicious.