I don’t want my daughter to laugh when she sees pictures.

I lift up the skirt, cringing at the white stockings and fugly satin heels, and then I spin, taking in the back of my gown and the obnoxious corset lacing that should really be buttons instead.

God, I should’ve taken that Valium. Why the hell do I want to make her happy when she’s out to hurt my feelings like this?

But I know why. In a few months, I’ll be off to college. Away from everything. Graduating. Gone.

Everyone will be leaving. Everyone…

Standing straight and tall, I face the mirrors again, but then a door slams shut somewhere in the shop, and I freeze.

It wasn’t the front door. That door has a bell over it. This was the rear one—heavy and thick—the click of the latch so loud I can hear it from here.

My heart beats faster, and in a moment, her eyes on my back warm my skin.

Everyone…

I look up, meeting Olivia Jaeger’s eyes as she leans against the archway leading into the dressing room, staring at me.

And all of a sudden, my skin is too hot.

She holds canvas bags stuffed with tulle and ribbon, her aviators sitting on top of her head as she clearly struggles to hold back her amusement.

Her shift ended over an hour ago. I thought she was gone for the night.

“Come here,” I tell her.

She loses the bags and comes around my front, facing me. I gaze down at my classmate, my teammate, and the only thing I ever look forward to anymore.

“Pin the hem,” I order her. “It’s still dragging, so bring it up another quarter of an inch.”

Hands on her hips, she hesitates like it’s a choice, and then drops to her knees, pulling a pin off the cushion secured to her wrist.

But before she grabs the dress, I pull it away from her. “Wash your hands first.”

I shake my head as she shoots me a look. I mean, really. If she’s learned anything crossing the tracks into St. Carmen every day to attend one of the most prestigious schools in the state the past three-and-a-half years, it should be some common sense. They certainly teach that at Marymount.

Rising, she walks over to the round table and pulls a wipe out of the package, cleaning her fingers. The Jaegers were born with grease under their nails, so better to be safe than sorry.

In addition to mowing the lawns and trimming the hedges of St. Carmen, her brothers also partially own a dump of a restaurant in their neck of the woods, sell drugs, fix cars and motorcycles, and dabble in loan-sharking.

Okay, maybe the ‘sell drugs’ part is only a rumor. The whole family is sketchy, though. Especially with the power they wield as the unofficial patrons of Sanoa Bay, their hidden little community in the swamps.

Tryst Six, they’re called. There are six siblings, but I have no idea where the Tryst part comes from. They even have an adorable little logo. Insert eye roll.

Approaching me again, she drops down, blowing the lock of hair that came loose from her ponytail out of her face, and folds the hem, pinning it up.

The hair falls back in her face, and my fingers tap my leg, fighting the urge to move the lock behind her ear for her.

“Hurry up,” I tell her.

I tip my head back and smooth my own hair into a fist high on the top of my head, twirling it into a bun and holding it there. I check myself in the mirror.

Her fingers tug gently at the fabric as she moves to the next spot, and my heart beats harder, every pore on my body cooling with a sudden sweat.

I let my eyes fall again, watching her at my feet.

Her jean shorts. The dusky olive skin of her toned legs glowing in the light of the chandelier. I trail my gaze over her messy jet-black ponytail and the red tint of her lips as she bites the bottom one, concentrating on her task. Her black-and-white-checkered flannel flaps open, and I pause at the low V of her gray T-shirt underneath as it dips between the smooth, poreless skin of her chest.

I tip my chin up, looking in the mirror again. Is she even wearing a bra, for Christ’s sake?

She lifts up my skirt to just past my ankles and steals a peek. “You should lose the stockings,” she tells me, going back to pinning. “And the shoes, too, for that matter.”

I turn a little, jutting out my shoulder and trying to decide if the dress looks better with my hair up or down. “Imagine what the world would have to come to for me to take fashion advice from a white trash, rug-sucking, swamp rat like you,” I reply.

Her black leather, calf-high boots are kind of cute and all, but I’m pretty sure everything she’s wearing is whatever she could scrounge up from someone’s hand-me-downs.

I feel her eyes on me, and I look down, seeing a little gleam in her eye. Kind of amused, but mostly a warning that she’s making a mental note of all the shit I say to her for a rainy day.

I’m shakin’, Liv. Really, I am.

“If I take off the stockings,” I explain. “I won’t be properly dressed. The women in my world are ladies, Olivia.”

“You’ll feel it on your legs, though.” She looks back down to her task. “It’ll change how you carry yourself.”

“What will? The sticky, noxious sweat of Florida in springtime on my naked thighs?”

The debutante ball is in May. The humidity will be a nightmare, despite the air-conditioned banquet hall hosting it. Like she knows anything.

“Afraid I might be right?” she taunts.

I roll my eyes. Please. The only thing I’m afraid of is wasting time.

But I stand there, letting my hair fall down my back again, and watch her. I’m not sure why, but I kick off my heel and set the ball of my foot on her knee.

Prove it, then.

Tipping her head back, she looks up at me, her honey-brown eyes unblinking.

“I can’t bend over in this dress,” I tell her.

Fisting the skirt in my hands, I start to pull it up, past my knees, and up my thighs to where the garter secures the stockings.

She holds my gaze for another moment, and then she reaches up, unfastening the clips.

Her fingertips brush the skin on the inside of my leg, and my flesh pebbles, chills breaking out everywhere. I draw in a sharp breath, and she darts her eyes up to mine, as still as me.

“I don’t have all day,” I chide, trying to hide my reaction.

Her chest rises and falls slowly, and then she peels the stocking down my leg and off my foot, followed by the other one, both of my shoes laying strewn on the floor with the nylons.

Walking to a nearby shelf, she scans the heels and grabs a pair, pointing to the chair near the mirror.

Indulging her, I step off the riser and have a seat as she plops down on the floor and searches for my right foot under the dress.

I hike up the skirt again as she slips the heel on, almost amused that she refuses to look. I know she wants to. My legs are one of my best attributes. She’s looked at them before.

It’s amazing she’s endured me as captain of the lacrosse team this year, especially when she’s probably the better player, and I haven’t made anything easy on her.

But that’s how it is. Effort, focus, hard work…they mean very little when you’re lucky like me. Saints don’t mix with swamp trash, and while Reva Coomer may be the coach, I’m the leader. Everyone follows me.

I gaze at her as she straps the heels on me, the tiny mole on her face, between her ear and the hollow of her cheek, bringing out the gold in her skin. I’ve never noticed that before.