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simultaneously pressing herself deeper into the couch. Coop fixed her with an unblinking ice-blue stare, gray-brown fur bristling along his spine.
    “Tory!” Whitney squealed. “He’s going to attack!”
    “Maybe.” I walked into the kitchen and snagged a Diet Coke from the fridge. “Try to protect your throat.”
    “Tory!!!”
    “Oh, relax.” Though enjoying Whitney’s discomfort, I knew Kit wouldn’t share my amusement. “Coop, heel!”
    The wolfdog trotted to my side and sat. I couldn’t prove it, but I swear he looked pleased with himself.
    Whitney straightened her clothes, rolled her eyes skyward seeking patience, then rose and walked into the dining room.
    “It’s dinnertime.” Placing flatware on the table. “I brought catfish po’boys, Cajun style. Black-eyed peas on the side.”
    I’ll give Whitney one thing—she knows good food. I could usually tolerate her company if bribed with Lowcountry deliciousness.
    I’d nearly finished my po’boy when she blew it again.
    “I spoke to the Women’s Committee today.” Daintily wiping glossy red lipstick from her teeth. “It’s just not practical to return you to next year’s cohort. The invitations have been printed, and an official roster has gone to the paper. You’ll be making your debut this season after all.”
    My head dropped. “What? I’m only fourteen! I’ll be the youngest deb by almost two years!”
    Despite my fervent wishes to the contrary, I was being forced to take part in the grand Southern tradition of a debutante ball. Whitney’s idea, though Kit had thrown in his full support. Some nonsense about me needing “more refinement” and extra “girl time.” Like it was
my
fault no teenage XX-chromosomes lived on Morris Island.
    I’d been attending cotillion classes for the past six months, learning massively important skills such as formal dance, standing up straight, the proper use of silverware, and the etiquette of hosting a tea party. I hated all the pretension, but there was no escape. Whitney was determined to mold me into a proper young lady.
    Okay, it wasn’t
all
bad. I’d made a few friends, and was getting more comfortable around Bolton Prep’s ruling elite. Dressing up was kind of fun. Plus, the organization had a charitable focus, and we spent lots of time doing good works in the community.
    But, by age, I should’ve been a
junior
debutante, with my debut taking place the following season.
    “You’re a bit early to the party, I admit, but it’s not like you’re setting a record.” Her Southern drawl became aggrieved. “I pulled
a lot
of strings to advance you when we thought you’d have to move away from Charleston. It’s simply too much to untie that bow now.”
    My thoughts were already leaping ahead. “When is the ball?”
    “Friday after next.” Whitney giggled excitedly. “We’ll need to hustle, and you have some important decisions to make.”
    Uh-oh.
“Such as?”
    Whitney gave me an indulgent look. “Your marshals and ushers, Tory. You’ll need to select escorts to the ball.”
    Call it avoidance. Call it willful blindness. Call it whatever you like.
    I can honestly say this hadn’t crossed my mind until that moment.
    “What? Who? How many?”
    “One of each, usually, but you can include more if you want. But you
must
have a marshal for your debut.”
    I gaped. Who in the world could I drag to this disaster? Why would anyone want to go?
    Whitney, as usual, misread me completely.
    “I agree it’s a very significant decision. So take some time to think. But I need your choices soon, sweetheart. The invitations will be late, as is, and the boys need to rent tuxedos if they don’t already own them.”
    Whitney pushed from the table and began stacking dishes. I mumbled thanks and retreated upstairs to my room. Flopping onto my bed, I couldn’t shake that single, nagging question.
    Who?
    Whitney’s delusions aside, I didn’t view this as a prime dating opportunity. I didn’t even want