X WALKING STORM CLOUD （AUGUST）

X

WALKING STORM CLOUD

(AUGUST)

Something's bothering Elle.

I noticed when she opened the door of her grandmother's cottage and I saw her pale, drawn face, tinted in shades of amber by the porch light.

I almost thought she was crying.

But her eyes were dry, not red. No telltale marks or swollen features. Yet something in her expression hinted at holding back tears.

What bothered me almost as much as the fact that she might have been unhappy was the fact that I cared at all.

She told me she was fine.

I don't have the right to pry when this is a business arrangement and nothing more. So I kept my foolish thoughts to myself, escorted her to the car, and tried not to watch her the entire time I drove.

She looks like pearl tonight.

Palest mother-of-pearl, a living glimmer of white, a hint of glitter that disappears the instant you try to stare at it too long. Even her hair carries a touch of glitter, and it's goddamned magnificent.

She looks like the moon fell into the sun and mixed together in a swirl of radiance.

I shouldn't notice her so much, but it's getting harder not to.

She's quiet on the drive there.

It's rare that Elle is ever this quiet, and the absence of her voice is—

Fuck, it shouldn't bother me.

Her chatter, her jokes, her teasing, her insufferable wickedness—they all drive me batshit insane. I should be grateful for a little peace and quiet.

Still, I watch her from the corner of my eye, and wonder.

Am I asking too much of her?

No matter what I might offer in return, it's nothing but money and a nudge up the career ladder. Material things, and I've had wealth for so long that I always remember how so much runs deeper than what can be bought.

I've bought Elle's presence and cooperation, yes.

But is she paying in misery?

The words we exchange on the drive do little to reassure me, even if the mood settles more companionably.

While I have no room for romance in my life, I wouldn't mind a friend.

Elle is everything that annoys me.

Too loud, too bright, too cheerful, too perky, a fucking morning lark.

She's also a good person.

Warm, effusive, gentle, kind.

Not the sort of person you look down on, even if their personality grates like splinters under your fingernails.

Does it, though?

Or does she only grate at your stuffy ass because she reminds you that you built these walls around yourself—and now you don't know how to tear them down?

As we find parking near the Space Needle, I pause, rubbing my temples and trying to push my worries away.

I'm supposed to be functional tonight. Whatever a waiting, eager public expects a man in love to look like.

Hell, I'm not sure if I was ever that in the past, before everything derailed.

Before the part of me that can belong in a relationship shattered forever.

I've never pretended to be anyone besides exactly who I am.

Somehow, my ex-wife put up with it for a few years, dragged me into her undertow, until the next thing I knew, I was wrapped up in her. I'm not sure if Charisma and I ever sincerely loved each other, but for a time we were enough in love with the idea of love.

Enough to get us down the aisle believing we'd make it despite the uncertainties.

Enough to buy a heaping pile of bullshit we fed ourselves.

And I still can't say it wasn't mostly my fault.

"August?"

Elle's soft voice dashes my thoughts like delicate fingers parting a curtain. I lift my head, opening my eyes.

"Yeah?"

Her hazel eyes search mine in the darkness. I wonder sometimes what she sees when she looks at me.

"You're brooding so loud I can't hear myself think," she says with a smile. "And not your usual stormy-storm. Or else I'd be giving you so much crap you'd pull over and leap out just to get away from me."

Despite myself, I smile slightly.

She just draws it out of me lately.

"Just thinking about the lawsuit," I lie. I think it would bother her to know I was worrying about her—never mind the fact that I'd be blurring the professional lines between us. "Also, whatever Aunt Clara isn't telling me that could affect its outcome."

"I do wonder what's up with her ..." Elle reaches for the car door handle—then stops with this self-conscious movement that tells me she remembers she's supposed to be my fiancée and let me do publicly chivalrous things like opening doors for her. "When I spent the day with her, she seemed—I dunno—sad? Lost? But not guilty."

"Yeah. Hang on."

I slip outside and pull my long winter coat on against the wintry night. We had to park a few blocks down, and frankly I'm concerned about Elle's bare legs.

I'm too damned caught up on what those legs would feel like wrapped around me as I open her door and offer her my hand, gripping her slim fingers and lifting her out with a little too much force. It makes her clutch my arm as she finds her footing with a gasp.

My neck feels too warm.

"My bad." I clear my throat, looking away.

"Don't know your own strength?" she teases lightly, then pulls back. "Let me get my coat."

It's more that you're so light,I think. Like the smallest breeze could blow you over.

Like I could throw you around and make you bounce on my cock until you scream yourself hoarse, woman.

"Let me," I say quickly, dipping past her to fetch her coat from the car seat. "Here, you're shivering."

"Feels like winter lasts longer every year, though it's nothing like New York in February."

Elle turns her back to me and slips her arms into the coat.

I fold it around her. Drawing her into the fabric embrace feels like pulling her into my arms.

For a moment, I feel it.

What it would be like to be casual and relaxed enough to embrace her from behind, engulf her in my body heat to chase the cold from her bones.

Fuck, it's like she belongs there.

Like I want her to belong, and not just to keep this ruse chugging along.

I hurl those thoughts away, shaking my head.

I wish we had a stalker as attentive as the one who caught the photos in the airport right now. This moment would be picture perfect as I settle the coat on her shoulders and offer her my arm.

"It's not far," I say, as if she can't see the Space Needle's spire stabbing up into the night. "You'll warm up soon. Can you tell me more about Aunt Clara? What did she say earlier?"

"Hmm, let me think . . ."

Elle slips her arm into mine and cocks her head thoughtfully.

I'm caught up in the way the soft light of the lamps falls against her hair. I half expect to see light pooling at the tips like golden raindrops waiting to fall.

"She had me help her start packing up her things," Elle says finally. I don't miss how she subtly leans into me as we make our way down the sidewalk. "The old clay penguin models, the first-run figurines, her old concept sketches and original storyboards."

She stops me before I can open my mouth, her fingers squeezing my arm reassuringly.

"August, please don't lose your shit. Honestly, I think she was doing it more to spite you than anything else."

"She is my aunt," I grind out.

"She is." Elle's laugh is whisper sweet. "But it felt like she didn't really want to. The way she handled everything? She touched it all with love, August. Almost like she couldn't stand to part with it. I don't think she really wants to give up the Inky IP. And if she had lied, she'd be more angry, I think."

"More of your impeccable insights into human nature?"

"Psssh, I wish."

Sometimes, when Elle smiles, instead of seeming young and exuberant, she seems sad and ageless. Like she's some strange spirit who's only taken human form temporarily.

That melancholy timelessness is in her smile now as she lowers her lashes.

"You know, I don't think I understand people that well. But I might understand her a little. If she'd stolen that work from Lester Sullivan, then in her mind, the theft had to feel justified for some weird reason. So now if someone wants to take it from her, she'd feel angry and guilty. She'd be giving up the IP to avoid having to openly admit her guilt, but she'd still be angry about having to do it. And thanks to you, now I know what Clara Marshall looks like when she's angry." Elle laughs again. "It's a lot like you. And she definitely wasn't angry earlier. She was grieving—but I don't think she was just grieving Inky."

Damn.

That's a hell of a lot to think about.

I work through what's happened so far and where we go from here—and how to stop Marissa Sullivan from pulling the floor out from under us.

I don't want to think it's even possible that Clara could be guilty of intellectual property theft. That she's only faking her regret so people as trusting as Elle won't doubt her or believe she could possibly do something so reprehensible.

A light play of fingers up my arm draws my attention, and I look down at her.

"What?"

She flashes me a wicked smile. "Have I done my job as your informant?"

"I didn't mean—" I stop and sigh. "Fuck. I suppose I have put you in that position, haven't I?"

"If you were anyone else ... I'd say something about you putting me in other positions."

"Eleanor Lark. You're really going to go there?" I growl—and she bursts into a laughing fit, the sound floating like fireflies over the night.

"My full name? I really scandalized His Lordship, huh?" Utterly shameless, she grins wider, looking up at me with her hazel eyes twinkling. The tilt of her head gives her lips a kissable pout, pink and plush. "I'm sorry. I only said it to see the look on your face. Totally worth it, by the way."

"Incorrigible brat."

I look away, glaring across the street instead.

Only because if I don't scowl, my face might betray too much.

Like the thoughts that flashed through my mind the second those innuendo-charged words left her mouth. Hell, those thoughts were already there all night.

Everything no gentleman should ever think about a woman who's technically his employee.

Everything involving a dozen different naked positions in my office, straddled across my chair, banging her against the wall, the desk, the entire main floor of the company empty and dark, and solitary except for the sounds of panting, gasping, steaming bodies sliding together and her cries bounding off the textured ceilings—

Stop that.

Right the fuck now.

I draw a deep, slow breath.

Yeah, it's been a while.

Guess I'm a little repressed.

Possibly a little too suggestible, if the tightness of my slacks is any indication.

Clearing my throat, I fidget with my shirt collar as I stop at the street corner across from the Space Needle, waiting for the light.

"We're a few minutes early for our reservation," I say. "Still, they should be able to seat us."

Elle's only answer is an amused murmur and a gentle squeeze of my forearm.

I wonder if she knows exactly what I'm thinking.

I wonder, too, why suddenly I can smell her light, sweet apple scent so much, turned crisper and clearer by the sharp chill night air.

I escort her across the street as the light changes, and inside I get to see her shining with awe as the elevator brings us up in a stomach-dropping rush that leaves Seattle spread out beyond the glass, a bowl of stars and tinsel-gold lights ripe for the plucking.

As a city native, she must have seen this many times, yet she leans toward the window with her eyes as wide as if this were her first time.

Charming.

I take her coat at our table and pull her chair out, then settle her in before claiming my own seat.

The lounge melds classy and casual, a mixed bag of business wear and casual. People stop here for drinks after work, on dates, relaxing with friends, meeting with business partners.

We fit right in with our "date night" outfits. It startles me how well we fit, period, with Elle perched comfortably in her chair and me resting my arms on the table and watching her, even if I can't quite explain to myself why.

She's not looking at me, though.

She's soaking in the view as the Needle slowly rotates, giving us the entire sprawling expanse of this water-flanked city and the mountains beyond at night.

"All glitter and shadows," she says softly. "When you see it like this, it makes you believe in secret things. Hidden, beautiful things just waiting to be found."

"Spoken like a true artist." I prop my chin up on my fist, studying the view. "Don't you think they'd have been found by now if there were still secrets? People were here for at least four thousand years before this was ever Seattle."

"Maybe. Maybe not." She smiles with that wide-eyed enchantment that makes everything seem like a wonder. "Maybe there's this tiny little pocket of space nobody's ever found. A little hollow in the mountainside, buried under the snow, where there's magic. Just waiting for someone to go on an adventure to find it."

Damn her, she's doing it again.

Making my lips inch up against my will.

"No wonder you loved Inky," I say. "Wandering the world on his adventures, carrying letters and looking for secrets."

"I want to go on an adventure like that one day. Backpacking the Himalayas. Wandering the mountaintops of Tibet or Peru. That kind of thing."

"One day, you will."

Elle turns her gaze back to me, tilting her head with a little smile. "You really think so?"

For just a moment, I don't really know what the fuck to say.

She seems to honestly want my encouragement, while my tongue locks up.

We're not playacting right now.

We're just talking.

Being human.

Being together.

I don't know what to do with that.

Thankfully, I'm saved from finding words by the waiter arriving with water and menus. He offers us both a smile that threatens to out-perk even Elle.

I realize I haven't grown more tolerant of cheerful people in general.

Only more tolerant of her, because I immediately want to shut this chattering squirrel of a man in a cabinet somewhere and throw away the key.

I manage to grunt politely at him as he promises to be back soon to take our orders, offers us tonight's special cocktails, and accepts Elle's cheerful refusal that I suspect is for my sake.

I eye the smiling man as he bustles away with more energy than any human being should possess. Elle snickers and leans across the table.

"August, c'mon. You're supposed to look happy. You're out with your girl."

"This is happy," I growl, baring my teeth.

She covers her mouth with one hand to muffle her laughter.

"Oh, please. Was he that bad?"

"I'm not convinced he was human and not an overexcited golden retriever wearing a mask."

"Really."Elle gives me a canny look. "So if he's a golden retriever ... what kind of animal do you think I am?"

"I don't." I glower at her.

It might as well have been a confession.

"Okay, now I know you do." Under the table, the toe of her heel gently nudges my calf. That shouldn't make me so painfully physically aware of her. Such an innocent, chaste touch, and yet it prickles my entire body with warmth. "C'mon, August. Spill it. What am I? A mouse? A dumpster raccoon? I bet you think I'm a trash panda. Admit it."

"You make me hate my life right now." I drop my face into my hand, groaning as I mutter under my breath. "Tiger."

"What? I couldn't heeear you," Elle lilts. She heard me just fine, damn her. "Say that again."

"Tiger cub, I said. Tiger kitten," I hiss through my teeth. My face is melting off. "And once you were like a—fuck this, never mind."

I can't say it out loud.

Only, it's too late.

She's already latched on, and she's not letting go.

"Tell me!" she insists, her voice ringing with laughter. I can't even look at her, but I know those tiger eyes are gleaming with wickedness without even seeing them. "I'll let you rub my belly, and I might even purr if you do."

I jerk my head up, scowling. "Why are you so terrible?"

"Because you get so huffy, and I love it," she throws back, nudging me with her foot again. Her smile is so bright it could blind the whole damn room. "Here, I'll trade you. You think of me as a little tiger? Fine. I think you're a moose."

"How elegant." I snort.

"No, hear me out. For one, you're big and scary. Temperamental. Protective. Maybe a little dangerous."

I blink.

If my face was hot before, it's on fire now.

I've never had a girl tell me what she likes about me so openly and matter-of-factly. It makes it harder to remember that this isn't serious.

That I shouldn't be getting attached, or even enjoying the way this hellion teases me.

Grumbling, I look away, watching the slowly rotating view instead. "You really have to know? A bunny," I snarl. "Only once. Once."

I hold up my pointer finger.

"Oh my God! You are so cute." She snickers. "When? When was I a bunny?"

"The morning I came to your house and you made me eat muffins before you'd even speak to me," I force out. "You were in that fluffy robe, and you kept twitching your nose."

At this point, I think she's going to pass out from laughing.

I'm certainly going to crawl under this table and die.

Yet there's a bizarre pleasure in this banter too.

In being able to delight her, even if it comes at the cost of my own pride.

Again, I'm saved by the world's happiest waiter, even if not five minutes ago I was happy to see his back. He shows up at our table like he's just materialized from nowhere, and Elle jumps with a little squeak.

The waiter grins like he's used to that reaction.

"Glad to see the happy couple are already enjoying themselves!" His gaze drops to the engagement ring on her finger. Elle lowers her eyes with a blush and a smile, looking away—the perfect picture of the newly engaged beauty. "Have you decided what you'd like to order?"

"Oh, we haven't even looked at the menus," Elle says. "Sorry." She flips hers open, frowning and biting her lip as she scans it. "Wow. Oh, wow. I wouldn't even know what to get."

She looks dismayed.

And I can read between the lines.

She's actually worried about the prices.

"Elle, let me order for you," I say, hoping to smooth away her discomfort. "I've been here before. I know a few dishes I think you'll like. You like rich and savory, yes? High protein would be better for you."

Elle flashes me a startled look, then nods. "I—yes. Please."

"We'll share the charcuterie board," I tell the waiter. "For her, the Wagyu sliders, truffle fries, and marinated olives. I'll have the foie gras and the arancini. Elle, are you good with sharing a bottle of sparkling rosé? The lighter flavor should complement the food."

"Y-yes." Pure deer-in-headlights look, yet she manages to make that look cute. With a flustered smile, she closes her menu. "That all sounds great!"

The waiter was scribbling everything down on a pad, but now he leans toward Elle with a very loud conspiratorial whisper: "He knows what you like. That's a keeper."

Right when she'd been picking up her ice water to take a drink.

Elle sputters, trying not to choke while the waiter winks and swirls away with a "Be right baaack!"

"Well," I mutter, glancing after him. "That was obnoxious. You all right?"

"Um. Yes. Sorry." Elle sets her water down and quickly picks up a napkin, dabbing at her mouth and leaving a sultry pink imprint of her lips. "That was just a lot, you know? And don't think I didn't miss that you got me a burger and fries with fancy names."

I can't help smirking. "I also got you olives. Most of the food here is good; they just dress it up with a little five-star flare. Wagyu beef is tender and high protein." I eye her sternly. "You're too pale."

"How can you tell the difference?"

"I can tell," I insist. "Have you been eating enough? Taking your supplements?"

Elle rests her elbow on the table and props her chin in her hand, her pinkie finger toying at the edges of her slowly growing smile.

"August Marshall, are you worried about me?"

"... of course." I blink at her. "I've brought a lot of hell into your life lately, not to mention that episode with the reporters. I don't want this entire ordeal straining your health. You haven't told me how severe your anemia is, so I can only hope I'm not subjecting you to undue stress."

Elle's smile flickers, and she sighs.

"You are so oblivious." She shakes her head. "I was a premature baby, that's all. Two months. I'm lucky I didn't have any other issues. Heart conditions, underdeveloped organs, that kind of thing. My blood just doesn't work quite right, but most of the time I manage with supplements. My blood pressure can drop really fast from malnutrition, rapid elevation changes, or stress, so that's what causes the migraines. Though if my hemoglobin levels drop below double digits, sometimes I need a quick iron infusion. Especially if it stays that way for so long that my red blood cells don't replenish right."

I frown, watching her—but she's not looking at me. She's turned her gaze to the view, watching the starry city pensively.

"You've dealt with that your entire life?"

"Since birth."

"It seems strange to me," I say, then cut myself off. This isn't my business.

But she glances at me, her brows rising curiously. "What does?"

Well, fuck.

I've stepped in it now, taking an interest, so there's no point in downplaying.

"I only ask because most parents of preemie kids get clingy. Helicopter parents. Especially those with chronic conditions affecting their health. The fear of almost losing their baby always remains with them, until they nearly smother that child in adulthood. Yet you mentioned that your parents were largely absent."

"Yeah. About that." There's a hurt curl to her lips I've never seen before and a wry cynicism in her voice. I briefly hate myself for causing it. "When I was first born, the doctors told my parents I was going to die. No ifs, ands, or buts. They prepared themselves to say their goodbyes ... and they didn't really know what to do with me when I stuck around. They'd already emotionally let go, I guess. If they were ever there at all." She shrugs stiffly. "It's okay. I had Gran. She loves me enough for both of them. And she cared enough to protect me but knew me well enough not to smother me. I might not have turned out this way if my parents raised me."

I think about that too long, honestly.

What a pallid, timid girl she might have been under her parents' watchful eye, people who didn't know how to care for her but felt a responsibility to protect her to the point of caging her in and crushing her light.

My brows inch down, and I shake my head slightly.

"You wouldn't be you," I say absently, not fully aware of the words leaving my mouth. "They would have made you fearful and small, not bold and bright. I like this Elle."

"Do you?" she asks softly, a hint of vulnerability in her voice.

"I—"

Oh, where is that damned waiter?

I hadn't meant to say that out loud.

To admit such things to her, when I don't want to give her ideas—or give myself any, when there's something about this night, this moment, that feels too real.

I'm not falling into that trap ever again. But it would be a lie to take it back—a lie that would hurt her, and I have no desire to do that either.

I've put myself in quite a dilemma.

What can I do but face it and be honest?

"The fact that you stay so positive about life and you're resilient enough to handle anything thrown at you after the circumstances of your birth and your chronic illness?" I shake my head. "That alone is remarkable, Elle. But to live life like a ghost to your own parents and still turn into someone who can be so kind, so cheerful, and so gentle, that's nearly impossible. A rarity. And rare things are treasured for a reason. Once they're gone, you might never see such treasures again in your lifetime."

She finally looks at me again—startled, almost confused. There's a flush to her cheeks, but it's hardly flirtatious. Now she just seems lost.

"The only people who've ever tried to protect me are my grandmother and Lena," she whispers. "And lately—you."

Goddamn.

She keeps rendering me speechless.

This time, I want to deflect, but I can't.

I can't when I noticed her from the second she sat next to me on the plane.

I noticed her brightness. I noticed her paleness. I noticed how bravely she tried to hide the pain she was in.

I noticed how even when I was at my most off putting, she still smiled at me like nothing could ever dim her.

I noticed how restlessly she slept, with pain making cruel lines on her delicate face.

I noticed how shaky she was standing up.

I was already watching her even before she started passing out.

That was how I reached her to catch her so quickly, before she could hit the floor.

I just didn't want to admit it—and I refused to face it until now.

From the moment I met Elle Lark, I've been trying to protect her like she's the most fragile thing I've ever seen.

It's more than just general courtesy toward a stranger. More than simply doing what's right.

I think that light inside Elle is stronger than I'll ever be.

Every time she's near me, I can't rip my eyes off her.

And it's like she knows.

She looks past me toward the bar, giving me an escape as she smiles.

"Don't look now," she says teasingly, "but we're being watched."

I don't know if that's good news, even if the entire point of being here is to be seen. Still, I try not to be obvious about glancing over my shoulder, just to see what tabloid jackoff is ogling us with zero discretion.

Only to come two seconds short of scrambling under the table to hide.

"Shit," I snap.

That's Marissa Sullivan sitting at the bar.

It's easy to recognize her. At one point she was a model, and she used her looks as the face of her publishing brand to attract people in a rather business-savvy, Instagrammable move.

Dark hair, pale skin, and a refined face with a catlike—and catty—look. She's overdressed for the lounge in a sparkling deep-red floor-length evening dress.

She's nursing a highball and staring over her shoulder at us.

I sink down in my seat, trying to get my head below the level of the seat back, and search for a menu to hide behind—but the damn waiter already took them.

Damn. Shit. Fuck.

I casually run my hand through my hair, forming a shade with my hand.

"What?" Elle blinks, cocking her head, then gasps. "Oh my God, is that like your ex or something?"

"Worse. That's the woman who's suing us," I bite off.

Elle's eyes widen.

She glances past me, then back at me, lifting her brows. "August?"

"What?"

"You're too big to hide behind your hand. She already saw us." Her gaze flicks past me. "Aaand she's coming."

Shit, shit, shit.

I let out a few more curses under my breath, then drop my hand and straighten up.

When I glance back, Marissa has slid off her barstool. She saunters toward us with a sway that looks risky on her spike heels, her top nearly falling out of her dress.

The ball of ice in her highball clinks loudly as her hand wavers with the glass, sending the golden brown liquid inside sloshing back and forth.

Every time I've had direct contact with this woman, she's been piss drunk.

Considering how her father died, that almost concerns me.

It would, if she weren't trying to blow our lives to smithereens.

I try to let my concern outshine my irritation, if only so I won't tear her head off the moment she opens her mouth.

Which she does the instant she stops next to our table, looking down at us with a triumphant smirk. "Well, well, if it ishn't—isn't Augusht Marshall. You stalking me, big boy?"

My upper lip curls in disgust. "I'd ask you the same. It's an odd coincidence that you happen to be here the night we decide to eat out."

"My offersh—office—is two blocksh away. I wanted a drink after work." One of Marissa's heavily kohled eyes squints as she peels a finger away from her glass and points it at me. "Yer stressin' me out, man."

"I'm not the one filing a frivolous lawsuit," I say tightly. "You're free to withdraw your attack anytime, if it causes you such discomfort."

"What? Fuck no! Imma ... Imma wring you dry." There's a lascivious curl to those words that makes me shudder. Then she turns on Elle, squinting at her with a sneer. "So you the new dish?"

"Um." Elle just gawks at her for a few moments, but her characteristic sweetness is there. She just looks curious and pleasant. No judgment, perhaps a little concern. "Not sure about ‘dish,' but my name's Elle Lark." She holds out her hand. "Marissa, right?"

Marissa eyes Elle's hand with clear disgust. "I don' wanna shake yer hand. Yer the enema." Then she blinks and laughs obnoxiously, her nasty tone turning girlish instantly as she covers her mouth. "En-e-mee."

Elle lets out a good-natured laugh, completely unfazed. "I've never been called an ‘enema' before, though I've called a few guys ‘douches.'"

"Well, this one's a huge dooshnozzle." Marissa jabs a wobbly finger at me. "You ... you shoulda just settled out of court."

No.

This is not a conversation we should be having without legal counsel present. I pinch the bridge of my nose.

"Miss Sullivan." I sigh. "You're in no state for this conversation. Is there anyone here with you?"

Marissa smirks at me sloppily. Her bright-red lipstick is smeared, staining the edge of her glass in messy smudges. "Ashkin' if 'm single in front of yer fiancée? Shameless."

"Don't be crass," I bite off. "You are in no condition to drive home, and you're clearly at your limit." I pull my phone from the breast pocket of my shirt. "I'll call you an Uber."

Elle leans across the table toward me, stretching one hand out lightly to touch my wrist. The warmth of her fingertips soaks into me, soothing my irritation. "August, we could take her. It's okay. We don't have to stay for dinner."

Marissa turns her nose up. "Pfft. Like I want you to know where I live." She squints at me. "I don't wanna go."

"You're going," I snarl.

I summon a car, set a dummy address on Alki Beach, then signal across the restaurant to the bartender, mouthing to put her last tab on my card. As I stand, I reach down to cover Elle's hand with my own in a gesture that feels too natural. Her knuckles press lightly against my palm.

"It's all right," I say, turning a sterner look on Marissa. "Give the driver your real address after I'm out of earshot. Is that negotiable?"

She wrinkles her nose, thrusts her lower lip out, and tosses the rest of her highball back in a loud gulp before she slams the glass down on the table.

Right before pointedly turning her back and snubbing me.

All right, then.

"Marissa." I try to cut the irritation out of my voice. "Please. You've had too much to drink. I'm offering you a truce for tonight. Purely for your safety."

"Oh, fuck you and your white-knighting. You're not my dad!" she tosses over her shoulder.

I exchange a helpless look with a concerned Elle.

"No," I agree. "Definitely not."

I wait.

This stalemate can only go on for so long, especially when Miss Sullivan looks like she's struggling to hold her balance as the booze hits harder.

Finally, she relents with one more sour look over her shoulder.

"Whatever. Fine. Can't be an adult and just go have a drink anymore, huh?"

"I'd say you've had enough." I reach down to touch Elle's hand again. "Elle, I'm sorry for this shit. I'll be right back."

She turns her hand and catches mine, lacing our fingers together briefly in a squeeze that makes my heart jolt.

"Don't apologize. I'll wait so the waiter knows we didn't leave. Go deal with her."

I squeeze her hand back in genuine gratitude and pull away, gesturing to Marissa and sweeping my hand toward the elevator. "After you."

If only so I can catch her if she trips on those heels.

But she manages to wobble her way toward the elevator.

It's a tense ride down, both of us dead silent and looking anywhere but at each other.

I briefly worry I'm about to be vomited on when Marissa watches the view for a few frozen seconds, then turns away with a loud cough and covers her mouth.

Whiskey and high-speed vertigo don't mix.

But she holds it down.

I don't comment.

I also don't miss how, once we step out of the elevator and make our way outside in bristling quiet, she seems grateful for the bite of cool night air slapping us both in the face. She takes a deep breath, tilting her head back into the wind.

We reach the curb, stopping several feet apart from each other.

I check the app on my phone before extending my hand.

"Your keys."

"No!" Marissa scowls, clutching the little purse clamped against her elbow closer.

"Marissa," I repeat sternly. "I'll give them to the Uber driver. You can come back for your car tomorrow."

"Fine," she spits, digging through her purse before thrusting a jingling key ring at me.

I pluck them from her hand and pocket them for now.

"I'll wait with you until they arrive. Looks like they're three minutes away."

"Whatever," she huffs, folding her bare arms around her shoulders with a little shiver. I'd offer my jacket if I hadn't left it upstairs. After a sullen mumble, Marissa asks, "Why are you being so nice to me?" A suspicious look darts my way. She's speaking more clearly, at least; the cold air seems to be helping to clear her head, even if she's still not in her right mind. "I'm not gonna drop the suit just 'cause you called me a ride."

"That's not what this is about."

I'm not entirely sure what it's about myself, if I'm being honest.

Besides the fact that I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I sent her off drunk and then saw her name in the news the following morning, victim of a tragic accident.

"Just be safe, Miss Sullivan. Go home and sober up. I'll see you for the meeting on Monday." I arch a brow. "Don't cancel this time."

I can't read the look Marissa gives me. At once hostile and oddly broken. Vulnerable.

Like a little girl who's been hurt so deeply she can't comprehend it, and she hates it and wants to beg the person who did it to take it back.

I don't think that look is entirely for me.

But I wonder who she's thinking of right now—whoever it is, she seems like she might shatter.

I'm not surprised when she draws defensive armor around herself, shrugging and turning her back to me again.

"Go to hell, you prick."

I don't respond.

There's no point fencing words with someone in this condition when she won't even remember this in the morning.

There's little time for anything else, anyway.

The brand-new, sleek white Acura depicted in the app pulls up to the curb. I cross to the passenger window and lean in, offering Marissa's keys and giving the driver strict instructions.

The driver seems used to picking up drunk riders.

Once I've explained the situation and noted she'll provide her address, I lean back with a murmur of gratitude and open the rear door for Marissa in pointed silence.

She ignores me a second longer, but apparently she still has the sense not to embarrass herself in front of a stranger. After she's made her point, she steps over to the car, nearly misses the curb in her heels, grabs the car door with a squeal, and shoots me a look that reminds me of a cat telling me I didn't just see that.

"Asshole," she clips, like I'm the one who tripped her, before tucking herself into the back seat.

"You're welcome." I shut the door and wave them off.

The last I see of Marissa is a petulant glare as she flings herself against the car door and curls up in a surprisingly small, girlish bundle for someone so drunkenly pissed.

Fuck this.

Why am I so worried about her when she's half the reason I've had to turn my life and Elle's upside down?

I tilt my head back, looking up at the distinctive shape the Space Needle makes against Seattle's cloud-lit night sky.

Elle's still up there, waiting for me.

Her pull is stronger than it should be, this need for her company to ease this hollow ache inside me.

It's an old pain. A wound that never heals, but I never expected Marissa Sullivan to be the one to rip it open and leave me bleeding again.

I shake my thoughts off and head back inside, out of the cold.

The chill's worn off by the time the elevator lets me off at the top, and I make my way back to the lounge and our table.

Elle's settled quietly with her pretty legs crossed, resting her chin in her hand while she looks out over the city. Just seeing her there, with the overhead lights picking up the faint hint of shimmering dust on her bare shoulders and the matching gloss of her nails, solidifies something inside me.

She's always so self-deprecating.

Always hiding behind the splashy colors she wears, less like fashion and more like camouflage.

I don't think she realizes just how goddamned beautiful she is.

And it's the sort of beauty that's almost frightening because it seems so fragile.

Blink, and it could be gone.

Which just makes a man want to hold on even harder.

Yeah, I'm full of strange thoughts tonight. I try to rein them in as I slip back to my seat.

"I see the waiter hasn't brought our food yet," I say.

Elle turns her gaze to me, her hazel eyes less tiger orange tonight and more a shade of gold that could make a man stupid as hell.

A small smile flickers over her lips.

"She's suing you, and you're worried about her driving drunk." No BS, just straight to the point. I like that. "You actually paid for her Uber and her tab?"

I nod slowly.

It's embarrassing when it's all laid out.

I shrug. "She can pay for it out of the legal fees when we win the suit."

Elle's smile widens, her eyes glittering. "Another joke. That's two now."

"Mmm."

Was I joking? I don't even know.

I don't feel much like laughing right now.

Now it's my turn to look out over the broad expanse of the city.

Maybe searching the lights for something to hold on to, just so this feeling doesn't swallow me whole and ruin what could be a pleasant evening of make-believe.

Elle's soft voice chases me into the dark places my mind wants to occupy.

"August ...?" she asks, reaching across the table to touch my wrist. "Talk to me. Are you okay?"

When I make myself look back to her, she shakes her head, the few loose tendrils of her hair grazing her slender throat.

"I can't explain it," she says. "But that whole thing with Marissa—it seemed like it hurt you."

I sigh.

I don't understand how this woman reads me so easily when I've spent so long making sure no one can ever read me in detail.

"How is it," I deflect, "that you see the shit I can't stand to look at?"

"We're never objective about ourselves. Sometimes we look past the things we really need to deal with." Almost shyly, her fingers curl against my wrist, this anchor holding me to the light so I can't slide into the darkness. "Do you want to talk about what's on your mind?"

I shouldn't.

I should remind her that we're not even technically friends, barely even colleagues, strictly employer and employee playing our parts.

But I can't do that to her.

I can't be so cruel when she's offering her kindness.

Even if Elle were someone I loathed, my sense of fairness wouldn't allow it.

Still, I don't know how to say these words either. They're just feelings I've been holding on to for so long without ever unpacking them, laying them out, looking at them clearly so I can grind them to a pulp.

It's grief. It's resentment. It's confusion, frustration, an urge to lash out and punch the past until it's no longer a threat.

More than anything, it's guilt.

I stare into those golden brown eyes a minute longer, then look away.

Somehow, it's easier to be honest when I'm speaking to the glittery Seattle skyline, rather than to the lovely woman sitting across from me, asking for the tiniest sliver of my heart.

Where the fuck do I even start?

"I'm sure you know the rumors about my dead wife," I tell her.

"I don't. You asked me not to pry, remember? So I resisted every urge to google and practically taped Lena's mouth shut."

Those soft words almost force me to look back at her, surprise rippling through me.

"You did?"

"I mean ... I wasn't going to hurt you that way. It seemed serious." Her mouth twists into a small, self-deprecating smile. "It's not a hard request to honor."

Is she even for real?

The girl has no clue how many people would disagree.

How many people who make a hobby, an art out of feasting on the delicacy of others' miseries.

Elle reaches across the table again, offering me her outstretched hand with her palm up and her fingers curled invitingly.

"Did you want to tell me about her, August?"

I don't know who I am right now.

Gone is the man who would have looked at that hand scornfully and rejected it outright in a crude attempt to deny any need for human comfort.

All I am right now is shattered ceramic, sharp and cold and broken.

I'll admit I might need that hand to hold what's left of me together.

Still, it's damnably hard to reach for her.

Hard to cross my own boundaries and move, until my fingertips rest in her palm, leaving subtle indents in her soft flesh.

It hurts like hell when she smiles and curls her hand around mine, holding it so gently.

Fuck.

I'm the one who's supposed to be protecting her, dammit, not using her as a crutch.

"I should tell you about her," I say slowly, looking down at our hands. The pale cream of her skin contrasts against my darker tan. Her skin is moonlight, mine is sun, yet she's the one who shines so brilliantly, while I'm a pallid reflection of her light. "She's the reason why the tabloids were able to twist our interactions into this sordid scandal. The rumor mill was less than kind about the circumstances around her death. In fact, they were downright barbaric. They blamed me for everything." I swallow like I'm choking down glass. "Hell, some days I'm not sure they're wrong."

"Take your time," Elle urges softly. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, August. But if you need to ... I'm listening. Say what you need to say."

What I need to say.

I look up from our joined hands, searching her warm, open face. She's so ready to take whatever agony I share.

I don't understand how she can be real.

I just hope the shadows inside me won't darken her, won't tarnish her light for letting them loose.

"Her name was Charisma," I start. "Like every relationship, I thought we were in love."

That's the bitter truth.

If we hadn't lied to ourselves—if we hadn't gotten as far as we had—maybe she would still be alive.

Once the words start, it's impossible to stop the avalanche.

"Truthfully, we were less in love and more suited for each other." I lower my eyes to our hands again. My fingers tighten on Elle's. "She was a rising actress. I was a high-powered executive. We looked good together on the red carpet. If not for me being on her arm for years, the tabloids wouldn't care what I do with my personal life. Billionaires only make headlines when they live flashy lives and send rocket ships to the moon, not spend half their time buried in supply chain indicators trying to figure out how to save a few million a year from the cost of shipping rebar. Drama aside, I'm a pretty boring man."

"Pfft." Elle clucks her tongue. "You're anything but boring. You're just very focused."

"That's a nice way of putting it." I smile, though it feels like a lead slug to the gut. "Unfortunately, my focus was a problem in our marriage. I thought we were alike. We were both so intensely focused on our careers. I thought her trips for filming and my long absences while working global contracts wouldn't be an issue. But even while we played at being in love, I missed how desperately Charisma wanted to be loved."

While I'm talking, our fingers shift. Lace together. Locking like we're sharing this story together, rather than me unburdening my faults and my crimes.

"What happened?" Elle's fingers fit between mine too perfectly.

"It started as blowout fights. Then stiff, wounded silences. Then longer, colder, angrier silences. She was lonely, and I was—fuck, I wasn't very good at recognizing that. Let alone giving her the attention she deserved. I wasn't innocent in this. I didn't recognize that her hostility and cruel words came from hurt, not hatred. It was such a habit to wall myself off that I walled off from her too. It's no surprise when she turned elsewhere."

"Elsewhere?" Elle's eyes widen, and her indrawn gasp tells me the conclusion she draws even without a single word. I shake my head.

"It's not what you're thinking," I counter. "She didn't cheat on me, though she easily could have. She was a beautiful woman with a charm that made her vibrant. Very few men would have refused her. But she didn't turn to another man." I stop and sigh. "First, she turned to drugs. It was the usual killing progression from the bottle and weed to the coke that runs through Hollywood like a live current. If I'd been around more, I would've seen the overdose coming."

My jaw pinches so tight it almost breaks.

"Oh no. Oh, August, I'm so sorry. You can't blame yourself, especially if you didn't know you had to be there to save her from—"

"Save her?" My eyes sharpen. "No, Elle. She didn't die from an overdose. Not even when she took too much of that crap, and it was laced with whatever the fuck it was that stopped her heart. They were at this resort in Arizona, and thank God her bombed-out friend woke up first, just in time to get EMTs over to restart her heart."

Elle shakes her head, clearly confused.

"Of course, I came rushing to the hospital as soon as I heard. Too little, too late, especially to stop what came next." I inhale slowly. "When she woke up, Charisma told me about going to a place with the prettiest flowers and magnificent birds and two blue moons. She said it was total serenity, a better high than any drug she'd ever had, and she vowed to sober up. She was certain she went somewhere special—the sort of place you only go when you die—and she'd do anything to get back there. Whether that's true or not, I don't think she ever lived totally in this world again."

Elle's eyes widen, desperate for more.

I hate this fucking part.

I swipe my hand over my face before I continue.

"She turned to New Age religion next. I'm told I shouldn't call it a cult." My mouth creases bitterly. "But it was a fucking cult. The sort that operates like a multilevel marketing scheme. Their whole goal is to suck in new members and indoctrinate them so they turn over all their funds to the higher-ups. Charisma needed so much to feel like a part of something, to get back to that special place she believed she saw, that she fell right into their clutches. It didn't matter how much I warned her, how many friends intervened, how many shrinks I hired to get through to her. She quit acting and exhausted her own substantial funds in no time, and then she tried to hide it from me."

Elle watches me with her eyes glimmering like she's hurting for a woman she's never met.

Her heart is big enough for that.

It makes mine feel like a shriveled prune.

"When I found out what she was doing while I was away, it was already too late," I say. The words taste like ash, but I need to finish what I started, and suddenly I'm holding on to Elle so tight my knuckles are bone white. "She was in too fucking deep to pull back. She believed in them more than she believed in us—more than anything. My anger only drove her closer to them, and I was still too blind to see this for what it really was—a cry for help."

"August—"

"No," I growl. "Let me finish." I take a deep breath and forge on. "I told her I wanted to file for divorce. She told me that if I did, she would ruin me by going to the papers with stories of how I'd abused her. How I stalked her, preyed on her, manipulated her, coerced her to marry me. All the ugly, fucked up shit that never happened. I swear it on my life. If I was guilty of anything, it was only neglect and ignorance. I lost my shit, told her to make her claims, and she did. In the middle of the scandal, she promised to retract her claims if I'd negotiate a settlement she could give to her new ‘church.' I refused. We were set to go to court—her to seek her settlement, me to disprove her abuse claims."

I'm snarling so hard I have to catch myself.

That kindness in Elle's eyes is the only thing that keeps me going.

"Before our court date, she was set for a rite of passage with her faith. There's this cliff in Sedona, this sacred red rock supposedly surrounded by energy portals. It's the kind of place New Agey scammers love. Their initiates will jump off that cliff and drop over fifty feet down into a pool. Charisma's group call it their ‘leap of faith,' a trial by air to prove their faith. With the deep pool, it's generally safe, even if there have been a few injuries over the years."

I wasn't there. I didn't see it. All I saw were the grisly photographs of the aftermath.

So why can I visualize the fall so clearly?

Why does it haunt me so fucking bad?

Elle's breaths are shallow and ragged. Even though we're surrounded by music, laughter, and the soft clink of glasses and absolute normalcy, we're both somewhere else.

All I can hear are the shaky breaths that tell me she's fighting to hold back tears.

"I still don't know how the hell Charisma ever missed the water," I whisper. "All I know is what they told me. A freak accident, they said. She tumbled too far. She hit the edge of the pool, and then the rocks below instead. No one could've survived. Her death was ruled an accidental suicide, but there are people even now who hint that I somehow drove her to it, just to avoid paying the settlement she demanded as compensation for shit I never did." I swallow hard, but I can't shift the heavy knot in my throat. "If I'd just understood her more, listened more, let my defenses down to see her—"

"August."

The rawness in Elle's voice forces me to stop and look.

I almost don't want to, when those tracks of wetness pouring down her cheeks are my fault.

Pain shared is not pain lessened, and now I've given this glowing girl my own pain, to let it multiply and spread.

But as I meet her eyes, she shakes her head.

"It wasn't your fault. Her choices aren't your responsibility. Maybe you weren't a great husband, but you can't save other people, August. All you can do is help them if they want to save themselves. If it wasn't the cult, I'm sure it would have been something else." Elle pauses to catch her breath. "She should have realized what she was looking for wasn't in your marriage and made the decision to end it and move on with her life. Not compensate with something like that and then try to extort you out of resentment that you weren't the husband she expected." She bites her lip, pink and glimmering and soft, her eyes glowing, tawny gold. "Whatever mistakes you made, you didn't kill her. You didn't make her die. You just fell out of love. You had a bad marriage, like half the US population. That should have ended in regret and divorce. The fact that it didn't is because of her, August. Not you."

I can't help but protest.

I've been carrying this cross with me for so long I—fuck, I don't know who I am without that guilt. Without that nagging warning that women and I are a catastrophic mix.

"If I'd been a better husband—"

"You wouldn't have been you," Elle cuts in. She's holding my hand so tight I'm sure it hurts her. "But whether you were an amazing husband or a terrible one, you didn't drive her to anything. She drove herself. I think you want to try to save Marissa because you can see the same desperation in her ... but I told you. People can't save other people. Please don't hate yourself if you can't help Marissa Sullivan."

"I can't not try!" I flare before I even realize what I'm saying. Before I realize she's put her finger on a pain point I was blind to.

I look away sharply, breathing in deeply and lowering my voice.

"Elle, her father died from drinking. I have yet to have one encounter with her where she's not too fucking intoxicated to function. I don't know what's driving her into the gutter, but even if she's suing me for my family's legacy, I can't stand by and do nothing. Our families are—in their own way—hopelessly intertwined. Would you leave her to ruin herself with pointless lawsuits and booze if you were me?"

"No. I wouldn't. I'd do what I could for her, but ..." Sniffing, Elle wipes at her eyes with her free hand and offers me the bravest smile. "You're not her favorite person, August. I don't know if she honestly believes Clara stole her father's work or not. But she definitely believes your family is responsible for his death. He made those choices, of course, just like your wife made hers. But Marissa won't be able to see that. And she won't be able to see help for what it is, coming from you."

"I know." I slump in my chair, sighing—then slip my hand into my pocket for a small cotton handkerchief and offer it to Elle. "She let me send her home tonight, at least. It's only a short-term solution, but it's something."

"I have a feeling you won't let it go until you find something more permanent. I've noticed that once you get fixated on a problem, you sink your teeth in. You won't let go."

I almost flinch at those words.

Charisma once threw them at me in a much more accusatory light.

My single-minded laser focus was why I couldn't see her as anything more than another problem to fix.

It may make me good at my job, yes.

It also makes me a shit human being.

Yet Elle said it fondly, still smiling as she took the handkerchief.

I watch her, puzzled. "You don't find it off putting, how I am?"

"No." No doubt, no uncertainty, her smile warmer than ever as she dabs her eyes. "It just means once you've set your mind to it, you won't quit until you do what's right."

How does this girl have more faith in me than I have in myself?

She laughs, looking down at the damp handkerchief. "This is the second one of yours I've ruined. I still need to give you back the first."

"I have too many. It's one of those things I picked up from my aunt and her southern upbringing. A gentleman always carries a handkerchief, especially in case a lady needs it."

The change of subject is almost welcome, easing the crushing weight on my mind.

I've never been able to talk about what happened with anyone like this.

Not even with Deb or Aunt Clara.

I never wanted them to feel obligated to comfort me. Yet I didn't feel like Elle was taking on a burden or an obligation. She genuinely wanted to know, and some part of me craved her acceptance.

Still, I think I've had enough honesty for one night. Especially when I realize that as I've been watching her, I've slowly been stroking my thumb over the engagement ring on her finger.

Goddamn, I need to get my head on straight.

Oblivious to my brooding, Elle squeezes my hand lightly and delicately folds the handkerchief on the table.

"Should I start calling you Rhett? I'd say Ashley, but he's way too mild mannered. You're a walking storm cloud." She grins teasingly. "And just as rude as Rhett too."

"And you're just as impetuous as Scarlett O'Hara," I counter. "You just put a brighter face on it."

"Hey!" She laughs, even though her eyes are still red rimmed, her lips swollen from crying. "C'mon. Scarlett O'Hara was an absolute wildcat. I thought you said I was a kitten."

"Kittens have claws too," I point out.

"Teeny claws!"

"Small claws still hurt. And before you say anything, bunnies also have claws." I arch a brow. "So if you call me Rhett, I will most certainly call you Scarlett."

Elle sticks her tongue out, a little pink barb.

It's suddenly like the spontaneous confession never happened.

We're back on even footing, except we were never on such even ground before. I kept myself close, while Elle was willing to let me into her world from day one.

The more she knows leaves us on a level field.

I do think, given time, I could call this woman a friend.

Friendship is why I'm lingering on the damp gleam to her lips, and the way the overhead lights gather in tiny galaxies against the hollow of her throat.

And friendship is why I hesitate to release her hand as the world's most annoying waiter chooses that moment to return with our food. He glances at both of us significantly as he sets our plates, wineglasses, and a chilled bottle of rosé on the table, lingering longer on Elle—and there's something in his voice as he asks, "Is everything all right?"

I bitterly wonder if my reputation precedes me now.

If this stranger thinks I've been such a colossal asshole that I've pushed Elle to tears in public.

If anything, it's the fact that she's been so kind to me that her empathy was too much for both of us.

"Everything's fine, except now I'm embarrassed. This big idiot told me he wants to elope," Elle answers seamlessly. "He knows I get emotional and cry in public when he says things like that."

Her laugh is totally on point.

The waiter lets out a sympathetic gasp, nearly fluttering.

With quick, capable hands, he uncorks the wine, fills our glasses, and leaves the bottle on the table for us. "Congratulations! I'll leave you two lovebirds alone. If you need anything else, please don't hesitate. Enjoy your meal."

"We will," I answer.

Somehow, I even force a smile that comes easier than trying to mold engineered steel with my bare hands.

The waiter twirls off, more obnoxiously cheerful than ever.

Elle flashes me the smile of a coconspirator and picks up one of her truffle fries. "Sorry. I ad-libbed. Shall we?"

Goddamn, what is happening?

Five minutes ago, I was carrying the weight of the world—a reluctant Atlas bowing under its pressure.

And now?

I find myself chuckling as I pick up my fork.

"Yeah, let's enjoy," I say.

I actually might.

Just like I might enjoy someone else's company for the first time in ages.