XXVII DOUBLE RAINBOW DAY （ELLE）

You'd think going from fiancée to girlfriend would be a downgrade.

But fake fiancée to real girlfriend?

That's not so bad at all.

It's been an exhausting day.

An enormous family lunch where we dragged Lena and Grandma along to the restaurant after stopping by Grandma's house on our way from the courthouse. Marissa bristled and sulked like a little girl but slowly warmed up to her mother again. Clara and Yvette stuck to each other like glue.

Ditto for August and me.

We can't get enough of each other after kissing and making up.

Touching, looking, stealing little kisses every chance we get.

It was chaotic while we all talked, found our vibe as a group, hit it off, started a few small fights, put them out, and stopped Deb from punching Marissa in the face for dragging us through all this.

But even Marissa eventually conceded.

She actually apologized.

Better yet, she agreed to let her mother be her AA sponsor, and Yvette swore she wouldn't let Marissa slip away like her father did.

It was well after dark, lunch blending into dinner and a second dessert course, before we finally slipped away. Transportation has been a mess, shuffling between different cars, dropping each other off, but now it's just August and me in the G80.

I don't get out at the house with Gran.

I want to be with him tonight—and every night going forward.

But I'm exhausted, leaning against his arm while he drives, dozing off like the passing lights are hypnotizing me to sleep.

It feels nice to be tired with him, to share the silence with his relaxed body language.

I think I've seen August laugh more today than I have since the day we met. Though I love stuffy August too. Serious August. Broody August. Angry August. Sarcastic August. Kind August. Sexy August.

Best of all, happy August.

Especially when I can be the reason he smiles.

"You never took it off," he says.

"Mm?" I startle awake with a little mumble.

Smiling, he takes one hand off the wheel to clasp my hand, running his thumb over the engagement ring.

"This."

"... oh." I look down at our hands, my face heating. "I actually forgot it was there. It feels so much like it belongs that I never thought about taking it off."

"Good," he growls softly, and my heart flips over. "Don't."

I hide my face against his arm and stay there for the rest of the drive to his house.

As he pulls in, though, I ask, "Are you happier now?"

A warm look slides over me. "I'm happy now you're mine again. I'm sorry I fought it so hard, Elle."

"I forgave you the second you handed me that letter. Your drawing sucks, by the way. It took me an hour to realize that blob was Inky in the margins."

He snorts. "You're the talent in this relationship, no question."

"I'm glad you recognize my superiority." I kiss his shoulder. "But that's not what I meant. You've been carrying Charisma with you for so long. The fact that you couldn't save her. But you saved Yvette and Clara's relationship, and you just might have saved Marissa from herself."

He goes quiet, thoughtful.

"Sometimes you really do see me too well," he whispers, killing the engine until we're silent outside the moonlit house. "I don't think it's so much about saving people. I'm no one's white knight. It's about letting go of my ego to recognize someone crying for help, even when they're hurting others, and not ignoring it. It's choosing to help, instead. I'm glad that I made that choice this time, instead of having regrets later, when it's too damn late." He looks down at me again, his eyes softening. "So, yes. I'm happy. And I'm grateful to you for knocking me out of my head enough for me to recognize that."

I laugh in embarrassment, hiding against him again. "I didn't do anything. Well, besides turning your life into complete chaos."

"Needed chaos." He kisses the top of my head. "But you're about to pass out. Let's go to bed."

"You're the boss."

Honestly, I'm so tired after all the big emotions and catharsis of today that when he says bed, the only thing I'm thinking is sleep.

Sweet, glorious sleep.

Leaning against him, I walk in a half drowse as he lets us into the house, then trail him down the hall to the bedroom.

But the second I see his bed, I flush.

It's still disarrayed from that night—and I realize he hasn't been here, instead traveling and making arrangements with Yvette. My camisole is even still on the sheets.

I drift to the bed and pick it up. "I still can't believe I came running over here in my nightie."

"I can," August says dryly, pulling at his tie. "It's what you do best. You're impulsive, Elle. You chase your every whim." He smiles slightly. "Always brave as can be."

I duck my head, blushing, my fingers curling around the camisole.

"I don't feel very brave."

"Bull." I hear the sound of his tie pulling away, and then he steps up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. "You're confident, even when you're insecure. You know your own heart. You know what you want. That's admirable as hell."

Blushing, I reach back to swat him. "Enough flattery. I'm not getting naked for you tonight."

"Who said I need you naked?" His lips graze my neck. "In fact, I've had thoughts about you in my office, straddling my lap, riding me while we're still clothed."

My breath catches.

My body immediately heats, no matter how tired I am.

I look at him over my shoulder, biting my lip.

"I bet that violates half the HR code."

"Yeah. But we're not at work now, are we?" His fingers curl against my stomach, pulling me back tighter against him. I can feel exactly what he wants, pressing against my ass. "And I wouldn't mind you on your hands and knees while I fuck you in that cute little skirt."

I groan, but he's already got me.

"Do you ever turn off?"

Then again, do I ever turn off, when all he has to do is say something dirty, and I can feel my panties melting?

"Not with you," August growls, pushing lightly at my back. "Do it, Elle. Hands and knees. Now."

The command in his voice makes me shiver with pleasure.

I know if I really didn't want to, he'd leave me be.

But I want this.

I want him.

And I want him to not take no for an answer.

My stomach still twists as I slide on my hands and knees on the bed.

It's a tad embarrassing, presenting myself like this—but the self-consciousness is part of what feels so good, making it different, making me deliciously nervous.

Especially when I can't see what he's going to do to me. I can only feel as his hands glide over my ass, down my thighs, taking me down with one rough touch at a time.

He flips my skirt up, leaving my spread thighs exposed. The cool air licks the damp fabric of my panties, ass up and ready to be mounted.

He lets out a soft rumble, running his fingertips along my slit.

I jerk with a faint sound, thighs tightening, body fully on fire.

That touch flits away—then returns in a sharp slap against my ass.

Just a sting that makes my hips jerk forward with a cry while a sudden wetness erupts between my legs.

Oh God.

He's in a mood tonight.

And suddenly his hands are on my hips, dragging me against him. My spread-open pussy is assaulted as he grinds his cock against me, his slacks hissing against my panties, lace against wool as he rubs deep, teases me, torments me, makes me feel helpless.

Hard and fast he taunts me, every once in a while coming back for another crisp smack that makes me clench and shudder and whimper his name.

It shouldn't feel this good.

But there's something intensely erotic about it.

Even more so when he stops, and I hear his zipper dragging down.

His fingers hook my panties, dragging them aside.

His fingertips scrape naked flesh until I keen softly, biting the inside of my cheek.

"August!"I whisper-scream as he drives into me sharply, brutally, sinking home in a single hard stroke.

It's like he's punishing me for making him miss me.

It's harsh, desperate, fast, plunging hard and deep, fucking me like a wild animal.

His thrusts catch me up in it until I'm losing my mind.

I'm so wet, squirming my ass back into him like a madwoman.

So good.

Every single slash of his hips electrifies me when he's so thick; the flare of his cockhead teases me just right and rips cries from my body.

God, I want more.

More.

I spread my legs wider, clawing at the sheets, writhing to meet him and trying to take him so much deeper.

So deep I'll feel the veins of his cock for days.

When I walk, when I sit, even when I move.

I want to feel used by this gorgeous man.

I want to pulse with the memory of him pounding me until I'm sore in all the best ways.

Thankfully, he's relentless.

Taking me harder, harder, forcing me down on the bed and still keeping my ass up and presented to him, but he pushes my head down on the sheets in utter dominance.

The change in position makes his cock hit different, deeper, hammering delicious friction in this one spot that acts like a detonator.

When he hits it again—

Foly huck!

I can't tell where the lightning ends and my orgasm begins, leaving me thrashing, gasping, coming so hard, so much.

I'm completely flooded, and I still want more.

I want to be full.

I want him.

I want his lust.

I want his love.

I want him, knowing that loving me means he can feel safe enough to let me know his deepest, truest savagery.

Knowing he'll fuck me like a depraved beast and then hold me tenderly when it's over. After he's done.

After he's used my body to sweet perfection.

And I realize I won't be sleeping tonight.

Because he's not ready to come.

Not for a few more sheet-ripping minutes.

While his manic thrusts are already quickening, pushing me past the edge again, his cruel hands slip between my legs to pinch my clit and taunt me and make me realize what he's doing.

He's going to string me along all night.

Make me come again and again before he finally gives me himself.

He'll make me feel cherished—and then he'll destroy me with his love.

He'll leave me craving more of this addiction, this man who's all gruffness when his head rears back, when his gaze drills mine, when he fists my hair with a single command.

"Fucking come with me, Elle. Come."

And I do.

God help me, I obey, blinded while white-hot pleasure rips up his throat and he pours himself into me.

He empties his balls inside me with his teeth clenched, grinding my name between his teeth like an animal.

We share it all.

This strange, perfect moment that says he belongs to me.

After tonight, I belong to him forever.

Months later

Let's get one thing straight—I do not have that much stuff.

So why is moving in with August such a pain?

His house—oh, it's ours now, isn't it?—our house is nice. Tons of open, airy space.

And very little storage.

I might not have that much stuff, but I do have a lot of art supplies.

I stand against the window in the guest bedroom, which doubles as my newly converted studio. I've already hung my framed original sketches of Kiki the Koala, plus a special original Inky print Clara gifted me.

I'm so insanely glad she never surrendered it to Marissa Sullivan.

Well, Marissa would have had to give it back anyway.

Just last week, August finalized the acquisition and merger of her company. A sobered-up Marissa is now a junior executive at Little Key, managing her own line of children's books, with her flagship product being—

Me.

Villain to boss. What a twist.

Then again, my whole life has been bonkers for the past six months.

I went from only being on the cover of tabloids as August's fiancée, famous by proxy, to making headlines as Little Key announced a new coauthor on the newly expanded Inky line.

Never, in my wildest dreams, did I ever imagine such a thing, but when Clara Marshall asks, you answer.

I'm barely her apprentice anymore, but her partner. We put her name and Inky back in the headlines, and together we worked up the new product line, new books, the revived and smashingly successful pen pal program.

Then people started asking when I'd put out my own books.

Suddenly, I had shiny new social media shouts. Instead of jealous women calling me the gold-digging whore, I now have people screaming, You're my kids' favorite, we love you, please show us more!

I even pitched Kiki the Koala to Marissa. I did it fair and square, because if anyone would reject me instead of being forced to accept it because I'm sharing a bed with the now-permanent CEO, Marissa would do it out of spite.

Look, she's on the twelve-step programs. Getting sober. Doing well.

She's actually getting along with her mother, and grudgingly accepting that Clara may end up as her stepmother soon.

She even made amends with Merrick, coughing up the money for his granddaughter's education, plus enough damages to afford Rick a decent retirement. When he begged August for forgiveness, though, August agreed to let him do occasional deliveries and rides.

Against the odds, all is well again, even with Marissa.

But she can still be one hell of a fire-breathing bitch.

With a little negotiation, though, I had a book deal before I knew it.

A career of my own.

I can't believe that's a freaking prototype plushie of Kiki the Koala sitting on my studio desk.

The same plushie that's about to be in bookstores all over the world.

How did I get here again?

The answer grunts as he stomps into the room and dumps another box in the corner.

"How many sketchbooks do you have?" August demands.

"Enough to keep you sweaty." I gravitate toward him. He's gleaming hot, his sleeveless undershirt turned transparent by sweat, his arms streaked in dirt and his ripped jeans riding down low on his hips.

Such a devilishly good look for Mr. Upright.

I hook a belt loop and tug him close.

"Hold up. I almost never get to see you outside of suits, and I'd like to enjoy the view."

"You rip me out of my suits every night, you little wildcat," he growls, leaning into me, nearly drowning me in the masculine scent of exertion. The pet name's not wrong, when just smelling him makes me melt. "You see me out of them plenty often."

"I wouldn't mind seeing you out of this right now." I cup his cock through his jeans. He inhales sharply, rising up a little, already swelling against my palm as his eyes narrow.

"... wretch," he growls, hooking me around the waist and dragging me tight against his burning body. "I kissed you ten minutes ago, and you shoved me away and said you had to finish unpacking and answering letters."

I wince.

I am a little behind on letters to Inky.

Clara and I take turns answering them now, but with the new programs, there are so many that we can barely keep up. At least six of the boxes lining the walls are handwritten letters from all over the world I need to respond to, and that's got nothing on the email inbox.

I smile up at him innocently.

"Quickie against the wall? We can finish in five minutes."

"I never finish in five minutes," he growls, bending to lick the curve of my neck. I'm sweaty, too, and I shiver as the heated moisture on my skin cools as his tongue passes. "I want to lick you clean."

"August," I moan, digging my fingers into his shoulders.

He might not be done in five minutes, but I could explode right now.

He always does that to me.

One look, one touch, one taste, and I could mount this bull of a man and ride him for days.

But he lets out a frustrated growl, pulling back with a skeptical look. One blue eye narrows. "You might actually change your mind after you see this."

I blink.

"See what?" I groan. "August, no. What did I tell you about at least sending me a text before you make plans?"

"If I texted this, it would ruin the surprise. Believe me. You're either going to hate me or love me even more."

I don't know how I could love him more.

But I let him take my hand and lead me into the hall. I'm only pouting a little that he's leaving me unsatisfied after one little lick.

Curious, I trail after him.

August leads me into our bedroom—hey, I thought he didn't want sex just yet?—then out to the deck. He's oddly tense as he leads me to the railing.

A little box sits on the wood, quiet and unassuming, but—

Oh my God.

Wait.

He clears his throat. "Perhaps this isn't as flashy as showing up at your grandmother's house with a ring box and demanding you marry me on the spot," he says dryly, squeezing my hand. "Still, there's no one here to watch us this time. It's just you and me, Elle. It's ..." He breathes deep, letting go of my hand. "It's real."

My heart stops.

I'm dizzy as August picks up the box and sinks down on one knee.

It's nothing like the first time.

His first proposal was stiff and growly and clean cut and emotionless. Just a business transaction with a stranger.

We're not strangers anymore.

We're home.

On the horizon, a storm brews against the sunset over the sea, as if it's us where the sea and sky meet.

My wonderful August, kneeling in front of me, a scruffy mess of sweat and dirt and disarrayed hair because he's been helping me make his home into ours.

He's looking up at me with his whole heart in eyes that can never ice over again as he opens the ring box.

"Eleanor Lark," he whispers, his voice as ragged as my emotions. "You have completely turned my life inside out, upside down, and shaken it apart. You put me back together better than I was before. We're tangled together, and if we were ever pulled apart, I'd collapse without you. I need you in my life. Your brightness, your sweetness, the joy you bring, simply by existing. I love you, woman, and this time—this time I'm asking for the real deal. Marry me, Elle. Marry me for real because I can't live without you."

My eyes are so blurry I can barely see the ring, but I can tell it's very different from the one still on my finger. It's a simple band with swirling engravings, sweeping lines that make me think of subtle blowing winds.

In some weird way, it makes me think of Inky.

That silly penguin we both loved as children for totally different reasons, and whose creator brought us together and made us who we are now.

Us.

Together, our lives united as perfectly as I think that ring will fit on my finger.

I try to say yes, but my voice breaks.

Nothing comes out but a squeak.

August's brows rise mildly. "I speak Elle fluently, but I'm not sure I can translate that one."

That ass.

Because he knows.

He knows, and he's already smiling slowly as I throw myself against him and practically bowl him down to the deck.

"Yes!"I cry, kissing him hard, rough, clutching at him like I'll never let him go. "Yes, yes, you big lunk. I'll marry you for real."

Months later

I still can't believe my parents actually showed up.

When I called them in Florida to tell them I was engaged, my mother actually sounded bored.

We know, dear. Yes, it's been all over the news. The neighbors wouldn't stop bothering us about it for a week.

. . . right.

They don't know. Grandma never told them.

No reason to, really.

Let them believe what the rest of the world does.

August and the people closest to us know the truth.

And it matters more than ever that they know we're in love with each other for real.

I'm definitely wildly in love with a man who can plan a wedding without forcing me to do a single bit of it, because my God, I would never be able to put this entire shindig together.

Remember that Hilton ballroom we never went to? That night we were supposed to go ballroom dancing and instead had sex in our formal wear on the beach?

Well, now it's our wedding venue.

Somehow, August put together an entire theme that went with my dress.

Because I decided I wanted to dress up like I was going full eighties punk with a modern twist.

My dress is an explosion of white taffeta with black-and-pink net patches, irregular and ragged and so me.

When I told him what I wanted, he just smiled patiently and said, "I know, brat."

It's so nice to have a man who gets me.

One who doesn't mind a wedding that looks like someone spilled pink-and-black paint everywhere to complement the traditional gauze, white silk, white roses like a mad artistic impression.

It's so me.

It's so us.

And I can't believe he put this together.

Everything from the napkins to the cake have pink-and-black accents. Even my makeup has pink and black in the wings around my eyes, and the white bouquet of roses has little sprays of pink-and-black-dyed flowers.

I cannot wait to be married.

So why am I about to hyperventilate as the guests file in and sit?

I peek out from behind a curtain in the staging area.

"Look at all those people," I mutter sharply. "Why are there so many people?"

"Because," Gran says mildly, adjusting my corset. "Your fiancé is a famous billionaire; you're a beloved children's author. Your matrons of honor are an even more famous author and her lovely girlfriend."

Behind us, Yvette giggles. "I still can't get over that. Girlfriend!"

"Get used to it, my darling." Clara nuzzles her cheek. She's smart and trim in a women's black silk tailored tuxedo with black embroidery and pink lapels. "You're not going anywhere again."

I have to look away from them, blushing. "No wonder Marissa refuses to be seen in public with you. You're embarrassing," I tease.

"We're in love," Clara throws back shamelessly. "And so are you, dear. Don't think I haven't caught you and August making out in the hall at every family dinner."

"You're not supposed to look!" I gasp, and Clara, Yvette, Grandma, and Lena all snicker.

Lena's awkward in her pink-and-black bridesmaid's gown. Not because the dress is bad, but because Lena hates dresses and turns into a human coatrack any time she puts one on. She saunters over to tweak a curl of my hair.

"Stop panicking. Go out there and get married already."

"So I can take this awful dress off," Marissa mumbles, sulking in a corner. "Why did you even ask me to be a bridesmaid? Are we friends?"

I look up at her.

Are we?

I just smile and look at her. "Because you wanted to be one, and your feelings would have been hurt if I hadn't. And because I like you. And you just don't want to admit you like me, and wanted to be part of this."

Marissa gasps, then glowers at me.

Yvette grins.

"She's got you pegged, dear."

"Mom, shut up."

Everyone chuckles. I shake my head fondly.

Marissa's practically going through a second adolescence with her mom, but she seems to be doing that much better for it.

It's crazy how much can change in barely a year.

Relationship dynamics, friendships, family, work, life.

I tripped over August and fell into the life I was meant for, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

"Everyone decent?" One of the ushers peeks in with his eyes closed.

"Decent enough," I answer.

He opens his eyes, smiling. "We're ready when you are, then. Everyone's seated, all guests accounted for, the priest ready, and the groom's party is waiting. Give us the signal and we'll start, ma'am."

My smile fades.

I take a shaky breath.

Gran grips my shoulders, squeezing tight.

"You're ready, sweetness," she reassures me. "You've always faced everything head on. Now go see your groom."

I nod quickly, breathing hard, and flash a smile at the usher.

"Okay. We're ready."

And away we go.

It's surreal to be standing here, listening to the music start up on the other side.

To feel like this is leading up to me and then to eternity as everyone files out—leaving only Gran and me. My parents are here, sitting there in the audience, but it's Grandma Jackie who's giving me away.

She's earned the right.

She's the one who's held me together my whole life.

Just like she's holding me together now, her arm tucked lovingly in mine, keeping me stable as I wait for the magic moment in the music that tells me it's my turn.

When it comes, we walk out together.

I get to see August for the first time since we woke up together, before we were swept away by our respective parties to get ready for the big day—and for the rest of our lives.

He waits by the altar, tall and straight and handsome in his tux. The perfect cut of it can't hide the powerful body underneath.

His militant posture reminds me how much he likes to control me in bed, even while he lets me drag him around with my whims everywhere else. His cummerbund and the neckband are the same deep vivid pink as the accents on my dress and the decor, and so is his pocket square.

His hair is picture perfect—except for that one wild strand, arcing over his brow.

But he's smiling like the sun.

Gone is the forbidding man who refused to acknowledge my existence.

In his place, there's a man who's grown into someone warm and wonderful.

Someone who used to hide his kindness and now wears it openly for all to see and love just as much as I do.

That intensity almost makes it hard to hold his eyes as Gran escorts me up the aisle to his side, but I can't look away.

As Grandma guides me to my place, I feel so right.

No more nerves.

But I have to stifle a giggle as Grandma Jackie pats his arm, leans in, and whispers to him.

"Don't you dare fuck this up, young man."

I choke back a sound. I don't think she's ever said fuck before in her life.

August's eyes widen, and he stares after her as she struts over to the rest of the bridal party and takes her place with a smug look.

"You heard her," I whisper, grinning. "Don't screw it up."

"I wouldn't dare," he whispers back, his lips twitching. "Also, when I agreed to the punk theme," he says through his teeth, "I didn't think you'd make me wear a pink cummerbund."

I reach up to flick that unruly strand of hair. "The bride and groom should match."

"Everybody ready?" the priest whispers.

We both nod so quickly we look like those little dashboard dolls, only to catch each other's eyes and realize what we're doing.

We grin while the priest begins.

Before, we'd talked about writing custom vows. But in the end, we agreed not to because the letters we write to each other are for us alone.

Not to share with the world.

It started with the letter where he confessed his feelings.

Then it turned into me missing him at the office one day and leaving him a little letter written on a bit of sketch paper with a smile and a heart from Kiki, waiting in his office.

Him reminding me he had to go in early for an investor meeting and couldn't stay in bed with me, so I found a note on my pillow reminding me not to burn the kitchen down while I was warming up the breakfast he'd made—and he loved me, don't burn the kitchen down (again), don't slip off the deck and drown; oh, and be naked when he came home.

Horny grump.

Over and over, we traded little love notes.

Some silly. Some sweet. Some downright filthy, and it's kind of our thing now.

I've kept every single one.

Even if they're for my eyes only.

And even if we've both bloomed with each other's love, there are some parts of us that are just for us.

But this, here and now, it's for us and everybody else.

Everything we're proud to show and prouder to say.

"I do."

Eyes never leaving each other, hearts beating as one.

You may now kiss the bride.

Screw that.

I'm kissing my groom.

As the crowd bursts into wild applause and cheers so wildly they send my heart soaring, I fling myself into August's arms, drag him down, and kiss him like the plane is going down.

The Mr. Marshall to my Mrs. Marshall.

I've never felt more perfect, more wonderful, more bright.

His mouth claims mine, and this kiss becomes the dawn breaking on my first day as his wife.

The very first day of the rest of our lives.

Together forever.

And as we've written our story, so it must be.