III BE MY SUNSHINE （ELLE）

I was having the nicest dream.

My parents were actually home for Christmas. Dad wasn't staying overseas at one of his company's corporate offices handling trade negotiations. Mom wasn't in her city of the month as a traveling nurse. We were at our old house in Laurelhurst, almost as cozy as my grandmother's cottage on Queen Anne Hill.

Gran was there, too, of course.

We were laughing and sharing hot apple cider. The whole house smelled like baking cookies and Mom's fancy perfume. We opened presents together at home, instead of my gifts coming by mail from two separate addresses with two separate apology notes.

It's the family life I never had but always wanted.

For a hot minute, the dream is so deep and rich and wonderful that I almost believe it was real.

Gran opens her mouth to say something. I expect to hear Merry Christmas, my little Elle in her happy, slightly warbling voice.

Instead, the sound of a blaring car horn comes shrieking out of her mouth, louder and louder, until it jolts me awake.

This is not helping my head—though at least it's a normal headache now and not the sledgehammer migraine I remember having before I fell asleep.

Wait.

... when did I fall asleep?

My last memory is getting off the plane at SeaTac, staggering through the terminal, and—

I think I passed out as the migraine got the better of me?

I don't know what happened after that.

But why do I hear traffic noise and feel motion like I'm in a car?

What's this dark, musky sandalwood smell?

Whose lap am I resting my head in? And whose very male bulge am I staring at?

"Sorry, sir. Seems to be a traffic issue up ahead. You know Seattle drivers and slick roads."

"Yeah," a chocolate-silk masculine grunt acknowledges.

I freeze.

Those slacks. That warmth. The raw power of a hard-muscled thigh under my head ...

Jet Daddy?

Oh my God, say it isn't so.

Carefully, I peek up without turning my head.

Sure enough, I'm treated to a view of his sharp beard and strong throat from below.

He's leaning against the door in the back seat of whatever car we're in, his elbow against the bottom of the window and his strong, stark knuckles curled under his chin.

His blue eyes reflect back the icy drizzle misting the city streets.

He's taken off his suit coat, revealing a crisp white shirt and dark vest underneath, both fitted to his powerful body with trim precision.

His coat is draped over me as a blanket, I realize.

My heart thumps with confusion before it stalls like it's too baffled to really know what to do.

How did I end up in this situation?

Where is he taking me?

He answers that question for me a minute later.

I don't think I've given away the fact that I'm awake, but the man must have freakishly good senses—or a really prickly personal space bubble—because without even looking at me he rumbles, "If you're awake, Miss Lark, kindly get out of my lap."

"Um!"

My whole face burns.

I snap myself upright so crisply that I not only make myself dizzy, but I get myself tangled in both his suit coat and the seat belt strapped across me.

Holy hell, shoot me now.

I spend a few more seconds squirming like I've got ants in my pants, embarrassing myself even more, before I manage to fight upright.

Exhaling roughly, I blow my hair out of my face and look out the car window.

I recognize these streets.

We're about two blocks from Grandma's house.

"I'm sorry, I—"

"We're almost to the address you gave me," he interrupts. "I hope the address was correct, anyway."

"We're almost to my grandmother's, so yeah." Wide eyed, I stare out the window, then glance back at him. "I don't remember giving you her address. I don't remember anything."

"Yet you speak with remarkable lucidity in your sleep." His words are as frigid as ever, creating this confusing contrast with the sensual roar of his voice. His expression is pensive as he keeps his gaze trained out the window. It's almost like if he looks at me, something terrible will happen. Like a man avoiding his own power to curse. "You were quite serious about the severity of your migraines. I caught you when you fainted in the terminal. When we paged the airport PA system and there was no one there to fetch you, I asked for an address so I could drop you off. Along the way, you slept on me in traffic three times and decided to use my lap as a pillow." Definite touch of icy offense there. "Since you were so stubborn about waking up, I had no choice but to accept the situation."

Dude.

You could've just said I passed out, so you're taking me home.

I smile faintly. It's like talking to someone negotiating a legal contract, stating every word carefully to avoid misinterpretation and possible liability.

"Thank you," I murmur. "I'm sorry for inconveniencing you. That's twice you've saved me now."

"Bull. Offering you a handkerchief isn't an act of heroism. Had I left you with the TSA, you would have been fine, minus a far less comfortable nap."

My smile strengthens at the scowl on his face.

So, so stuffy.

"Well, thanks anyway. I appreciate everything. You're a really nice guy."

"I'm anything but," he retorts. "I'm simply doing what's practical."

"Okay. Whatever you say."

I want to ask more—I'm suddenly so curious it's practically eating me alive—but the car pulls up right outside Gran's sweet little blue cottage, with its arched wrought iron entryway and a fence covered in climbing jasmine vines that, even in a cold late February, are green and waiting to bloom once the season warms up.

Grandma Jackie is just coming out the door, leaning hard on the forearm crutch she now uses after refusing a walker. She's got her keys in her other hand, and she turns to lock the door while fumbling to keep her purse on her shoulder when it keeps sliding off the slickness of her bulky jacket.

All while she's also trying to hold an umbrella over her head without dropping her crutch.

Crap.

She probably intends to pick me up at the airport, even though I told her not to.

She looks shaky. She definitely shouldn't be standing, let alone driving.

My stomach sinks.

I don't have time to be curious about my bizarre benefactor, or even to carry on a longer conversation expressing my gratitude.

Definitely no time to get his number so I can pay him back somehow, take him out to lunch, buy him a new pocket square, get him some facial therapy so he can relearn how to smile, whatever.

The moment the car stops, his assistant barely gets out one syllable before I fling the door open, letting in a chill breeze.

"Sorry!" I throw back. "She's hurt and I have to help her, thank you guys again, I'll find my own way to—" I stop.

Repay you,I want to say.

But the moment I grab my bag and tumble out on the slick sidewalk in front of the house, the door to the car—a nice car; I'd barely noticed the luxurious interior, but I definitely notice the swanky exterior—shuts.

I stand there staring with my mouth slightly open, rain plonking down on my head in freezing droplets as the car pulls away.

Dang.

That was the nicest rude thing anyone's ever done for me.

Also, I have no idea what just happened.

I didn't even catch his name.

But I only give myself a few more seconds to wonder before I dash through the gate and pelt down the stone path bisecting Gran's beautifully cultivated garden lawn and dash up the short front steps to her porch.

Just in time to catch her as she starts to turn and her crutch slips on the edge of the top step.

"Oh!" she cries.

"Gotcha!" I catch her by the shoulder and steady her.

Gran blinks up at me through her round spectacles.

She's a small, slim bird of a woman with a thick tumble of wispy grey hair that refuses to stay in the bun she's twisted it into.

"Elle?" She reaches for me, but her hands are still a little too full. "I was just on my way to get you. I'm so sorry I'm running behind. I still move so slow, you know—"

"I told you, you didn't have to come at all," I chide gently, taking the keys from her to fit the house key in the lock and push the door open. "You shouldn't be driving. I got a ride, and it was fine. But it's cold out here. Let's head inside before we get too wet and catch a cold."

Gran looks past me at the bag I dumped on the walk in my sprint to catch her. "Of course, my love, but ... is that all you brought with you?"

"Huh?" I glance over my shoulder and groan.

Right.

Of course, Jet Daddy wouldn't have gotten my luggage at the baggage claim.

"No, but I'll go back to the airport to get everything tomorrow. I just stole your keys, so I'll steal your car too." I smile brightly.

With a fondly exasperated look, she cackles and nudges me on, then lets me take her bag and umbrella inside. I duck back out to get my carry-on, then follow her into the cozy warmth of what was basically my childhood home.

The familiarity instantly feels like a hug from an old friend.

I'll worry about arguing with Delta over claiming my luggage tomorrow.

For now, my head still hurts, and I just want to lie down, relax, and enjoy being home.

I've never been happier to put a whole twenty-four hellish hours behind me.

Yesterday, I spent the day catching up with Gran—helping her around the house, finding out where she needed me most, convincing her it's fine to take a load off her knee and let me do anything that requires more mobility.

Yes, I get it.

It hurts her that she can't prep her garden, but I'm working on finding a little comfortable chair she can sit in to prune her petunias. Preferably one made for rolling through the soft earth of the yard.

She's too stubborn to consider a wheelchair, but if I call it a gardening chair, I might make some headway.

By lunch, my migraine slithers back into the hole it crawled out of.

Gran knows better than anyone that a gently lit, low-stimulus environment helps keep them at bay—and she'd already stocked the fridge with the protein drinks that help keep my anemia from knocking me flat too.

When I was a kid, I used to feel like an old grandma myself, drinking protein formulas and popping iron and B12 pills every day just to keep myself baseline.

But now a lot of brands make light, refreshing fruit-flavored drinks. A few of them paired with cold chicken salad sandwiches have me feeling better in a heartbeat.

I even decide to make the trip to grab my luggage today.

I fuss Gran into staying home while I borrow her cute little light-green Audi to make the run back to SeaTac, where I navigate to the baggage claim with much less difficulty than yesterday. The lack of staff and airline delays work in my favor.

I'm able to grab the bags with an agent just before they fall deeper into the chasm of lost property claims.

Overall, it's a pleasant day.

It feels good to be with Gran again.

Later, I feel at home, making tortellini with her special vodka cream sauce before we curl up in front of the fireplace to eat dinner together and catch up with our lives.

I go to bed content with my belly full, my head clear, and the sound of late-winter rain pattering against the window of my childhood bedroom.

I wake up to my phone shrieking and the doorbell ringing so many times it sounds like a whooping ambulance.

I fumble for my phone first because that's the first sound I can make stop.

My foggy brain thinks it's my alarm, but then I remember I fell asleep without setting one. I guess the bright side here is that whatever's making that racket has kept me from sleeping too late.

Groggily, I look at my screen as I punch the volume down.

What the hell?

I have over seven thousand Twitter notifications—and twice as many on TikTok?

But I have less than three hundred Twitter followers. Mostly all people I met through school or work, or a few art comments.

And I don't even post to my TikTok account; I just use it to follow creators I like.

What gives?

I don't have time to read the notifications and find out, though.

Not when I hear Gran's crutch thumping against the hardwood floors. I need to get down there ASAP and answer the door before she overexerts herself.

I fling myself out of bed, grab the robe I dug out of one of my suitcases last night, drag it around myself, and drop my still-buzzing phone into my pocket as I dash downstairs.

I slip past her on the landing with a quick smile.

"Don't worry, Gran, I've got it!"

"I've got a bad knee, girl, I'm not dead!" Her voice drifts after me with playful irritation.

But I'm already to the door, pulling it open.

Before I can blink, Lena Joly flings herself at me, pulling me into her arms with a gasp. "Oh my God! Oh my God, Elle, I was so worried, you weren't answering your texts. I thought something happened to you ..."

Did I wake up in the twilight zone?

Numbly, I hug my childhood best friend—and try not to sneeze as the ends of her cute little dark-brown bob of hair tickle my nose. "Uh? What would have happened? I was just asleep."

"Asleep? Very funny—oh, you're serious? How can you sleep when you're—" She pulls back, and her eyes search mine frantically, her freckled nose wrinkled. "You don't know, do you?"

"Know what?" I throw my hands up. "Lena, I have a bajillion notifications. I haven't been able to look at them yet, and now you're here talking like the Mafia might have murdered me or something."

"Girl, I don't know. I thought the ‘billionaire pick-me' fan club might have kidnapped you." Then, like she didn't just say the most outlandish thing in the world, Lena leans around me and smiles brightly, wiggling her fingers in a little wave. "Morning, Miss Jacqueline."

Gran's crutch thuds closer.

"Good morning, Lena," she says warmly, completely indifferent to Lena's ranting. "Have you had breakfast?"

"I have, ma'am, but I always have room for your lemon poppyseed muffins, if you're offering."

Grandma cackles. "You know my baking habits too well."

"I could smell them coming up the walk."

I just take in this exchange like I'm watching a Ping-Pong match before I clear my throat.

"Guys, are we talking about breakfast or talking about why apparently there's some kind of crisis? What billionaire? Am I getting dragged on social media? Did someone leak my nudes to Elon Musk?"

Lena pauses. "... you have nudes to leak?"

Grandma blinks. "You have nudes to leak, and they're accessible in the cloud?"

I bat my eyes right back at her. "You know about the cloud?"

"Young lady, how old do you think I am?" Grandma clucks her tongue and thumps her cane emphatically. "Please lock down your phone. At least have a little common sense if you're sharing a little spice."

"I don't have nudes!"I hiss. Groaning, I drag a hand over my face. "Could someone please just explain what's going on?"

"Perhaps," a silky-dark voice interrupts from behind Lena, "I could be of assistance."

Oh, crud.

That voice isn't so comforting this time.

That voice darts through me like I've just grabbed an electrified fence.

Lena and I both go stiff, while Gran only looks mildly amused.

I stare past Lena in absolute horror at the man standing on the last stone before the front steps.

He's just as impeccable as he was two days ago, even if he looks a bit more casual and relaxed.

His slacks today are still black, his shoes perfectly polished, his waistcoat a dark silvery slate grey, and he's not wearing a tie this time.

His starched white dress shirt has precisely one button unfastened at the neck, exposing his Adam's apple and the corded tendons in his throat.

Also, he's carrying something under his arm. What looks like several stacks of newspapers folded with splashy cover pages just barely visible.

There's also something in one of his angular, graceful hands.

A little grey velvet box.

I have no earthly idea what's going on. No clue how he's involved in this or what he's doing here.

Oh, and I still don't know his freaking name.

But I can't stop the small squeak that spills out, turning into a strangled mumble.

"Jet Daddy," I say instinctively.

"Jet who?" he snaps, his eyes widening, before he scowls. "Miss Lark, that's not my name."

Lena looks over her shoulder and echoes my squeak.

"Holy shit, it's you!" She stares at him, going so pale she could give me a run for my money.

This is just getting weirder and weirder.

"You know him?" I demand.

"I know of him," Lena strangles out. "You don't?"

Then Jet Daddy turns his hell-glare on Lena. She recoils, blushing, sudden color painting her face in vivid red as she makes a choking sound.

Gran lets out an aggrieved sigh. "You young people, always making such drama of everything." She turns away, thumping her crutch definitively toward the kitchen. "Come inside. Let's not have this conversation on the front stoop like heathens. I'll make tea. There's enough muffins for everyone."

Lena just looks at me incredulously.

"You always fall into the weirdest messes," she says before she brushes past me to the kitchen—though that doesn't stop her from catching my hand for a moment and giving it a warm, reassuring squeeze.

That just leaves me standing in the entryway more numb than I've ever been in my life.

Jet Daddy stays rooted to the front step, watching me with those penetrating blue eyes.

"Um," I say. "Is this like a vampire thing? You can't come in without being invited?"

"You," he mutters thinly, "have the oddest imagination, Miss Lark. My name is August Marshall."

I blink at him. "If that's supposed to mean something, it doesn't."

"Don't know if I find that a relief or—fuck, forget it." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't have time for muffins. I have a full schedule today, and this is an unplanned detour. If we could stop wasting time, I'd like to ask you to marry me."

"What?"I yelp loudly.

"What?!" Lena echoes from the kitchen.

But August what's-his-face's stone-cold expression doesn't change.

I don't think he's joking.

I'm sure I make every last face under the sun for him while my stomach and heart do a twisty tango that leaves me feeling breathless and stunned and just a bit sick.

"You heard me," August Marshall says, opening the box in his hand to reveal a diamond-encrusted silver band.

The thing almost blinds me. I'm sure it could retail for seven solid figures.

We're beyond numb now.

I'm not sure how I still have a pulse.

Even in the dim grey Seattle morning, the ring—the flipping ring!—glitters impossibly.

"Are you crazy?" I force out slowly. "Like, are you having some kind of breakdown?"

"Crazy? No." He cocks his head like I'm the insane one. "This is a proposal, Miss Lark. I need you to say yes."

The words are already receding.

My head might pop off and spin away to the moon.

I am so confused.

"Excuse me," I whisper faintly, even as the world tilts sideways.

"Miss Lark? Are you—"

"I'm going to faint again," I whisper, barely catching my balance.