IV CALM BEFORE THE STORM （AUGUST）

This woman brings chaos wherever she goes, like a sweet but deadly perfume.

It's been a morning.

First, Merrick called me in a panic.

Let me be clear—I'm not a morning person.

There's a special place in hell for whoever invented them.

Mornings are a waste of time. Everything is still beginning, nothing solidified, and anything worth happening still can't be dealt with until it's had more time to develop.

What's the point in waking up before I can take immediate action on pressing issues?

Plus, Rick typically reviews our global business and financial headlines affecting whatever industry I'm contracted out to now. He has a list of relevant articles and publications compiled in my inbox before I even sit up and yawn.

However, today he was browsing the gossip rags. Social media. Some odd little thing called Clubhouse, and something else involving a tick-tock.

All because people are talking about me for no good reason, and on a clock app where ten-second dog videos rack up more views than State of the Union speeches, no less.

Dammit, not again.

Regrettably, this time they aren't only discussing me.

They've dragged Miss Elle Lark into my shit show, and that means I had to pry my eyes open before eleven. Not happily.

That also means I'm standing on her doorstep with the perfect solution to our crisis in hand, while she goes chalk white and sways like a sapling about to fall over.

Not a-fucking-gain.

This time, I'm glad I'm only one step away to catch her.

In one movement, I pocket the ring. In another, I step forward, sweeping an arm around her waist before she can do more than dip to the side.

She doesn't fall as far or as hard as I expect.

I pull her up more sharply than I intend, right as she reaches for the door to brace herself in the frame.

Instead, she falls into my chest.

She reels to a halt with her nose pressed to the top button of my waistcoat.

We're both frozen.

I'm struck once again by that damnable heat radiating off her, especially when people as frail and pale as she is typically have lower body temperatures.

"Um." She stares at the base of my throat, not at my face. Her own face is redder than a fire engine, bringing out the strawberry blonde undertones in her hair. "Mr. Marshall, I ... I wasn't going to fall. I just ... I get a little faint." She swallows hard. "You can let me go anytime."

"Right."

Why haven't I immediately?

Clearing my throat, I release her and retreat down one step, placing us a little closer to eye level. My skin remains oddly warm where her frame was just pressed.

"Sorry," I say gruffly. "I didn't mean to be overly familiar."

"What?" She stares at me. "You show up asking—no, demanding—to marry me, and you're worried about being overly familiar?"

Her eyes are saucers.

Their hazel is so close to orange it makes me think of a tiger. A tiger cub, maybe.

Only that cub has kitten claws, needle sharp but harmless. Her brows lower fiercely, unexpectedly.

She still has my hand. Her fingers are little slips of warmth gripping at mine with their softness while she pulls me forward with surprising strength.

"Muffins. Now," she bites off, dragging me into the house.

What the hell is happening?

I nearly trip on the steps.

For a moment, my sheer surprise lets her haul me several steps up into the little cottage and down a hall painted in a soothing deep rose. It's festooned in wall-mounted planters that drip flowering vines down the walls under the golden glow of tiny sun lamps.

I pull back, freeing my hand from hers and stopping firmly. "I told you I don't want muffins, Miss Lark. There's no time."

She whips back, glaring at me.

"Don't let Gran hear you! There's always time for muffins."

I clench my jaw.

She's an honest mess right now—her hair sleep mussed, falling out in tendrils around her face. An enormous fuzzy bathrobe in pale peach wraps around her, trailing to the floor over a thin white silk camisole and shorts set. Her feet are stuffed in floppy, oversize fuzzy peach slippers that match the robe.

No, she's not a tiger kitten after all.

She's a bunny sent to bring a whole lot of hell into my life.

A small, fuzzy, hell-raising bunny.

If I were still prone to enjoying such things, I might find her cute.

Especially when her pink-tipped nose twitches just like a bunny's as she plants her hands on her hips.

"Look, if you're gonna show up on my doorstep with a ring, you're gonna eat muffins while I try to decide whether or not I'm dreaming." She closes her eyes, huffing and rubbing her temples. "I have anemia. It's why I get the crappy migraines. But it also means that until I get proper nutrition, my blood runs thinner than chicken broth and my brain isn't getting the oxygen it needs. So if you want to explain why you decided to go completely insane in my corner of Seattle and expect me to actually understand, we're making time for breakfast. Got it?"

Damn, she's a forceful little thing.

She does, unfortunately, have a point.

Considering how early it is, I don't actually have any pressing scheduling conflicts. That was simply my excuse to get through this quickly, negotiate a deal, an understanding, then extricate myself from this fuckery ASAP.

Perhaps ASAP can involve a muffin.

One.

"Fine," I agree reluctantly.

Elle Lark immediately lights up with a brilliant, cheerful smile.

"Good." She turns and tromps away, following where the other girl and the old woman disappeared. "I'll introduce you to my grandmother and Lena. She's my best friend."

I can't do anything but blink.

Her moods change on a dime.

Another potential land mine.

I'm actually starting to wonder if I might be better off weathering the storm of the tabloid toss-up alone.

Still, I follow her deeper into the house.

The entire place is filled with flowers. Wicker furniture nestles everywhere among the greenery.

Soft golden light gives the illusion of sunlight pouring down through garden bowers, reflecting from polished oak floors.

The kitchen is half kitchen, half dining atrium, the circular space glassed in to look out over the views of the lush city below. Mount Rainier rises in the distance, surrounded by hints of hazy clouds and sunlight above the city skyline.

The other girl is helping the older woman set the table and puts out a large basket of muffins and an enormous skillet of scrambled eggs, along with teacups and a teapot with steam drifting out of its spout.

There are four places.

It's like they knew Miss Lark wouldn't take no for an answer.

Damn.

I'll treat this just like a business meeting.

In front of me, Miss Lark stops where the living room blends into the dining area. She makes an awkward sound.

"Um. Mr. Marshall, this is my grandmother, Jacqueline Lark. And my best friend, Lena Joly. Lena, Gran, this is August Marshall."

Miss Joly gives us both a strange look, lingering on me with her eyes still wide.

"I know who he is," she says, and she throws herself down into one of the seats. She's a coltish woman with what seems like a short fuse. "The question is, How do you guys know each other?"

"Pure happenstance," I clarify quickly.

"Hmm," Jacqueline Lark says, easing herself down into the chair next to Miss Joly, handling herself deftly with her cane. "Sometimes it's chance. Sometimes it's what needs to happen."

I wrinkle my brows. "I'm not certain what that means."

"It's nothing," Miss Lark says hastily, moving to take one of the two remaining chairs. I can't help but note that the other two have arranged it so we are sitting next to each other. Miss Lark smiles sheepishly. "Sorry. The pills didn't work as well as I'd hoped after the flight yesterday. I passed out in the middle of SeaTac. Mr. Marshall saved me from cracking my head open, then gave me a ride home. That's all."

Miss Joly snorts. "Well, that explains the cover story on the Seattle Sauce today."

Miss Lark blinks, then coughs into her hand. "There's a cover story? About him? About me? Is that why my notifications went berserk?"

I sigh, pulling out the tabloid sheafs tucked under my arm. "Let me shed some light on this situation so you can understand my proposal."

"Sit, sit," Jacqueline Lark urges. "Don't look so awkward, boy. Food first. Explaining later. Or are you telling me you don't like good home-cooked eggs?"

I find myself sitting without even thinking about it.

Perhaps because she reminds me a little too much of someone else so close to my heart.

Guess all it takes is a fussy older woman to render me into an obedient little boy again.

Still, I'd rather not get too familiar or dawdle too long.

One muffin. That's all I agreed to, and one damn muffin is all I will eat.

Leaning forward, I set the tabloids in the center of the little round table. My elbow brushes Miss Lark as I do. The table is small enough to bring her scent to me, more of that biting sweetness I can't quite identify. "If you'll—"

"Didn't I say explanations later?" Jacqueline says with mock sternness. With one hand, she plucks the papers from me and turns them face down before anyone can see more than a flash of the covers. With the other hand, she scoops up a huge serving of steaming, cheese-threaded, bacon-flecked scrambled eggs onto my plate. "Don't be rude, now. Eat."

Sighing, I glance skeptically at Miss Lark.

She flashes me the same sunny smile and plunks a muffin down on my plate. "Don't be such a grouch. If you really want me to marry you, she's going to be your grandmother-in-law."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" I scowl.

The giggle she can't suppress says everything.

I hate my life.

Across the table, Miss Joly had started to pick up her fork as Jacqueline Lark served her. Now it drops to the plate with a clatter. She stares at us with her jaw hanging open.

"Okay. No. Explanations now. Elle, you—I thought you didn't know each other! He proposed?" Her jaw hangs open.

"Guess so," Miss Lark answers with a shrug as she reaches for the pan of eggs to serve herself a heap. "No idea why, but he'll explain after we eat, won't he?"

Jacqueline chortles and scoops up a forkful of her own eggs right before she drops a second muffin on my plate and fills my cup with a rich, orange-brown tea with a citrus scent.

"Imagine that. My little Ellie, my first grandchild to get married. And to bring me such a handsome grandson-in-law too!"

Fuck.

My lips work incoherently, then slump.

I pinch the bridge of my nose so hard I'm shocked it doesn't bleed.

How did I lose all control of this situation so catastrophically and so fast?

They've cornered me.

I don't normally bother with breakfast, considering how late I sleep, but I'll indulge this once since it seems to be the only way I'm getting through this alive.

I pick up the little sugar shaker on the table and dash some into my tea, just the way I like it.

"Thanks for breakfast," I say grudgingly. If only because the woman Jacqueline Lark reminds me of would rap my knuckles red for forgetting my manners.

I settle in to eat, remembering my manners only because I won't embarrass myself by wolfing down the food in order to get this over with ASAP.

Miss Joly clearly has no reservations.

She stuffs enough muffin into her mouth to look like a chipmunk, still watching me and Miss Lark with wide, curious eyes.

It's a textbook case of awkward silence, broken only by clinking forks and teacups plinking on the dark cherrywood table.

The food is good.

The tea, a delicate Ceylon with hibiscus.

Once again, it reminds me of better times.

I wasn't always a C-level corporate consultant.

The Fixer, I'm called in some circles. Less kind four-letter names in others.

Regardless, I've staked my name on working corporate miracles.

Before that, there was a time when I was a boy sitting around a table in a homey kitchen just like this, watching the rain patter against a different set of windows while a gentle reminder told me to tuck my napkin in my lap, keep my elbows off the table, and always thank the chef for the food.

After a few bites of flavorful eggs, I look up. "Delicious, Mrs. Lark. Thanks for sharing your table with me. It makes this easier."

I'm not sure there's any way this could ever be easy, but it's a start.

I'm surprised to feel a wizened hand patting my knee. Jacqueline Lark smiles at me, her wrinkled face creasing up, and in that moment I can see the resemblance between her and Eleanor quite strongly.

"There now, isn't the morning nicer when you slow down?"

"I'm not a morning person," I say. "So I don't really have anything to compare it to."

"Oh, I love a good morning," Jacqueline says. "Right at dawn, before the morning glories get frightened and curl up. They're gorgeous with fresh dew gleaming on their petals. Perfect little magnifying glasses that highlight every delicate color."

To my other side, Miss Lark laughs softly. Somehow it evokes the image Jacqueline just described: morning glories in the palest blue violet, a few diamond dewdrops along the rim of their trumpets, enhancing every subtle detail until it shines.

I shake myself from my thoughts.

Where the fuck is my head?

I don't daydream. The creative, artsy gene in the family skipped my DNA, and so did any special appreciation for delicate, breakable things.

If anything, they've been my curse.

But when I glance at Miss Lark, she's smiling at her grandmother with an affection that makes her ivory face shine. "Don't mind my grandmother, Mr. Marshall. She loves her flowers more than she could ever love any human after Gramps. She used to be a botanical illustrator before she retired."

"Nonsense," Jacqueline chides with an amused cluck of her tongue, pointing her fork at Miss Lark. "I certainly love you as much as I love my begonias." She frowns, tapping her lower lip. "Almost. On a good day."

"Gran!" Miss Lark laughs brightly again.

Miss Joly chokes out a sound. "How do you—"

Then she simply chokes.

A few muffin chunks fall out of her mouth as she goes into a purple-faced coughing fit, her eyes bulging.

Again, I act without thinking, launching myself from my chair. I round the table to hoist her up out of her seat, pulling her back against my chest and embracing her with my hands clasped together for the Heimlich.

One, two, three quick thumps that make her gag—then she spits out the enormous bite of muffin she'd choked on, sending her fork spinning off her plate as it strikes like a meteor.

Miss Joly slumps against me, sagging down into her seat as I gently let her go.

Wiping at her mouth, she clears her throat a few times, coughing out a "Thank you."

Miss Lark and her grandmother were half out of their seats, expressions of frozen concern on their faces, but now they sink back down.

Miss Lark lets out a relieved sigh, brushing her mussed hair back, while Miss Jacqueline just looks at me with a penetrating gaze.

"My, you truly are quite the knight in shining armor, aren't you?" she muses.

I'm not sure what to make of that.

Miss Lark glares at her friend. "That's like the sixth time that's happened. You have got to stop eating like that."

"You've been telling me that since we were eight. Guess what? I still haven't." Miss Joly takes a sip of her tea. Afterward, her scratchy voice sounds much smoother, and she seems completely unbothered by the incident. "Maybe next time it'll be a hot guy coming to the rescue who isn't engaged to my best friend."

Next I think it's Miss Lark's turn to choke.

"We aren't engaged!" she throws back.

"Yet," I point out as I reclaim my seat. "Will you let me explain now, or do we have to clean our plates a second time? I'd prefer to avoid Miss Joly asphyxiating herself in her curiosity."

Miss Joly says nothing. Her blush betrays her.

Smirking, she flips her middle finger at me from across the table.

Miss Jacqueline swats her shoulder lightly. "Don't be so crude at the table, Lena," she fusses, then nods to me. "All right. Let's hear this, before I give consent to marry my granddaughter."

I start to protest that it's not a real marriage and I don't need consent, but fuck.

I have a feeling that if I let this conversation fly any further off the rails, there's no telling what these women will badger me into.

So I lean over my half-empty plate and turn the tabloid pages over, fanning them out so they're all visible.

The three women all gasp.

Who could blame them?

Every last cover page is splashed with an image of Eleanor Lark either already in my arms, or else falling into them.

I have no idea who took the photos. I wish I did.

They'd already be dead.

But in such a busy terminal, it could've been anyone.

I do have a mighty good idea who slipped them to the trashier arm of the press, but that's a worry for later.

The headlines are our problem now.

IS HE BACK ON THE MEAT MARKET? BILLIONAIRE AUGUST MARSHALL RETURNS TO SEATTLE WITH A DRUNKEN DAMSEL! WILL SHE BE HIS NEXT VICTIM?

VULNERABLE VIXEN IN VICIOUS VILLAIN'S GRASP!

MAY–DECEMBER MAYHEM! WHO IS AUGUST MARSHALL'S MAIDEN?

THE BLACK WIDOW BOSS STRIKES AGAIN!

That last one knifes me in the guts.

Fuck them entirely.

One dead wife does not a black widow make.

Also, FYI, it's the female black widow spider who's always deadlier.

Miss Lark presses her fingers to her mouth.

"I don't understand," she whispers slowly. "I wasn't drunk. You were just helping me. You aren't a villain. Why are they doing this?"

The hurt tone in her voice gives me pause. She may be twenty-three, but at the moment she sounds like a young girl meeting the ugliness of the real world for the first time.

Shame I have to be that ugliness.

"My reputation has caught up with you," I say. "An unearned reputation, I promise. I'm not in the habit of preying on random women at all. But a certain business rival has a vested interest in spreading this dreck, and you've been caught in the crossfire. You came to Seattle seeking employment, correct?"

"Well ... yes," she says faintly. "I mean, I'm also here to help out Gran, but I was going to take a few days to settle in and then start looking for jobs."

She goes paler as the realization sinks in.

Somehow, her pallor only makes her look more unreal, bringing out shades of red in her eyelids, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, and her lips, as if colored with natural makeup.

She's pretty as hell, and I need a firm slap across the face to quit staring.

"Oh. Now I see. So I guess Twitter figured out who I am from the photos." She swallows visibly. "And that means if any employer googles me, that's what's going to come up. That I'm some drunken ho-bag sleeping with—whoever you are." She stares at me. "Who are you, August? Why are they saying all these crazy things about you?"

"Rumors. Just like I said. A little blackhearted business dispute. Again, I assure you there's no trail of victims littered in my path. Not even one." I sit back in the hard-backed chair, lacing my fingers together over my stomach.

That part is true.

Mostly.

Whatever guilt I carry doesn't necessarily reflect the honest facts of the situation.

"I do, however, need to recover my reputation in some way, Miss Lark. My family runs a children's publishing house, and it's currently on the ropes. I've been called in to reverse its fortunes, but I can hardly take over Little Key Publishing when the tabloids are telling every bored bystander in the world that I'm a predator who takes advantage of vulnerable young women." I incline my head. "Not exactly someone who should be selling books to kids."

"Hold up," Miss Joly cuts in. "How does getting married fix that? Like ... did you snap under the stress? Is this you having a psychotic break?"

I eye her. "Your sense of humor is interesting." Then I turn my attention back to Miss Lark. "We don't need to actually get married. An engagement is enough—and a temporary engagement at that. If we're engaged, there's a plausible explanation for why I was carrying you in the airport. Far more plausible than me helping a total stranger in medical distress."

They all look at me like I've grown a second head. I'm not winning hearts and minds.

"Look, I have enough contacts in the mainstream press. If we do a joint press release, any searches for your name will return tons about the engagement. Far more than the tabloid mud trying to fabricate a scandal. In the meantime, I can announce my takeover of Little Key Publishing as a family man intending to make a fresh start with a lovely young woman at my side. After an appropriate period of time, we'll stage an amicable breakup. Our relationship couldn't survive the fact that I'm away for months, working on huge turnaround projects for global companies. You will be well compensated for your time, and in the end, I might have contacts who could assist with your career. Easy."

It's not, but I need to sell this.

I pause.

It hits me that I truly know absolutely nothing about Miss Lark or what she might want in life.

I wasn't nosy enough to see what sort of jobs she was looking at on the flight, and I glanced away after noticing the logo of the career site at the top of the page.

"What exactly do you do, Miss Lark?"

She's listened to my proposal in complete silence, just looking at me with the strangest expression on her face, but now she shakes herself, blinking through her daze.

"I'm an illustrator . . . ," she says slowly.

Fuck me, I almost smile.

"Interesting coincidence," I say. "Have you heard of illustrator and author Clara Marshall?"

"Oh no. Stop," Miss Joly interrupts, dragging a hand over her face. "Now you've done it."

Miss Lark brightens instantly. "Clara Marshall? The same one who did Inky the Penguin? Oh my God. I sent so many pen pal letters to Inky—I loved those books! They were the whole reason I wanted to be an illustrator in the first place. They made me so happy, and—wait." Her lashes tremble as her eyes widen. "Marshall. You mean you're—"

"She's my aunt," I answer. "Also, we're currently looking to revive the Inky brand."

"Oh my God. So cool!" Miss Lark curls her fingers against her chest. "So if I pretend to be your fiancée for a little while, I get to meet Clara freaking Marshall?"

I quirk a brow.

I'd almost be insulted that she cares more about my aunt, if this weren't convenient.

Most women would consider me one of Seattle's most eligible bachelors. More than one single woman—and a few not-so-single women—have made plays for me, and they were hardly happy about being rebuffed.

Miss Joly clearly recognizes me for my reputation.

And Miss Lark is more interested in my aunt.

It's simpler that way. There'll be no misunderstandings. I have no desire to get involved with a woman this young—or any women at all. I don't need distractions, complications, deceptions, lies.

I don't need entanglements.

But Jacqueline gives me another strange look.

"Hmm," she says.

"Hmm?" I repeat.

"Nothing, Mr. Marshall. Nothing at all." She smiles mysteriously.

I frown.

The Lark women are damnably cryptic.

Since Miss Lark does, however, seem to have warmed to my scheme after hearing about my aunt, I slip my hand into my pocket and retrieve the ring box. I set it on the table in front of her lightly.

"Do we have a deal?" I growl. "Give me a few months. That's all I ask. I'll pay all expenses, as well as a stipend of twenty thousand dollars per month so you can live the life appropriate to a woman engaged to someone with my particular means. This doesn't need to be difficult. We'll have a press meet; we'll make a few public appearances; we'll be seen together. You will reside partly here, partly at my home. And if you'd like, I could hire you as a temp to work with Aunt Clara. I imagine she'd enjoy having young blood around to revive her inspiration. After our time is up, you'll return home in better shape than you left. A month later, once I've done what I can at Little Key and departed for my next contract, we'll quietly leak news of our breakup while we go about our normal lives with our reputations and sanity intact."

Well, sanity may be doubtful when I'm inviting this chaotic woman into my life for a few months.

She gazes at the ring, then looks at me, her eyes shining as she lights up with the brightest smile I've seen yet.

"Okay. Deal!"

"Then get dressed, please." I push my chair back and stand, dusting off my clothes and straightening the creases in my slacks. "Unless you have appropriate wear for meeting the press, I'll need to take you shopping immediately."

"Oh my Gawd," Miss Joly mumbles, pressing her face into her hands. "You guys have both lost your ever-fucking minds."

"And isn't it delightful?" Jacqueline chuckles.