V GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE SUN （ELLE）

See? I told you there was a bright side to everything.

Okay. Sure. Maybe Lena's right.

Maybe this is absolutely batshit insane.

But it's also crazy cool.

I get to have fun swanning around pretending to be Mr. Marshall's spoiled fiancée for a while.

I get to meet smart people in children's publishing, and if I'm lucky, I'll even get a shot at building a strong network of referrals.

I get nice new clothes. Nicer than my standard interview pantsuit and my small collection of eclectic business casual wear.

I might even get to find out what's under his grouchy exterior, assuming Mr. Marshall just has to defrost enough to talk to me like a normal human being. Pretty much required, if anyone's going to believe I know him well enough to call him August.

And best of all?

I get to work with the Clara Marshall.

I can't stop grinning as I watch Seattle slide by from the back seat of that slick car—which was waiting for us outside with the driver, Rick.

I'm still trying not to hyperventilate.

Inky the Penguin practically shaped my childhood.

The whole series of illustrated children's books follows an adorable emperor penguin like no other. Instead of being black with a white belly, Inky was born white with a special black belly that doubles as a magic inkwell for writing letters.

If it sounds weird, don't worry. Inky only uses his powers for good.

He travels all over the world, finding new places, new cultures, new friends, always carrying pen pal letters. His backpack bulges with envelopes overflowing with cheerful messages from folks who would've never met without his help.

I remember it like yesterday.

Even though we only lived a few houses apart, Lena and I would write letters and leave them in each other's mailboxes, pretending that Inky himself had delivered them. When we played together, we'd tromp through the woods, imagining we were Inky's little companions on his long hikes around the globe.

If we had to cross Puget Sound on the ferries with Gran or Lena's parents, then we were Inky on a great steamship crossing the oceans.

"Do you ever stop smiling, Miss Lark?" August mutters without looking at me.

"Do you ever start?" I throw back, tossing a grin over my shoulder. "And I mean a real smile. Not that creepy Mr. Burns thing you did when you found out I was a children's illustrator."

"Burns? As in Lincoln?" He's on his laptop. Again. I don't think the man knows how to take a break.

"No! Not the fashion CEO. The Simpsons?" When that gets me a blank look, I laugh. "Wow. We are so different. How are people ever supposed to believe we're engaged?"

"‘Opposites attract' is still a thing, isn't it?" He frowns. "Of course, it's bound to end in divorce as soon as the novelty wears off, but since we're breaking up anyway, we don't have to worry about that."

How romantic.

"Ugh, you're such a pessimist." I shift in the back seat to face him, drawing one leg up and hugging it to my chest. "People should believe we're engaged because ... because we met and something too powerful to ignore swept us up in this crazy attraction. You, this dashing, handsome man. Ice cold on the outside, but when you met me, you melted. And I saw a touch of heart in you that thrilled me and made me want to know more. While you ..." I toss my hair playfully. "You were confused and annoyed because you found me irresistible. You couldn't stop thinking about me for a single second."

I hold up my hand with a sliver of space pinched between my fingers.

August is not amused.

His stern blue eyes drill through me with his dead stare.

"While you're clearly a very lovely young woman, Miss Lark, you're also cursed with an overactive imagination."

The gruffness in his voice makes me smile.

"Sad you think that, but okay. The more you ice me out, the cuter I think you are."

"Fuck that." Both of his starkly defined eyebrows rise sharply. "There's nothing cute about me."

"That's a lie! There's plenty." I wiggle more comfortably into the almost sinfully plush seats, settling to sit cross-legged as I face him. "Now why don't you close the laptop and tell me what's wrong at Little Key?"

"I have a meeting in—"

"Not for three hours," Rick calls from the front seat. "Listen to the lady, sir. She's right."

"This is a two-way conversation," August growls, shooting a glare at the driver's seat. "Traitor."

Rick just flashes me a smile in the rearview mirror and winks.

"Sorry." I lean over to thunk his laptop lid down firmly. "You're outnumbered two to one, and this is a democracy. So, what's up? Why is the company struggling?"

August sits stiffly for a moment, then sighs out half his soul.

"Because my aunt hasn't published a book in over a decade. You can only revive your backlist for so long before you're spending more on advertising than you're making, no matter how famous your books are. Originally, they planned to expand the Inky line from young readers into middle and young adult with illustrated short novels and new characters. That plan died when Clara lost her ability to work on new stories."

Clara Marshall has lost her mojo? The news almost rocks me back.

"Why did she stop?"

"It's complicated." He presses his lips together. For such a grumpy-looking man, he has a surprisingly full red mouth. The framing of his dark, trimmed beard makes it stand out even more. Pressing his lips together does little to thin them and just makes them look fuller. "The Inky concept had a rough start that led to some personal complications. Those complications spiraled, eventually leading to my aunt losing her inspiration until she no longer wished to work on new concepts at all—even if the loss clearly pains her. But I've said enough. The rest isn't my story to divulge."

Vague much?

Even so, a little pang plucks at my chest. I rub at the ache, biting my lip.

"Wow, that's heartbreaking. She made something that meant so much to so many children—and adults too. My walls used to be covered in my own drawings of Inky. Just scribbles, but Lord knows I tried. Oh, and I'd write letters to the address in the back of the book all the time. It always made me burst with joy when ‘Inky' wrote back, and it was real, handwritten. Not just a form letter. Those stories, your aunt, they're the reason why I'm a children's illustrator. She inspired me. I want to make people feel happy the same way she did with me."

August just looks at me in grim silence—and is there something different in his eyes?

It's like spring coming to a frozen glacier, warming its frigid blue shadows into something softer.

But he looks away abruptly like he wants to hide that softness.

He gazes out the window. Seattle light at this time of day turns silver, tinted by rain, and it pours in pale edges over the sharp, decisive lines of a strong, masculine profile.

"You should tell her that, when you meet her." His fingers drum lightly against his closed laptop. "I think it would matter a great deal to her. She answered every last one of those letters herself, you know."

"Wait, what? You're kidding?" That ache in my chest flips, turning into a sweet flutter. "You mean the real Clara Marshall actually wrote back to me?"

Though he's hiding his face from me, I think I actually catch the corners of his mouth turning up.

"You know, it's charming that you're more starstruck by my aunt than by me."

"Bleh. If you find me charming, we're getting somewhere." I snicker. "But I mean, c'mon. I grew up with her books! I'd never even heard of you until this whole flap set the internet on fire." And I haven't had a chance to check my phone and see what all the fuss is about, considering how quickly he whisked me out of the house. Plus, I'm still scared to look at my notifications and sift through the endless DMs from trolls. "Why does everyone in Seattle but me know who you are?"

Wrong question.

Wrong question.

That glacier goes arctic again, and his strong shoulders stiffen.

"Shit happened. My personal life was tabloid fodder for a while," he says tightly. "If you don't know, you don't need to pry. Besides, I have an eleven-figure net worth, Miss Lark. I'm single, in moderately good shape for my age, and apparently I have a reputation as a bit of an asshole in my line of work. People talk. Bullshit travels at the speed of lies."

Oof.

I'm so, so curious about this personal stuff, but he's asked me pointedly not to look.

I'm not completely insensitive, even if I may be a little too tactlessly extroverted. This is also hardly the time or place.

I'd have to say that he's in more than moderately good shape, though.

Not to mention the flight, where I was thigh to thigh with him. His impeccable style may slim him down with the sleekness of perfectly cut suits, but underneath there's a solid stack of muscle. He's a powerhouse of steel with a delicious taper from his broad shoulders to the sleek, straight waist and narrow hips.

"How old are you, anyway?"

"Thirty-four, if you must know," he grinds out.

I burst out laughing.

"Oh my God." I press my fingers to my mouth, trying to stop my giggles. "You act like you're sixty with one foot in the grave. Thirty-four is still young. You're not an old man. Stop being so stuffy—even if that's pretty cute too."

"I am not fucking cute," he snarls.

Very cutely.

"Also," he continues, drawing himself up almost pompously, "Aunt Clara raised me to behave like a gentleman. It's served me well, and I dare not disappoint her."

"Um, okay. Either way, I bet she didn't raise you to keep a permanent stick up your butt, but hey, we just found out something we have in common, fiancé. My parents didn't really raise me either." I stick my tongue out at him playfully. "You'd probably like them. They were all over the world instead of at home with me. Total money-obsessed workaholics. Even if I still don't quite get what you do."

August's sigh is long, aggrieved, and pissed off.

Oh boy.

I'm having too much fun with him.

He gives me a weary look. "They call me the Fixer."

"That sounds like a nickname for a plumber. Or a hit man?" My smile wilts. "You don't actually kill people, do you?"

His stare turns flat.

"You're not as funny as you think, Miss Lark. As I said at your grandmother's, I do turnaround projects. Failing companies hire me to reverse their fortunes and set them on the right track to profitability and market dominance. Once I've finished, it's on to the next miracle."

"Commitment issues. Got it."

He narrows his eyes. "It's work. Work that has nothing to do with my personal life."

When I just grin at him, he scowls.

"Brat. You're trying to rile me up."

"Caught me." I wink.

"Why?"

"Because." I flop myself back against the seat, letting my feet fall to the floor again. "No one's going to believe we're in love if you don't stop trying to pretend you hate everything and you're too dignified to come down from your ivory tower. So if you won't come willingly, I'll just have to tear down those tower walls until you do."

"Must we be that convincing?"

"Yes, we must." I tilt my head against the seat back, eyeing him with amusement. "Again, you're not that old. You know people pick everything apart on social media. It's just going to make things worse if they can tell we're faking it. Then this whole thing will be for nothing."

"How is it that this was my idea, yet you're planning for more complications than I am?" Huffing, August mutters something under his breath and glares out the window again. "... parents."

"What was that?" I blink, leaning toward him.

"My parents died. I was so young I don't remember them," he growls. "There was an accident. So my aunt Clara raised me and my younger sister, Debra. Clara was more than an aunt to us. She was practically our mother."

It takes a minute to sink in.

It's not about his parents at all. He can't miss what he doesn't remember.

It's about what he cares about.

"Oh. So saving Little Key means a lot to you," I murmur. A softness wells up inside me, and I think I like it. "It's not just another fixer job. You actually want to save the company because it's your aunt Clara, not just for business."

He doesn't answer, just swallows roughly like a sulking boy who's been caught caring too much.

"You understand. I'm glad."

"Yeah, I do. It's sweet, August." I smile. "For the record, I'd do the same thing for Grandma Jackie. I moved back here to look after her."

"Is she ill?" August glances at me, and there's a flicker of what might be genuine interest in his eyes.

I shake my head.

"Nope. She just busted her knee hiking around Olympia. She never could sit still, and now it's driving her insane that she has no choice but to take a little downtime. So someone's got to stay with her to make sure she doesn't kill herself, since she's being stubborn about surgery, and since my parents are retired and soaking up the sun in the Keys, it has to be me."

"You uprooted your entire life for this? Where were you before?"

"New York. I lived there through college and a little after." I shrug. "There wasn't much to uproot, honestly. I was just doing the freelancer grind. And at least if I'm going to live somewhere with a stupidly high cost of living, it'll be at home, where I don't have to pay rent."

"Hm." He looks puzzled. "Why does your grandmother refuse surgery?"

"My grandfather died during a routine medical procedure." I smile sadly. "He ended up with an air embolism. Ever since, she's afraid of going under anesthesia because she might not wake up. She misses Gramps, but she always says she's not ready to join him yet. Her flowers might miss her too much."

"I see." There it is again—that barely there softening. I don't think he realizes it's happening, but I want to see more of it. "She reminds me of Aunt Clara. Strong willed and lovably eccentric."

I smile. "That's the best description of Gran I've ever heard."

It's sweet that underneath his gruffness he actually seems to like and respect my grandmother after such a short meeting.

But I shouldn't be thinking he's sweet at all, should I?

Although if we're going to fake it for a few months, we can at least try to like each other and get along.

Before we can say anything else, though, the car stops on the curb.

We're close enough to the Seattle–Bainbridge ferry that I can see the glinting water through the window, just past the cluster of high-end boutique shops surrounding us on all sides of the street.

Although I know the neighborhood, shopping here has never been in my budget, except for that one time Mom and Dad sent home a big cash envelope for my sixteenth birthday and told me to buy the nicest dress I wanted for homecoming.

I wound up going to homecoming alone. Lena did too.

We went to a bonfire with a bunch of our friends and got stupid drunk and cried over finals and bad breakups. We had the best night of our lives before waking up hungover the next day.

Bad decision?

Yes.

But I still remember that night with a fond smile.

Back then the shops here were swank. Now they're couture and European—very high fashion.

I already feel like I don't belong in my cute cuffed jeans and clumpy Doc Martens, my pretty lavender shirred sweater, and my mangled military-style grey canvas jacket with artsy patches all over it.

Then again, some trendy designer would probably take one look at what I'm wearing and call it boho, then sell it for ten times what I originally paid.

"So, what's our budget?" I stare up at the sign on the shop closest to the curb.

"Budget?" August asks dryly. "Miss Lark, I could buy the entire store. Don't bother looking at the prices; just focus on finding what makes you look—acceptable."

I notice that pause before the last word.

He stops and makes a low, almost embarrassed sound deep in his throat.

I glance at him with a smirk. "You were about to say something insulting, weren't you?"

"I was not," he insists so firmly that he most definitely was. "Your style suits you. It simply doesn't suit me for this arrangement."

"Oh, okay. And if I'm going to be your arm candy, I've got to match the rest of your accessories, right?" Laughing, I reach for the door handle. "C'mon. Let's go make me look like I could actually attract some rich pill like you, and then you can make your big meeting on time."

The door latch clicks, but before I can push it open, I feel it again—that long, warm hand wrapped around my wrist. The calluses on his fingertips brush my pulse like he's trying to fan sparks into flame, searing my blood.

I have to stop and remind myself this isn't real.

Sure, I've thought he was hot since the moment I saw him on the plane.

But this man is completely indifferent to me, and as far as he's concerned, I'm about as attractive as a ruffled legal document.

I'm surprised he hasn't made me sign anything in blood yet.

When I swallow dryly and look back, he lets me go quickly, like he hadn't even realized what he was doing.

"Miss Lark?" He brushes his hand lightly against his slacks.

I glare at him. I've had enough of this uptight Miss Lark thing.

"Elle," I correct.

"Miss Lark," he repeats.

"Elle," I hiss.

His brows set. I swear to God, he looks like a stubborn bison who's just stepped onto the highway and won't move.

My mouth opens again, but he speaks first.

"Eleanor," he concedes, almost under his breath.

"Nope. That's not good enough." I fold my arms over my chest and lift my chin. I'm not going into the store until he says it. "Elle. Say it, August."

"On one condition." Another of those long sighs that tells me I'm driving him insane rolls out, and it feels like victory.

"Conditions already? Such a businessman." Groaning, I flop back against the seat. He's probably going to tell me to always call him sir or something like that.

Which. Hey. If that's his kink, I could get into it, but I doubt that's the case.

"Lay it on me, boss man." I roll my eyes.

He pauses.

"The ring," he says softly. "We'll be seen together in public. You should be wearing it."

Oh.

Oh, crap.

I'd almost forgotten all about it in my pocket.

I haven't even tried it on.

For all the heavy meaning and expense, he might as well have gotten it for a quarter out of one of those toy machines with fake princess rings in plastic bubbles.

I slip the little velvet ring box out of my pocket. I never expected that putting it on would feel like signing away my soul.

I'm not sure how to feel about that, but I did agree to this insanity.

I just never thought the first time a guy put a ring on my finger, it'd be with such weird strings attached.

That makes it hurt more than it should.

Why?

I'm only twenty-three. It's not like I was looking to get hitched anytime soon, and I won't actually be off the market after we end this little charade.

It's just a few months.

It's just a little game of pretend with a man who doesn't love me.

Fun times ahead.

But maybe wearing it will just drive home the fact that there's no one who loves me right now.

"Miss Lark—Elle." The inside of the car is so quiet when he speaks. Rick is just a ghost in the front seat, so I feel like I'm alone in a small space with a voice that doesn't match the detached distance this man wears around him like a prison wall. "Is something wrong? If the ring isn't to your taste, we'll find you a better one."

"No, no ... it's not that." I look up, smiling faintly. "It's just ... you didn't even ask if I had a boyfriend before throwing this whole idea at me. So it makes me wonder if I'm just that unlovable—is it so easy to just assume I'm not seeing anyone else?"

August blinks like he's just been slapped.

"Elle Lark," he whispers almost gently. "You weren't subtle about flirting with me on that damned flight. You seem like a woman with integrity, even if you drive me up the wall. I assumed you wouldn't flirt with me if you were attached to someone else. You wouldn't—would you?"

"Yeah, no. No way. I get it now."

Why doesn't that answer totally satisfy me?

It's perfectly logical. It's correct.

I'm definitely not that kind of girl.

If I'd been seeing someone else, I'd have never looked at him twice besides distantly noticing he's easy on the eyes.

So what did I want him to say?

Sure, you're erratic and whimsical and annoying. Possibly completely fucking crazy.

But you're so intensely lovable that I don't know how I'll keep this pretend for the next two months.

You're irresistible, Elle Lark, no matter how many ex-boyfriends called you "weird" and "impulsive."

Nice fantasy.

Instead, I get, Yes, I wasn't oblivious to your wiles. I just didn't care.

"Elle." It's the third time he's said my name in just a few minutes, almost like he's practicing it. Each time gets more of his chocolate voice on it until my own name sounds dark and decadent. His hand covers mine on the ring box, and we lock eyes. "Stop doubting. Let me."

"Huh?"

I don't realize what he means until he takes my hand.

His grasp feels different from the other times. Before, when he caught my wrist, it was always to stop me from falling on my face—but now he does this to hold me, to keep me still, to spread my fingers with a gentle touch that makes my skin ripple and steals my breath.

Not real, not real.

But it feels like something tangible as he carefully pries the box open, revealing that weighty silver band. He plucks it out and slides it onto my ring finger with something like—

Reverence?

I don't know.

It would've made more sense for him to just jam the thing on my finger as quickly as possible, but he's slow and careful and ceremonial.

When he's done, he still doesn't let go.

He just looks down at the ring on my finger, glittering there in the low light. I can't tell what he's thinking, but these mixed signals are messing me up.

At least it fits.

Lucky guess.

"You'll have to excuse me for not getting down on one knee," he says. "I couldn't be sure if the paparazzi stalkers followed me to your house, and it would seem odd if they'd caught me kneeling on your front step. It might have blown our cover when we were already engaged."

That's when it hits me.

The fancy sleek sedan has tinted windows, but they're not totally opaque.

He's being like this just in case someone's snapping photos of us through the windows.

That knocks the butterflies right out of me.

I smile brightly and free my hand from his, curling it against my chest. The added weight of the ring and the sharp glint of the diamonds both feel strange. I'm sure I'll get used to it.

"I don't really do formal anyway," I say cheerfully, ignoring the strange scratchiness in my throat. "Okay, let's go dress me up like a proper lady."

"Wait here."

Puzzled, I watch as August opens the door and slips out, moving with a litheness that seems to belong to a much trimmer man than this hard-cut giant. But I get an answer to my unspoken question when he slips around to the curbside door and opens it for me, reaching inside for my hand.

Oh my God.

The gentleman doting on his fiancée, after all.

I do my duty and play along.

With another smile I slip my hand into his. The little flip in my stomach isn't fake when he lifts me out like I weigh less than a ladybug.

He's strong.

Strong enough that I can't help but call him Jet Daddy in my head, even if it would piss him right off if I said it to his face.

I guess my expression gives me away, though. Because even as he guides my hand to his arm and escorts me to the closest fashion shop, he eyes me suspiciously.

"That smile does not inspire trust, Elle Lark. What are you thinking?"

"Nothing good. But I'll behave myself for your sake." I giggle.

He rolls his eyes.

So dramatic.

We step into a brightly lit couture shop with scents of sandalwood and vanilla everywhere. The bell over the door jingles, announcing our arrival among artfully staged displays showing off unique pieces that don't have price tags on them because if you need to ask, you can't afford it.

Several shop attendants drift around, wearing clothes just as nice as what's on display. They move with this fairy-tale grace that makes me feel like I'm watching elves in The Lord of the Rings.

One of the slender, statuesque women glides closer, her perfect shell pink manicure gleaming. Her neck is so long she looks like a sculpture, and as her cool gaze flicks over August with interest and me with a touch of confusion—What is this urchin doing in here?—I have a terrible thought.

She'd look way better on August's arm than I ever will.

She flashes a smile. "Welcome to—"

"We're fine." August cuts her off. He's not even looking at her as his gaze drifts over the store, moving from one display to the next. "We'll let you know when she's ready to try something on."

The woman blinks rapidly. Her smile freezes, then relaxes with professional practice.

"Of course," she says smoothly, inclining her head in a way that might as well have said Well, fuck you too. "My name's Angelique. Call me if you need anything."

August doesn't acknowledge her.

He just turns and leads me deeper into the store.

I press in a bit closer to his side—not for appearances, but so I won't be heard in the echoing space over the distant tinkle of some astral-sounding soothing music.

"Did you have to be so rude?" I hiss. "She was only trying to help."

"She's trying to make her commission," August points out flatly. "I was saving her the effort and the breath. She'll earn without hovering over us. Can't stand being badgered while I'm making purchases."

"You can at least be polite about it."

"Why bother when you can just get to the point?"

I side-eye him hard. "Where are you in such a hurry to be that makes every second spared a second wasted?"

He pauses and gives me the oddest look.

Then he moves on without answering, leading me to a display where a dress of deep-scarlet chiffon courses over a headless mannequin's body. It's sleeveless with a plunging V in the front, loosely belted and backless.

Before August opens his mouth, I shake my head.

"Absolutely not."

"Why not?" he demands, scowling.

"For one, wearing red doesn't flatter my complexion. It makes it worse. Trust me. I look like a zombie-girl in red. Even worse, I look like a zombie-girl covered in blood." I tick off the points on my fingers. "Two, that's not a dress for introducing your fiancée to the press. That's a dress for taking your fiancée out to a fancy dinner and then bringing her home and ripping the dress off her to fuck her on the couch before you can even make it upstairs to the bed."

August had been opening his mouth—to argue back, I'm sure—but he chokes on his stalled words. His eyes widen as he shoots me an absolutely searing look that might be anger if it's not—

Hm.

Are Grumpy Boy's cheeks a little red under that beard?

He stares at me like he's waiting for me to apologize for being so crude.

I just smile, sweet as pie. "What's the matter, Auggy dearest?"

"August," he snaps, and I swallow my snicker. "And my house is single-story. There are no stairs to the bedroom."

. . . what?

A smirk flicks over his lips, then vanishes.

He lets my arm go, drifting away calmly toward another display while I stare after him with my mouth open and my face too warm.

God, he's confusing.

That just makes me want to mess with him more.

So I skip after him to the next display—and immediately grimace at the dress.

It's this flared skirt thing like a fifties housewife's, complete with a lace bib collar and the most awful shade of mustard yellow.

"Nope."

"What's wrong with this? It's more reserved, isn't it?"

"It's ugly," I say. "Dresses that length make me look stumpy. I know my own body, thank you very much. I know what looks bad on me. I just don't know what would look good enough on me."

Clenching his jaw, August darts me a look like he thinks I might just be doing this on purpose—I promise I'm not—and turns to another display. Before he even moves toward the weirdly duck-patterned minidress, I shake my head.

"Don't even think about it."

August turns back to me with a hiss, throwing his hands up. "Well then, what will you wear?"

"Don't know," I chirp back. All his hissing and scowling and grumping just doesn't work on me. "But I have an idea."

"Enlighten me," he retorts.

"Hmm ..." Kicking my feet lightly, I lace my hands together and turn to slowly survey the shop. There are some pretty things in here, not just outfits that are weird for the sake of being weird because fashion. "Why don't you dress me in what you'd like me to wear? Not what you think I should. What you want to see."

I swear to God, August could singlehandedly cause a polar vortex with those man-freezes he does. I glance over my shoulder, and he's gone cold again. I can practically feel my skin icing over, prickling with shivery goose bumps.

"I have no opinion on your dress as long as it's press appropriate," he growls.

He says it without ever unclenching his teeth or changing his flat tone.

Wow, I must really annoy him.

With a small smile, I decide to dial it down a notch.

Poor August.

He just tried to help a sick girl out at the airport, and now he's stuck with a hyperactive artist who isn't intimidated by him.

"August," I murmur, stepping closer to him. "Just humor me, please?"

He purses his lips but relents, shaking his head. "I have a feeling I'll be doing a lot of that in the coming months."

I grin. "It just means your lovely fiancée has you wrapped around her little finger already."

And I can't help but run my thumb over the ring as I say it.

So weird.

Even if it's just an act, I'm engaged.

August flashes me another resigned look before he shakes his head and wanders away. I let him, just watching his tall, agile figure as he moves from display to display, studying each dress and coordinated outfit with a thoughtful gaze.

That's just how he is, I guess.

The man takes everything so seriously, even a silly request from a girl he feels obligated to just because we got our lives tangled up in the weirdest way.

Is it strange that I find that endearing?

He's fascinating to watch. Mr. Buttoned Down, but he still seems like he's going to realize how much he confines himself and come busting out of that tight-stitched shell with a primal roar any second.

It's that one lock of hair that always falls over his brow, I think.

He's so stern and buttoned up, but he just can't tame that one glossy arc of black. Almost like it's his own internal rebellion screaming to let loose and be the wild, sexy, dominant man he was always meant to be.

... have I mentioned I have a very active imagination?

August pauses on a pale flapper-style dress covered in tiny seed pearls, studying it intensely before moving on.

A high-waisted jacketed pantsuit with a silk neck scarf and legs so wide and flared each one could be a skirt.

A Lady Gaga–worthy thing that looks like a minidress made out of giant cotton balls—I bet that would itch like mad. I'm glad he moves past that one fast, and I watch curiously as he settles on a dress that makes me think of a moth under a tree, dappled in moonlight.

It's lilac, but just barely. If not for the fact that its soft-shimmer gauze is layered, the color would never show through. The dress is sleeveless, with a high, demure neckline and a gathered waist. The skirt trails down in layers with tattered, pointed ends and a faint shirring.

On the mannequin, it falls just below the knee. On me, it would fall to just above midcalf.

Subtle hints of color speckle the fabric, hints of pink and peach and gold that disappear if you stare at them too long.

Silent, motionless, August looks at the dress for so long without his expression changing before a sudden knit to his brows tells me he's made his decision.

He turns to look at me.

"This one," he rumbles, his silky voice resonating.

I step closer, moving to his side, and look up at the dress. When I touch the trailing ends of the skirt, they're so soft. It'll feel like wearing a breeze.

"This one it is," I agree.

It's honestly lovely, and it suits me.

I'm actually getting excited about wearing something he's picked out.

I just hope it looks as good on me as it does on the mannequin.

I look around for Angelique—but she seems to materialize from between two displays, moving as silently as an assassin.

I leap back with a squeak, letting go of the dress guiltily.

She smiles like nothing happened.

"You wanted to try this one on?" she asks. "Please, follow me to the fitting rooms. I'll have my assistant bring the dress." She flashes that fuck you pleasant smile to August again. I honestly think no matter how creepy and stuck up she seems, I might just like her. "If you'd like, you can wait outside the fitting rooms, sir. We keep refreshments for our shoppers' gentlemen partners."

I start to protest that he's not my partner, then shut my mouth so hard my teeth click.

For now, he absolutely is.

That shouldn't make me blush like an apple.

August trails Angelique and me like a silent hunter as she leads me on a weaving path to the back. The fitting area looks like a cozy, comfortable waiting room, with lush seating, an espresso machine, refrigerated drinks, snack trays, and even a chocolate fountain arranged against the back wall near the curtained-off changing rooms.

I nearly jump out of my skin again as another tall, statuesque elf-woman appears from behind one of the curtains with the dress draped over her arm.

Where did she come from? I look over my shoulder where the dress had been, then back at her, then—?

Elves.

She smiles knowingly and beckons.

"In here, sweetie." Her voice is warmer than Angelique's, though I can barely tell them apart except by their outfits. "Will you need help changing?"

"No, I'm okay," I say quickly. I cast August a nervous glance, but he's reading something on his phone.

Yep.

We look like a real couple, all right.

The married ones where the husband just wants to get out of here before his wife steps on his last nerve.

The second woman gives me a wry, knowing look as she passes the dress over, then pats my arm. "Don't worry, sweetie," she whispers. "Once you put that on, he won't be able to take his eyes off you."

Do I want that?

Or do I just want to fit the image August needs?

Stop overthinking it.

Once I duck inside, my inner frustration becomes a second presence in the decorated, highly scented fitting room. I keep asking myself why I'm being so weird over this, but it's pretty obvious.

Sure, I'm taking this all in stride.

Yeah, I'm calmer about it than August himself is.

But it's also a lot to take in.

August is a human tornado: dark and broody and destructive, touching down wherever he pleases and tearing up everything in his wake.

He's spun me completely for a loop, and even if I am keeping my equilibrium, I'm in shock and still trying to process all of this. It makes me wobble back and forth, getting the now all tangled up with those hopeful what-ifs when I first saw him on the plane and my crazy, romantic imagination thought, Wow. I wouldn't mind starting something with him.

Well, I've definitely started something.

A flipping mess.

It's only been a few hours since he showed up with the ring on my doorstep.

Once I have time to get used to this, I'll treat it like what it is—a job.

For now, as I look in the mirror with the dress draped over my arm, I linger on the ring, glimmering in the mirror like a dream.

If this were real, if it had been some other girl August loved and who loved him, she'd have broken down in tears and said, Yes, yes, yes!

I'm not her.

So I just smile at my reflection and get busy transforming into the girl August Marshall wants me to be.

I plaster the dress on like I'm handling a gossamer spiderweb. I don't know how much it costs, but I don't want to rip it if I'm not going to wear it.

Shoes go too. My clunky shoes couldn't possibly look good with this.

I'm barefoot as I slide into the delicate dress and gather my hair up off my neck, though I can't stop a few wavy tendrils from falling into my face and trailing down to my collarbones.

There's a long, nervous pause before I glance at the mirror again.

Holy crap.

I look pretty.

I look the way I wanted to look that night when I got smashed at homecoming because I spent my birthday money on an ugly dress I thought would make me look grown up.

I don't just look grown up now.

I look beautiful.

It makes me feel like I'm made of moonlight. The outfit flows around me like wings waiting to carry me to the stars.

As I twirl I even feel lighter, like it gives me a grace I've never had before.

I mean ... I know how to make myself look cute. Hot, even, if it's a good day.

But this ... this is that moment where you wish you had a man just so you could steal his breath away.

I guess I do have one, a man who can sign off on this part of our deal and then be on his merry way to his meeting.

My chest shouldn't be a bundle of nerves as I push the curtain open and step outside to see what August thinks.

He's settled on a long low leather bench, reading something on his phone with an impatient knit to his brows, sipping from a small espresso cup.

He doesn't notice me—but he looks up as I clear my throat.

"So." I smile, turning to let the skirt swirl around me. "How do I look, Mr. Marshall?"