VI THE STORM APPROACHES （AUGUST）

VI

THE STORM APPROACHES

(AUGUST)

It's a minor miracle I don't face-plant on the floor.

Look, I've seen legions of beautiful women in dresses that cost more than the GDP of a small country. Women whose job is to be beautiful; who wear the very best like they were born to, their bodies and faces crafted to model perfection so elegant it's inhuman.

Yet none of them have ever made me do a double take the way this messy little firecracker does when she sails out of the dressing room wearing gossamer and a smile.

When she clears her throat, I glance up at first without registering anything besides how well the dress fits even before any alterations.

Only, my fucking eyes get stuck.

I can't look down again at the chart on my phone mapping years' worth of Little Key's quarterly reports and their ugly downward trend.

"... how do I look?" she asks again, shy and beguiling.

That's when what I've seen really sinks in, and then I can't look away to save my life.

She's goddamned stunning.

Not messy.

Not infuriating.

Not dolled up like a scruffy art punk.

She's a wind-tossed force of nature, delicate and too bright.

The dress swirls around her like an angel's robes, this soft madness that makes me want to break down into writing sappy poetry if I don't just throw her against the nearest wall and rip it off her with my teeth.

It's all the light she exudes so naturally that sometimes just standing close to her burns.

Her arms are pale and slender, willowy things that flow with her movements and make her too graceful.

Her legs are slim and silky, demanding greedy caresses as they flirt in and out of the dress's layered hem.

The modest neckline flatters the fragile line of her collarbones, extending her slender neck until it holds her finely crafted face up on a pedestal to be worshipped.

Although the dress isn't made to be form hugging, her curves are as disobedient as the rest of her. They play fucking peekaboo every time she turns and the material hugs her chest, her hips, her sleek thighs.

She's innocent and sensual, surreal and earthy.

I don't understand why my eyes won't work.

Why I can't look away.

Why my heart beats so violently and my body tightens as I lose blood to a thrumming hard-on designed to torture me.

This is hell itself distilled into roughly five feet of sweetness too gorgeous for life.

Elle twirls one more time, just to finish me off.

Her strawberry blonde hair kisses her throat as she stops, a touch flushed and breathless, her hazel eyes glittering like stars.

"Well?" she asks—teasing as always. "I hope I don't look half-bad. It's a nice dress. And I think it makes me look pretty respectable. Hopefully?"

Right.

We're here to make her fit in my world. It's not about making her look beautiful, according to my tastes.

It's just about her fitting in.

Yet when she told me to choose what I wanted to see her in, I rebelled at the idea.

Normally, I don't care to see a woman in anything except stark professional attire when they're working in my offices or on site with my clients. I have no use for pretty things flitting around, glancing at me with beguiling eyes and ruby lips, their soft hands an invitation to heartbreak and betrayal.

I'm over and done with that shit.

Yet when I saw that dress draped against the mannequin, looking like someone had teased a sunset into silk and spun that thread into cloth, it made me think.

It made me imagine the sunset hues of her hair.

Hell yes,I thought. This will suit her perfectly.

The end result turned out infinitely better than expected.

And I'm still staring at her blankly when she falters, her smile wilting. "August? Oh God, does it look bad?" She catches the skirt of the dress and spreads it out, looking down at herself, her gaze searching. "I didn't get lipstick on it, did I?"

"No," I snap off, shaking my head. That's something my inside-out brain can still do.

Focus, man.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Clearing my throat, I stand, then tuck my phone into my pocket and set my empty cup on the nearby table. I take a longer look at her, trying to be objective before I look away.

"The dress works. Buy it and let's get out of here," I clip out tightly.

I choose my phrasing very deliberately.

I don't want her to know I'm battling a case of blue balls from polar hell—let alone flirting—or it will just encourage her impish fuckery. Not to mention the issues I've had in the past with women reading interest into my complete lack of any.

I need to keep my head out of strange places.

Looking down, I fiddle with the already perfect crease in my cuffed sleeve.

"If you're content with it and comfortable, then we've found what we're looking for. You'll need a jacket to go with that. The weather, I mean. It's still February. We'll likely be outdoors for a small part of this."

I want to punch myself in the face.

How am I tripping over my words like a boy with a prom date?

I stare at Elle, willing myself to look at her without falling to pieces. She's smiling again, looking quite pleased with herself.

"You're right," she says, twisting to look down at her feet.

She really does resemble a wild modern bohemian flower child. I could picture her barefoot in this thing, racing through the grass, laughing as she takes long, leaping strides like she's trying to fly.

Fuck me.

Maybe Aunt Clara isn't the only one in the family with a dangerous imagination.

"Hmm," Elle muses. "Maybe we'll add some low slingback heels in a nice color. Nude pantyhose. It's too cold to go bare." She looks up at Angelique. I hadn't even realized the woman was still hovering to assist, standing with her hands clasped together and looking far too pleased. "Do you sell that here?"

Angelique beams, sweeping a hand out. "If you'll get changed, I can have my assistant package the dress and help you find everything you need. We can also schedule an appointment for tailoring to alter the fit."

"Thanks." Elle flashes her a sweet smile, then turns it on me. "Just give me a few minutes, okay? I'm not a fussy shopper. If it matches and it fits, I'm good."

"Take your time," I say, still dazed.

She only smiles wider, her eyes creasing into warm pools before she flits away inside the fitting room again.

Both shop assistants look far too smug. The shorter one with the happy face leans into me with a mock whisper too loud to be secretive.

"It's wonderful, isn't it?" she says. "Seeing the woman you love treat herself? I've never seen a man look as smitten as you. Have you been together long?" She dimples at me.

I don't answer.

"Congratulations on your engagement!" she gushes.

Shit, here we go.

But at least if we're supposed to be believable, these people are eating it up.

I'm sure I do not look remotely smitten, though I keep that to myself and force a smile that feels like rusted gears grinding to a halt.

I also try not to be obvious about edging away, putting a few more precious inches of space between us.

"Thanks," I manage.

Right before I'm saved by Elle, who apparently changes with lightning speed. She's back in her eclectic outfit, punky and trendy and—if I'm being honest—it's just as suited to her as the gravity-defying dress. She hands the dress over to the shorter assistant before raising a hand to me and joining Angelique.

"I'll meet you at the register," she calls out.

Then she's gone.

The other assistant delicately folds the dress over her arm, beaming at me. "If you'll follow me, please."

I trail her to the register, trying to shake this unsettled feeling.

That feeling doesn't ease up when Elle returns with Angelique, a shoebox, and something else that none of the women will let me see.

In fact, it only intensifies.

Elle is smiling and pleasant to the women, and her helpers are politely efficient, but somehow I feel like everyone is staring at me buck naked, even though I'm fully clothed.

I suppose I wasn't prepared for the scrutiny involved in playing Mr. Right.

Once everything's been bagged up and we turn to leave, I'm definitely not ready for the small, warm hand that slips casually into mine, instinctively lacing our fingers together.

I stop in my tracks and look down at our twined hands.

Her fingers are so pale against mine, so small, engulfed by my palm.

I remember my wits and, instead of jerking away, I keep walking, trying like hell not to focus on the soft heat soaking my skin.

"Sorry," she murmurs from the corner of her mouth. "Just felt like the thing to do."

"You're doing fine, Elle."

Fuck, can I say the same about myself?

This is just business.

A Hail Mary to save my reputation.

We'll survive these two months.

We will.

After we've left the store, Elle seems surprised when Rick drives us toward the business district rather than back to her grandmother's house.

She twists in the seat, peering back through the rear window.

"Where are we going? I thought you had a meeting?"

"I do," I say. "But I thought you should come to the office and meet my sister first. The staff should see my devoted fiancée at work. Aunt Clara won't be in today, but you'll meet her soon enough. Rick will drive you home once you've toured Little Key." I pause, frowning. "You didn't have other plans today, did you?"

"Not really. I was just going to sleep in, bum around, and do some unpacking. The rest of my stuff hasn't gotten here yet. I shipped it through Amtrak to save money on movers, but it takes a little longer."

My frown deepens. "Is money a concern for you? I can raise your compensation for the next two months."

"Huh?" She whips her head around and blinks at me. Her hair's still bound the way she tied it in the store, and it frames her face in an alarmingly attractive way, soft wisps bringing out delicate cheekbones. "Oh no. No, that's totally fine. You've already offered more than enough, August. Money isn't a huge problem any more than it is for, um ..." She clears her throat. "Normal people, I mean. I just try to be thrifty." Then she giggles. "Though it's funny you can say that like it's nothing."

I grumble, looking away.

My upbringing was normal enough, despite growing up with a famous aunt for a stand-in mom who banked serious money early on.

Sometimes discussing my net worth embarrasses me. Though I suppose that's why I give it away so easily, especially if it helps someone close to me.

Money matters a hell of a lot less than other things in life. It's a means to an end, nothing more.

I feel Elle leaning closer now, her warmth and that damnably sweet floral apple scent washing over me.

"Sorry. Did I embarrass you?" she asks with a wink.

"No." A little. "I'm simply thinking of your grandmother and her care, if she ever decides to take the plunge with surgery. Surely, insurance won't cover the full costs?"

I feel her pulling back and glance at her. She's blinking at me like she's seeing me for the very first time.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing." She shakes her head slightly. "I just didn't expect you to be—well, nice."

I glower at her. "I'm not. I told you, I don't have the time or patience to bother with any complications, including family ones."

That doesn't deter her.

If anything, her smile only warms.

"All right, all right. So you're not nice, but you're still a good man. Good enough to worry about me falling at the airport. Good enough to fret over what a scandal could do to my job prospects. Good enough to consider my finances and Gran's surgery. Sorry, Crankyface. You're not going to convince me otherwise."

Damn.

And I'm sure she'd finish driving me stark, raving crazy if I tried.

I huff, muttering under my breath, and fish my phone from my pocket.

"I need to make a phone call," I say.

Elle settles back in her seat and looks out the window with a secretive smile.

I try like hell to distract myself from her by calling one of our print production suppliers to ask why, exactly, we're being charged double for cream-colored page prints over flat white.

Thankfully, the call lasts the entire drive to the office.

Once Rick parks and lets us out, I take Elle's arm and escort her to the elevator.

It's starting to feel surprisingly easier and more natural touching her like this, though that brings its own problems and its own distractions.

Christ, what is that scent on her? And how is she always so warm?

There's still an awkward silence in the elevator, but it's a short trip up.

We're on the top floor of the high-rise neighboring other corporate titans like Winthrope International, the high-end hotel chain. It's all the space we need for a lean operation with global distribution. When we step off onto our floor, the receptionist in the small front waiting area looks up with a smile and a "Good morning, Mr.—"

She stops, just staring at us with her mouth open and her eyes bursting with questions.

I decide to ignore them all.

"Hi," Elle says shyly.

She lets me lead her through the double doors into the open-plan main floor. All the editorial, sales, marketing, design, and administrative staff are already here, hard at work.

As we head through the space, a thick silence trails after us. Then stares. Then whispers.

By the time we're almost to the executive wing, it's so fucking quiet I can hear Elle swallow.

"Breathe," I clip. "They're only staring because you're with me."

"... but they're staring," she whispers, keeping a plastic smile in place.

Just then the door to one of the three private offices at the far end bangs open. My sister steps out, a blue-eyed whirlwind with her long tail of black hair lashing. She stalks toward us, her heels clacking irritably.

"Finally!" Debra snaps. "August, we've got a huge—" She stops in her tracks, staring at Elle. "Wait. That's the girl from the papers, isn't it? Why is she here?" She rounds on Elle. "Why are you here?"

"Um." Elle holds up her hand and waves weakly, letting the ring shine and offering a nervous smile. "Because we got engaged?"

Debra gawks at her, completely dead for the longest second.

Then she whirls on me.

"Office. Now."

I incline my head to Elle and nod, urging her to follow my sister's cutting steps.

Elle looks poleaxed.

"Am I in trouble?" she whispers.

"No," I whisper back. "I probably am. Just stay out of the crossfire. We've been bickering since we were babies. Let me calm her down."

If I survive.

Inside Debra's office—open, airy, decorated in pale tones—she waits just long enough to slam the door behind us before she points at Elle like she's brandishing a dagger.

"You. Sit." She jabs her finger at the soft easy chair in one corner and turns that accusatory finger on me. "You. Explain."

Apparently, whereas I don't intimidate Elle, my sister does, because she obediently drops into the chair. She gives me a look, wide eyed like a little girl trying to take up space in an adult's seat.

Sighing, I rake a hand through my hair.

It's all I can do to avoid cursing a blue streak.

"It's a ruse, Deb. Relax," I grind out. "Social media already unearthed Elle's identity. She's just returned home to Seattle and needs a job. We need a reputation fixer. Her, for the sake of her career, and me for the sake of Little Key and Aunt Clara. We'll be engaged for a few months, just enough to give things time to simmer down. Then we'll break it off and go our separate ways. Eleanor is a children's illustrator. She'll be working here during that time. She might even be able to help Aunt Clara."

Debra's eyes narrow. She gives me a foul look, but instead of arguing, she just throws her hands up—which tells me something else is wrong.

Fuck.

"Whatever," Deb says sharply. "Do what you want. I'm going to laugh when it blows up in your face. This is the dumbest thing ever, and frankly, I can't believe your stick-in-the-mud ass thought of it." She pivots back to Elle, flashing an almost patient smile. "Hi. I'm Debra, this idiot's younger sister and current head of Little Key. I'm sorry. Seriously sorry my rockhead brother dragged you into this. When it does blow up in his face, I'll take you out for drinks and let you vent the whole night, okay?" Her smile turns cutting. "And I'll hold him down so you can punch him to your heart's content."

"Uh ... thanks?" Elle lets out a shaky laugh.

I drag a hand over my face.

"You done shitting on me yet? What's put you in such a mood?"

"Oh, now you ask?" Her smile looks ready to slit my throat. "Well, since you asked so nicely ..." Deb stalks away, snatches up a manila envelope from her desk, then stomps back over and thrusts it at me so fast the papers inside rustle. "While you were out dicking around with your fake fiancée? We've officially been sued."