VIII SUNSHINE MADE FLESH （AUGUST）

VIII

SUNSHINE MADE FLESH

(AUGUST)

Strange how fast things have come full circle, landing me right back where I started.

Specifically in the back of my car, with Rick in the driver's seat and Elle sprawled across me, her head in my lap. She's so weak after her hellish migraine left her unable to stand.

She sleeps so quietly, so trustingly, her lips parted and her face at rest, not drawn into the lines of pain that shaped it so deeply before. When she's serene, she looks gracefully older.

There's a pensiveness haunting her that gives her this melancholy beauty, always longing and reaching for something just out of her grasp.

I wonder what she longs for so intently.

So deeply I can almost taste it on her lips.

That's the difference between the day I met her and now.

On the day after she collapsed at SeaTac, I didn't know how goddamned divine her lips would taste on mine.

Didn't know how easy it would be to devour her, to almost give in to the urge to explore, even if it would have made the front page of every rancid gossip blog tomorrow. I can imagine the headlines, journalist clowns shouting that the Black Widow Billionaire had just assaulted his future bride when she was in distress, unable to care for her pain when all that mattered was his lust.

A dark smile twists my lips as I glance out the window, watching cars ease past our parked G80. Many of them hold the reporters I rudely dismissed.

If only I were such a thoughtless fuck.

My life would be easier if I gave in to every whim, every impulse I have without a single thought for how it would affect others.

How does she do it?

Living so spontaneously and still being so kind.

I can't imagine being so hedonistic without being selfish too.

Yet Elle seems entirely selfless.

Especially the way she pushed herself today, knowing the cameras would set off her migraines if the reporters didn't honor the conditions of my agreement.

I'm a rumbling volcano of a man.

Furious at their disrespect and the way they hurt her. I'm tempted to make some calls that will sever heads, but I hold back for her sake only.

If I pull strings to make sure a dozen assholes wind up terminated and destitute, Elle might be disappointed.

Hell, why do I care if this little firecracker disapproves of my justice?

If anything, I should be angry with her.

I never meant to kiss her that way.

It was meant to be the lightest brush. Controlled and over in an instant.

Not this slow, fusing sizzle that made it damn near impossible for me to pull away.

There was an innocence and sensuality in the way she leaned against me that caught me off guard. I'm used to women who kiss with intent; whose every goal is to make me lose my head and get so swept up in sex that I'll drag them off to bed and let them weave their spell over me.

My ex-wife was like that in the end.

Only when she kissed me, she wasn't trying to ply my body.

She was toying with my emotions, hoping my love for her would make me surrender to her demands, even when they turned batshit insane.

Yeah. I'm accustomed to dealing with women who want something and who have zero qualms about aiming their wiles straight at my cock.

What I'm not accustomed to is a woman so skilled at it that she makes her response seem genuine, as if I somehow affect her so deeply that her cheeks flush honest pink, her breaths hitch a little too much, and her eyes flutter shut while her mouth becomes a soft, inviting strawberry, begging me to take everything.

Fuck, I almost did, losing my shit with a flirt of her honey on my tongue.

It's amazing how much just kissing this girl feels like straight filthy fucking.

I'm almost grateful to that sleaze for stopping me before I went too far.

Then Elle moves, and I remember why I'm not fucking grateful at all.

The slight weight in my lap exhales with a sleepy mumble. I flick a glare at her, holding on to my anger and suspicion. She's no different from any other woman. Her wiles are just a different sort from anything I know.

But as I watch her slowly waking up, holding on to that familiar resentment feels like trying to keep water in my fingers. I can't hold on as she shifts her shoulders sleepily, snuggling into me, her eyes slowly slipping open.

Nothing but gleams of gold through her lashes. The drowsy tiger kitten yawning.

Her tongue even curls like a cat's. I half expect to see a hand come up like a paw to rub at one cheek, or for her nose to twitch like she's moving her whiskers.

How is this maddening woman so damned cute?

Instead of playing the cat, she blinks her eyes open, looking up in confusion.

"August?" she asks with another yawn, rubbing her pink nose.

One thing she doesn't do is bolt out of my lap like she did last time. I suppose I'm losing any and all hope of preserving my intimidating mystique with her.

"How long was I out?" she asks, her voice still thick with sleep, giving it an enticing sigh.

I have to look away from her and take the excuse to glance at my watch. "About thirty-five minutes. Not long. How are you feeling?"

From the corner of my eye, I watch her smile faintly. "A little better. I can see, at least, and there's only one of you now instead of four or five."

"Thank fuck. Not sure the world could handle four or five of me, Elle."

She laughs loudly and then winces. "Wait. Did you just make a joke, Crankyface?"

"Believe it or not, I have a functioning sense of humor."

"Yeah? Prove it."

I toss her a look and change the subject. "Would ice water help? I made sure the cooler was stocked."

"You did? For me?" Elle blinks at me.

"Yes." Clearing my throat, I avoid looking at her—even if I must press far too close to her as I lean over her in my lap to reach the silver built-in cooler between the front seats. A press of a button and it slides out, ice cubes gleaming, several water bottles nestled among them, along with a few cans of my favorite sparkling water flavors. I pluck out a water, shake off the droplets, then lean back and offer it to her. "You had me worried, woman. Just thought it would be pragmatic to prepare ahead. Do you have your meds?"

For a moment, the only sound is the cooler automatically closing with a mechanical whirr, while Elle gives me a confused look.

Yet this time, that look makes my heart feel strange and my blood slow.

This time, she's the one who averts her eyes, gently taking the bottle from me and glancing at the sequined round shape of the violently colorful purse that's replaced her usual oversize bag. It's tucked into the pocket on the back of the front passenger seat.

"They're in my purse. The outside pocket."

She starts to reach for it, but I get there first with longer arms. I fumble with finding the zippers.

This thing looks like it was stitched together by a maniac, meaning it could only have been made by Elle herself.

I eventually find the right pocket and pluck out the small prescription bottle, scanning the label. Take 1–2 by mouth as needed. "One to two ... how many do you want?"

"One should be enough."

"You sure?" I eye her.

She immediately looks away.

With a frustrated grumble, I set her purse aside next to her hip and catch her chin. I won't force her, but I nudge her to meet my eyes, searching her face for the lie. She must be able to lie so easily, to make me believe her response to that kiss.

"Do not lie to me, Elle Lark," I order firmly. "If you're feeling like a worn heel, you need a doctor."

But there's no trickery in that sweet expression she wears.

No deception in the gentle tremor of her eyelashes, or the startled part of her lips.

No manipulation in the way she colors, or the soft, confused stammer of her voice.

"I ..." She stops, licking her lips. Her mouth glistens coral pink. The same color is probably still clinging to my mouth after the way our lips were pressed together. "I promise. It's not bad enough for more than one."

I shouldn't be grasping on to her like this.

I shouldn't be pressuring her and making demands.

To me, she's little more than an employee, a contractor filling specific needs.

So I let her go. Quickly, and yet it does no good when the softness of her skin stays imprinted on my fingertips.

Without a word, I shake out a pill from the bottle, put it away, and offer her the little capsule.

Elle hesitates.

Then she opens her mouth like a baby bird asking to be fed, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

"Are you serious?" I scowl, glaring down at her.

"My hands are full. And slippery. I might drop it." She holds the water bottle up with a grin.

Wide, innocent eyes.

Goddamn.

She's definitely faking it now.

It's annoying that it's so obvious. The girl couldn't lie if someone paid her, even if that's exactly what I'm doing. I need to believe that any attraction she might feel toward me is feigned for her own ends.

That's all.

But she's still looking up at me with that little smile, while Rick keeps pretending not to watch us in the rearview mirror.

I meet his eyes and stare.

"Just drive," I mutter. "We're taking Miss Lark home promptly."

Then, turning that glare on her, I pop the pill into her mouth.

My thumb accidentally brushes her lips—just barely—right where they're silkiest.

I jerk my hand back like she's a thousand degrees, folding my arms over my chest because I have nowhere else to put them with her in my lap.

"You're feeling better. Good," I growl.

Elle swallows what sounds like a giggle. "And you're sulking again."

"I am not—"

The moment I make eye contact, I realize she's trying to provoke me.

Fuck.

I suppose I can't blame her.

She's trying to restore a little normalcy between us again—whatever passes as normal for us, when we barely know each other and we have to pretend we're engaged.

Still, there's a certain comfort in this too.

In knowing she doesn't want the memory of that kiss hanging awkwardly between us, no matter what latent things came to life the moment our lips touched.

I can't hold back my scowl.

Just like I can't bring myself to kick her out of my lap, either, especially when the car is coming to life with a rumble and moving forward when I'm not sure she should be sitting up.

Sighing, I watch her.

"Just rest, Elle," I say. "I'll have you home soon."

We didn't kiss again when I dropped her off, even if it wouldn't have been out of place.

For all I know, there were paparazzi hiding in Miss Jacqueline's hedges, but it felt prudent not to mix up my brain any further with this gal.

So I let her off on the curb with a polite farewell, watched to make sure she reached the door, and chose not to respond when she stopped and raised her hand in a little wave before ducking inside.

For some reason, missing a second kiss bothers the hell out of me.

Just logistics, I'm sure. Whatever helps keep this farce publicly visible and visibly believable.

Nothing more.

I have plenty of other worries—like the text waiting on my phone.

Snarky. Cutting. Angry.

Oddly jumbled, like it always is.

Unknown: nice you gt the hole intentent buzzing laready

Unknown: tring to plafy for the sy mpthay points ... SAD!

I frown.

"Merrick?" I ask pointedly.

"Yes, Mr. Marshall?" Merrick's eyes meet mine in the mirror.

"Has anyone requested my number lately?"

"No, Mr. Marshall."

He watches me strangely in the mirror as I text back.

I probably have the damnedest look on my face right now. Who the hell is this and how did you get my number?

Only, I already have a good idea, and I can almost hear the sneering laugh that comes back in the response.

Unknown: dnt you know hvingg ur contact is part of discverry???

I blink at the screen and wrinkle my nose before I send, Miss Sullivan?

Marissa Sullivan: shoudl I feell aspeiclah

Marissa Sullivan: fujkv

Marissa Sullivan: sent before I finishined

Marissa Sullivan: should I feeel like a special gril since u remembereed my name ??

What in the hell is going on here?

Why is the woman who's suing me texting like a drunken teenager?

I don't have the time or patience to decipher her cryptic messages. I slam the call button on the text window and lift the phone to my ear.

It picks up before the first ring finishes.

Miss Sullivan's voice slurs in my ear. "Ooh la la, you're callin' me now? You sure know how to woo a girl, Marshall."

I stare incredulously at—nothing, really.

When I'd thought drunken teenager, I wasn't expecting to be right.

"Miss Sullivan ... are you drunk?"

"Issit your business?" She hiccups. "Whaddya want?"

"Nothing," I retort. "You texted me first. I thought this might be more convenient than interpreting your inebriated texts, but it seems you can't speak clearly either. Did you need something, or can it wait for the meeting with our lawyers present?"

An ugly little laugh comes over the line.

So different from Elle and her light laughter, it's like air versus mud.

"I'm just being gracious. God! Listen, I'm gonna offer you the chance to ... to consneed before thissss goes to ker—cut—court. If you concede, I won't even shoe—sue for decades of damages. Asshole," she adds under her breath.

I almost roll my eyes out of my head.

"Absolutely not. There's nothing to concede, Miss Sullivan. Your frivolous lawsuit is a hostile takeover attempt, and I think you already know it won't succeed. It won't bleed my family's company dry, either, no matter how long you care to drag this misery out. I'll see you soon, though, and we can let our lawyers do the heavy lifting. Please be sober."

I hang up before she gets out more than a "Fu—" as a retort.

Then I mute my phone.

Talking to that wacko is a special kind of hell.

I suddenly wish Elle were here. Her brightness could clear up the sulfur stench Marissa Sullivan always leaves in the air.

Rick is still watching me in the rearview mirror.

"Should I turn us around, sir?" It's annoying how astute he is.

"No," I snarl, knowing I'm more aggravated with myself than him. "I need to be in the office. Our legal team is waiting, and I intend to be fully ready to deal with Marissa Sullivan come tomorrow."

Come tomorrow, I'm not ready to deal with jack shit.

Did the woman who tumbled into my arms at the airport have to be a morning bird?

I know. I know most of the world wakes up before lunch. I know I'm a human oddity.

Still, I can't play the doting fiancé if I leave Elle to fend for herself on her first day in the office. Nor can I apologize to my aunt for dragging her into this fuss, though I hope she'll at least like Elle and be willing to work with her.

So here I am.

Slouched in the back seat of the car with my face buried in a bracing cup of hot gunpowder green tea, just inhaling the scent like it'll loan me the superpowers I'm lacking.

I watch Elle come flitting out into the grey morning light like she'll bring the sun with her through the Seattle gloom.

She's vivid enough in a yellow sweater and a knee-length pleated grey skirt with black kitten heels and black knit stockings. Smart, professional, but with her bright flourish in a rainbow-patterned scarf looped around her neck and matching colored clips peppered throughout her hair until it looks like a sunflower field dotted with butterflies.

Have I mentioned how much I hate how this girl makes me go poetic?

She waves at Miss Jacqueline over her shoulder as she strolls, then catches my eye through the car window with a knowing smile before she disappears.

Rick opens the back door for Elle, and she tumbles in—then stops short, blinking at me as she settles on the seat next to me, holding a paper cup of something steaming hot.

"Whoa," she says, eyes wide. "You look, uh. Not happy. Or awake."

"Not a morning person," I grunt into my cup. "Can only fake it for so long."

"What time do you normally wake up?"

"Noon," I mumble emphatically.

Elle just giggles when she realizes I mean it.

She reaches out to flick my hair off my brow, brushing aside the one unruly strand that never stays in place, defying every hair product known to science.

It tingles where she touches me.

Hell, it feels familiar.

We're acting, you jackass dolt. Keep it straight,I remind myself.

"You're so freaking adorable," she says brightly—and as Rick slides into the front seat after shutting us in, I catch a muffled snicker that tempts me to hire a new assistant-slash-driver. "If you're not a morning person, why are you up so early?"

I stare at her sourly over my cup.

She blinks and grins again before she slouches over, bumping her shoulder against mine. "You're too good to me, fiancé."

"Give me a number," I grind out.

"Come again?" She blinks at me.

"How much more do I have to pay you not to be so damned peppy?"

Her smile widens. "How much are you worth again? There's not enough money in the world, my darling."

"Try me."

Elle laughs again.

I don't want to admit that the verbal jousting somewhat lifts my mood.

I wonder why the grouchier I am, the more pleased she gets.

Strange woman.

As Rick pulls into traffic, though, Elle tilts her head, studying me. "There's something else on your mind. What's up?"

"Lawyers," I mutter. "I hate meeting with them, but it's a necessity."

"Is this about that lawsuit your sister mentioned before I was ejected from the office?"

I at least have the good grace to wince at that. "Sorry. I tend to get tunnel vision when someone presents me with a problem. But yes, it's about that lawsuit."

Wrinkling her nose, Elle shakes her head.

"I don't understand. Why would anyone want to sue you?"

"It's the daughter of Aunt Clara's former coauthor. She owns her own publishing and media company." I sigh. I hate getting into this, but Elle deserves answers. "She claims that Inky the Penguin is her father's creation, not Aunt Clara's, and that she's owed the rights and all publication materials, plus decades of profits."

Elle just stares at me, horror draining the color from her face. "That's—no. No way. I didn't even know Clara Marshall ever had a coauthor. It can't be true ... can it?"

"Of course not." I can't hide the disgust in my voice. "Aunt Clara would never steal. Inky was her labor of love from the start. I don't know what the fuck happened; she and Lester Sullivan had some sort of falling out early in their partnership. He left. Then the man tried to re-create her work and failed, while her ideas took off. Sullivan's daughter, Marissa, still blames us for her father's death. She says that losing his career made him an alcoholic and ruined him." That eats at me so harshly I pause. "So, she's out to ruin us, burying us in frivolous lawsuits."

Elle studies me, then leans in closer until we're shoulder to shoulder again, arm to warm, slender arm. She always looks at me like she's found some new treasure. I can't for the life of me understand why this bizarre woman would ever look at me that way, when all I'll ever give her are scowls and clipped words.

"You really care about your family," Elle murmurs, her lips curling up. "You're so loyal."

"Stop that," I snap. Why do my ears feel so hot?

"What?" Elle whispers.

"Complimenting me. You don't need to—"

Before I can utter another word, I have a face full of girl.

A face full of very gorgeous, wide-eyed sunshine made flesh.

Her nose almost touches mine, and her eyes are so wide and locked on mine with playful curiosity.

Her lips are too close.

"August Marshall," Elle says in an exaggerated whisper, touching her finger to the tip of my nose. "Are you shy?"

"Fuck no," I snarl.

Yes. Maybe. Shut up.

I pull my tumbler up as a shield between us so I won't do something reckless like kiss her again. "I'm trying to drink my damned tea, but there's someone in my way."

"You're shyyy." A coy smile teases at her lips. She pokes my ribs through my vest. "I bet you were that little boy who didn't know how to talk to people because no one understood you and you didn't have anything in common with them, so you didn't know how to relate. Instead, you just pretended you didn't want to have anything to do with people, and you got all grouchy about it and sat in the corner with your books, when really, you just wanted someone to come ask you to play video games."

I can't even growl at her.

My heart skips strangely as I stare at this annoying creature.

It hurts.

It hurts like the first time I tried to say hello to a group of bullies playing in the schoolyard sandbox.

"The orphan kid!" they screamed.

Depraved little monsters.

They laughed at my polished shoes and suspenders and threw rocks at me until I ran.

How did she know?

How the hell did she look at me and know the days I spent alone, learning to throw punches instead of running, then ignoring the other kids and being so formidable that they'd fear me too much to laugh behind my back?

How did she look at me and see the quiet afternoons spent with my aunt, sharpening her colored pencils and feeling like she understood me because she wrote books Debra and I loved?

Elle pulls back, concern darkening her brow.

"August? I'm sorry. Did I go too far?"

"No," I growl, forcing myself to sip my drink. Strong green tea with a splash of honey was always Aunt Clara's favorite growing up, and the habit rubbed off. It's a more regular morning go-to for me than coffee. "You just have excellent insights into how children behave."

Her concern melts away into another beaming smile. "I hope so! I like to draw things that make them happy. So I'd better know how the little squirmers think, right?"

"That makes sense."

I don't know what else to say.

I feel oddly shaken, tense, but also like something that's been binding me for a long time has loosened, and I don't know how not to fall apart without it holding me together.

Elle seems fine with silence.

She settles in next to me, humming occasionally to herself and keeping me company for the rest of the drive to the office.

After some time, I feel her gaze on me and glance toward her. She's watching me with a longing smile.

"Sorry," she says softly.

"For what?" I cock my head.

"I'm not very good at this fiancée thing. The faking it in public part, I mean. I couldn't even get one word out yesterday."

Shit, she was worried about that?

"You're doing fine, Elle. I promise you."

That brings her smile back brighter than ever.

She shines on for a little while longer before going back to reading her phone, with the air a little lighter between us.

I'm slightly more awake by the time the tea's caffeine has worked its way into my blood. From the scent of it, Elle's drinking hot cocoa.

She makes the goofiest happy little murmur every time she takes a sip.

I try to tell myself it's goofy, anyway, so I don't wonder if it's a noise she'd make in bed.

I also try not to be obvious about watching her as she flips through articles on her phone—mostly publishing industry news, but I catch her reading a few about us too.

It seems to be going well.

A few salacious headlines speculating about our age gap, a few trying to paint me as a villain robbing the cradle. Obvious clickbait sensationalized for maximum outrage, though the softer write-ups gush over how stylish and sweet we looked together.

Surprisingly, those kinder pieces have won more interest.

Gossip and scandal sells.

There's no stopping that.

But it's easy to forget that feel-good love stories have their own special hold on people looking for a little hope in a dark world. If they can't find their own happiness, they're content to gaze longingly at others'.

Even I know that.

I never expected to be starring in a feel-good story.

I just wish it wasn't one big lie.

Regardless, Rick parks and lets us out.

Elle seems more comfortable slipping her arm into mine today as we head for the lobby. We catch Deb just as she heads for the elevator, her hair swinging in a slick tail.

She stops in the middle of the lobby with a sharp clank of her heels and stares at me.

"... you. I. What." Debra blinks repeatedly. "You're not turning to ash in the sun."

Elle snickers, then quickly covers her mouth. I eye them both.

"You're not funny."

"And you're not my brother, if you're awake this early." Debra grins, sauntering closer, and flashes Elle a wink. "You stuck around, eh?"

Elle laughs and beams at Debra. "I do try to finish what I start."

Next thing I know, my sister's stolen my fiancée and dragged her away, leaning down to whisper in her ear—pointedly loud enough for me to hear.

"Listen. If you need to cut and run, I know this guy. Roland Osprey. He's this big-time media mogul in Chicago. He could make people believe the moon is made of tin foil and glue. He can spin a story that would get you away from this monster in a second."

"Debra, will you stop?" I fling my head back, staring up at the high arched lobby ceiling, swallowing a groan.

Goddamn, why are sisters such a torment?

Elle laughs. "I'm fine. I'm not here against my will." She squeezes Debra's hand. "It'll be okay. I'm just doing a favor for a friend, that's all."

That gives me pause.

Are we friends?

Just friends?

Just fucking friends?

Even if I have no real desire for a woman turning my life upside down and ruining everything, I suppose I could use that.

I could accept a friend—if only she didn't have to look like her.

Deb looks at Elle like she's just found a fun new puppy. "You're too nice to put up with my brother's crap."

She isn't wrong about that.

"If you're done harassing my fiancée," I say through my teeth, offering Elle my hand, "I'm taking her to see Aunt Clara before my meeting."

"Oh, your meeting's off the calendar," Debra answers.

"Sullivan canceled?"

"Maybe she chickened out." Deb shrugs. "Or she's got something else up her sleeve."

"We'll find out later. For now"—I incline my head toward the back of the lobby floor—"I believe someone wants to meet her childhood hero."

Elle's hand slips into mine eagerly. She's nearly bouncing on her heels.

"Let's go!"

Shaking my head with amusement, I lead her away.

I can feel Debra watching us the whole time, and I wonder what's on her mind.

When I lead her past the elevator, Elle hesitates. "We're not going upstairs?"

"Aunt Clara's office isn't upstairs."

I can almost feel her bristling with questions, but she holds her tongue and follows me dutifully as I lead her down a narrow corridor to a service door normally used by the building staff. The hallway we step into is dimly lit and utilitarian.

We've walked only a few feet down before another door opens up to let us back outside. It leads into the rear courtyard, which has been fenced in and turned into a private oasis.

Stepping stones wind their way across the grass, making a path that loops through trees, flowers, and bushes and ends around a small glimmering koi pond.

Elle sounds so delighted as we cross the stones, throwing glances everywhere. It makes me feel like I'm seeing this through her eyes—experiencing something I can't.

The wonder, the magic of finding this secret hidden away in the heart of the city.

When the little rose-colored studio hidden in the trees comes into view, she lets go of my hand and claps both of hers over her mouth. Her eyes sparkle as she takes it in.

It's little more than a cottage-style gardening shed, just large enough to share a workspace and a few conveniences with the living areas. Elle already seems enchanted.

"She works here?"

What is my mouth doing.

Why is it pointing up at the corners?

It feels strange. Very, very strange, especially since I didn't tell it to do that.

I ignore this goddamned smile and answer, "Yes. She's never done well in corporate spaces. She needed a private place she could make her sanctuary, so I purchased the rear courtyard from the building owners and let her design it as she pleased. Possibly doesn't jive with zoning laws, but no city councilor wants to be known as the hack who made Clara Marshall miserable."

"Amazing! I could sit out here and draw for hours." Elle looks at me. "Can we meet her now?"

"Only if you promise not to tackle her like a hyperactive puppy."

"I wouldn't dare!" Elle protests with a laugh, then pauses. "Um, I might do that."

"Don't," I groan, but I cut myself off as the white-painted door to the studio opens.

Aunt Clara steps out, and this time I don't have to ask myself why my mouth is doing that thing.

No matter how much other people irritate me, it always makes me smile to see her.

She's a tall woman—as most of the women in our family are—and she carries herself with a certain poise that evokes the Deep South and bygone class.

There's nothing superior or withdrawn about her. She carries herself with a welcoming warmth, and that warmth radiates off her as she comes closer and grips my hands, looking up at me, her blue eyes just a half shade off from mine creasing with her smile.

"August." No one says my name the way she does in that soft Georgia lilt that just screams motherly love. She pulls me down to kiss my cheeks, her half-greyed bun of black hair tickling my skin where it wisps around her face. "It's so lovely to have you back in town."

"Aunt Clara." I pull her into a brief hug.

She squeezes me back, then turns to Elle, looking her over thoughtfully with her smile never wavering. She folds her hands against the soft drapes of the gauzy, stylish wrap she wears over a well-cut silk suit.

"You must be the Elle I've heard so much about," she says. "Debra's spoken quite highly of you. And I do so appreciate you helping my nephew with his predicament."

Fuck.

I can't even get annoyed at the subtle sarcasm. I'm used to her good-natured teasing.

Elle's frozen in place, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly open.

I don't quite think it's a migraine this time.

"You ... you're really her," Elle whispers. "Clara Marshall. You—oh my God!"

Clara's smile is sweet, understanding, kind.

I've never seen her react negatively to any fan, no matter how much they fawn all over her.

"I take it you've enjoyed my books, dear?"

"Yes! Oh, I wouldn't be here without your books," Elle breathes, flushing almost like she did when I kissed her. "You're ... you're everything I've ever wanted to be, Miss Marshall. It's seriously an honor."

"Please, dear, call me Clara." My aunt pats Elle's hand, then nods at the bag she carries under her arm. "Is that your portfolio? I'd love to see it."

"Oh—no, it's just my purse—I mean, my portfolio's inside, but I never expected you'd—I—oh, I'm babbling, I just—"

Now it's my turn to hide a snicker that comes up so unexpectedly I can't stop it.

The layman's term for what Elle is doing is fangirling.

Damnably cute fangirling.

Aunt Clara laughs, and I realize why Elle's laugh makes me feel so at home.

Because it's how Aunt Clara used to laugh, before something I still don't understand broke her and she lost her art.

There's this delight I haven't heard in years, but somehow Elle's drawn it out of her.

I can't take my eyes off them as Clara coaxes Elle into calming down, into taking her hand, into going inside with her.

They're two completely different women, yet there's a kinship there, an affinity that makes it feel like Elle is already family, just from the way she fits with Aunt Clara.

I can't be having thoughts like that.

I can't be wondering what it would be like if Elle stuck around after our illusion ends.

And I shouldn't be lingering as Aunt Clara blows me a kiss and winks, like she knows she's just stolen "my" girl.

But I do stay.

As they slip inside the cottage, chattering like old friends, I sink down against the outside wall with my heart heavy.

I can't remember the last time anything felt this peaceful as I listen to them talking and laughing through the window.