IX SUNNY DISPOSITION （ELLE）

IX

SUNNY DISPOSITION

(ELLE)

I think I'm bursting into confetti.

That's the only way to describe how I feel right now.

Like I'm going to explode everywhere like some kind of party favor, and the only reason I'm not is because if I do, then I won't get to spend another second with Clara Marshall.

She's so cool.

She's got this kind of classy southern reserve, and she dresses like she just fell out of a fashion catalog from the fifties, all poise and silk and flow. I can see the family resemblance to August, but where he exudes cool granite, she radiates warmth. The moment she meets you, she's already your friend.

Oh God, I'd love to be her friend.

The inside of Clara's studio is just as impressive as the outside.

The walls are a soft pastel blue and are covered in pinned-up sketch paper showing works in progress. There are shelves with Inky figurines—and they look handmade. I've seen a few of these as plush toys, but these look like originals Clara made herself.

Then there are shelves lined with original first-run prints of her books.

An easel, paints, sketchbooks everywhere, many left open across the U-shaped assortment of worktables, like she just stopped working a few minutes ago instead of years ago. There are even storyboards showing rough concepts for book plots, framed and hanging on the walls among the sketch paper.

It's pure magic, getting to see everything that's gone into a series that's shaped my whole life.

I stand below a print that's framed and labeled as the very first complete drawing of Inky. He's a chubby, cute little thing, a young penguin with a white coat and a black belly.

Most baby penguins are a sort of pale, floofy grey with no real contrast-color markings like adults, but Inky is the inverse of an adult penguin. He stands proudly with his signature backpack, tipping the little hat he wears when he hikes around the world and dipping his little fountain pen into the black blot on his stomach for more ink.

This is it.

The drawing that started it all.

I just can't seem to look away from its glory.

"The way you look at that drawing fills my heart." Clara's soft, ladylike voice at my shoulder startles me. "I wouldn't think someone as young as you would even know a series as old as this."

"People even younger than me love Inky!" I rush out. I turn to her, wishing so much to reach for her hands to impress this on her, but I have to remind myself that I've only just met her. "You have no idea, Miss Marsha—Clara. You really don't. Your books still fly off the shelves. I've seen kids now who play Inky with their friends, pretending to march all over the world delivering letters."

Her smile is sweet yet achingly sad.

Oh no. Why?

"Well, it's good to know I'm not a has-been yet. No one writes in anymore, so I've quite run out of things to do."

That strikes my heart terribly.

"They don't? I ... oh. That's such a shame. I used to love sending letters to Inky when I was a kid. My friend Lena did too."

"Hmm ..." Clara taps her lower lip. Despite the pensive air around her, her eyes brighten, looking almost playful. "What was your last name again, dear? And what year would this have been?"

"Oh—it's Eleanor Lark. Just like the bird. And I guess it would've been ... sixteen or seventeen years ago? Maybe fifteen."

"Okay, yes. Let's see . . ."

Puzzled, I follow her as she turns away. In the small reading nook across from the work area, several huge trunks line the walls, crammed together until you couldn't fit another one in the small space. With one hand stretched out toward them, Clara turns in a slow arc, murmuring years under her breath—then stops at one of the middle ones.

"Aha. I bet it's right here."

She lifts the lid on the trunk. Inside it's bursting with—

Oh my God.

With letters slathered in childish scribbles, every last envelope opened and meticulously saved.

I'm going to faint.

"Yes, I do remember you, Elle Lark," Clara says as she flips through the envelopes, and I catch glimpses of those letters full of love right before she plucks out one with handwriting I recognize.

Mine.

My own scratchy, messy little-girl handwriting.

Holy shit, my eyes are burning.

Clara's smile is everything as she pulls out the letter on the special pink paper I begged my grandmother to get me just for that letter.

"You wrote to Inky over a dozen times, didn't you?" Clara asks with emotion, as if she's picking up everything vibrating through me. She unfolds the paper tenderly, then reads it over. "Dear Inky, today my friend Lena and me went all the way to France! We told the French people we were Inky's friends and we came to bring them letters. But the mean Dodson kids next door were playing the French people and they ripped up the letters and laughed and said they were dumb. It's not dumb. I like writing letters! I just want a friend to write letters with from far away. Will you be my friend, no matter where you go?"

Oh no.

Oh no, the waterworks are starting, and I press my face into my hands.

"And ... and Inky wrote back. He said he would always be my friend. That I wasn't dumb and I wrote wonderful letters, and so did Lena, and anytime I wrote him, he'd always write me back." I suck in a shaking breath. I can't stop smiling, even as my eyes overflow. "Only August told me ... he told me that was you. That letter was the one that made me want to draw things that made other kids as happy as Inky made me, and it was you the whole time. Not some assistant. Not a form letter. You, Clara Marshall."

"Oh, dear, let me get you a tissue. Perhaps one for me too." With a slightly embarrassed laugh and her eyes gleaming, Clara plucks a tissue from a box on the end table next to a cozy reading chair and offers it to me. "I didn't expect we'd both get so emotional. But yes, it was me. I do remember you wrote back and told me one day you'd draw books just like the ones Inky was in. So, my dear, have you?"

I take the tissue, sniffing and laughing at the same time.

"Um, not yet," I say, scrubbing at my eyes. "I've mostly been doing freelance illustration work to pay the bills and haven't been able to refine a concept yet. But with the whole thing with August ... I'll be able to take plenty of time off to work on my own ideas, so he's really helping me out a lot. I'm not just helping him." I rub the tissue against my nose. "He's a really great guy. Better than I think he knows."

Clara's smile is radiant. "I do wish more people had your insight to know that. You must be quite a special girl to understand my August so quickly."

"Oh God. I don't know if I understand him. It's just really fun poking him." Then I groan. "I'm sorry. I'm being embarrassing. Crying and running my mouth ..."

"No, darling. You're not embarrassing. You're honest, and I appreciate the honesty. It's needed in a world where people have forgotten how such things work." Clara folds my letter and tucks it almost reverently back into the envelope before she holds it up. "Would you like to keep this?"

I bite my lip, shaking my head. "It would mean more to me if you kept it, ma'am. I know it's just one of thousands, but ... it's special, knowing that you've had it all this time."

"Oh, Elle—we're all one of thousands. Of millions. Of billions. But that's what makes us unique. We're the only ones who can be that one." She smiles gently, pressing my letter to her chest. "I'd be delighted to keep it. Every letter is unique to me."

My idol. My hero.

She's about to kill me.

I never imagined she could be so relatable. To think she'd remember a letter I wrote over a decade ago, when she must have been inundated, assuming all these wooden chests are stuffed with letters.

I want to be just like her.

Not just my career, but my life. I want to be this kind, this thoughtful, this warm.

Then it hits me so powerfully I actually stumble back.

I want to be someone August could love.

God, what's wrong with me?

Did one kiss mess me up this freaking much?

I've tried so hard to put it behind me.

It was an act, an instinct, and August went as mum as I did after it happened.

I didn't want to make things weird, so I just pretended it didn't happen. But that night when I lay in bed and touched my lips and felt him, plus the lingering thought of his scratchy stubble on my skin ...

Oh God, did I misbehave.

But I can't be having those thoughts in front of his aunt.

Especially when I see so much of him in her now, and her mirrored in him.

That refined way of speaking—he got that from her, I think, even if Clara uses the elegant words of a southern lady, while August barks with the cold precision of a ruthless gentleman.

The careful, proper manners.

The kindness she wears like a second skin—while he tries oh so hard to bury his.

It makes me wonder who he was kind to in the past.

And who hurt him? Who made him throw it all away so he wouldn't get hurt again?

Aren't you making a lot of assumptions?

Yep. I need to get my mind off August ASAP.

So I pin on a smile for Clara.

"Thank you," I say. "Seriously, you've just made my day. My whole life. You know, they say ‘Never meet your heroes,' but I'm glad I met you, Clara. I'm just ... I'm sorry that you feel like you can't continue Inky."

Something remote flits across Clara's face for a split second.

A hint of pain.

She looks away, still holding my letter like it's a comfort somehow.

"Sometimes things happen. Unexpected things that drain the color from the world, dear," she says softly. "And I never did paint well in black and white."

I don't understand. But maybe I'm not meant to.

Maybe there's a bigger secret behind why she quit than losing her muse.

I just wish I could do something for her.

Right now, I feel like August hiring me as her assistant is just forcing something on her that could be a burden. But what if she needs a fresh face, a few new ideas?

"What if you weren't doing it for publication? Inky, I mean," I ask carefully. "August thought that maybe we could work together and I could help you somehow. Would you be willing to teach me just for the sake of it? Just to draw Inky again?"

Clara's smile is so kind, but her eyes are misty. "You're a darling to offer. However, I don't think I could, even for those reasons." She shakes her head. "I think it's time to let go. If that Sullivan girl truly wants the penguin badly enough to fight poor August for it in court, tooth and claw—well, I'm willing to let it go."

What?

Oh, hell no.

I freeze up.

I'm also deathly afraid I've just screwed up royally.

August is going to kill me if he finds out I had anything to do with his aunt throwing in the towel.

I try to find words—any words—to undo the horrible thought I've just put in her head, but my lips won't work.

Clara glances at me again and turns away quickly, evidently hoping she can hide the faint tremor in her lips. She crosses back to the chest to put my letter back inside.

"Could you give me a moment? I regret for you to see me out of sorts like this."

"Sure!" I manage.

I turn and walk stiffly out the door, and I close it gently behind me.

Then I thud my head against the wall next to it.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," I mutter, pinching my eyes shut with a wince before I do a 180 to slide down the wall.

I'm definitely asking for another migraine, which I'd probably deserve this time.

The nausea climbing up my throat isn't that, though. It's just me feeling sick to the bone that I've just torn my idol's heart out with careless words and being pushy and—

Crap!

I have to fix this.

Before August finds out and possibly murders me.

But I don't know how.

So I turn where I always do when I need advice.

Fumbling my phone from my bag, I punch my grandmother's contact.

She picks up quickly, her pleasant warble instantly comforting. "Hello, my Elle. How's your first day at work?"

"That's Elle?" Before I can answer, Lena's voice echoes in the background.

Gran's voice pulls away from the phone. "Yes, don't shout in the house—and don't trim my English ivy too close!"

"Oh, I know how to trim an ivy, Grandma. Ask Elle if she fucked him yet!"

"I most certainly will not ask my granddaughter that, and you watch your mouth before I wash it out with soap!"

I can't help a tired laugh.

These two should take their act on the road.

"Lena's over helping with the houseplants, huh? Good. You shouldn't be up on that stepladder with your foot. For what it's worth, the answer is no."

"Thank you, but I didn't need to know that." Grandma clucks her tongue. "Now, you sound sad. Tell me what's wrong."

Lena butts in before I can answer.

"Hey, put her on speaker. If she's upset, I want to hear too." Her voice sounds closer.

"Glad to know my misery is a spectator sport," I mutter. But I can hear the echo of my voice, so I guess I've got an audience of two.

"Your whole life is a spectator sport right now, chica," Lena teases. "Now spill. What's got you upset?"

"Oh, I think I just pushed my idol into giving up not only her career, but the intellectual property rights to her most beloved creation. And the second her nephew finds out, he's going to string me up from the Space Needle," I say brightly. "No biggie. I'm just a walking disaster, like usual."

"Bull. You are not," August says at my side. "You are, however, about to witness me losing my temper."

I squeak and drop my phone.

My skin nearly leaps off my body.

"Shit!" Lena's voice drifts up from my phone.

"Language!" Gran hisses next.

Panting and still leaning away from August, even though I don't remember flinching, I stare up at him with my pulse going like a rocket. He's standing at the corner of the little shed, his mouth grim, his eyes sparking, his broad shoulders and agile body so taut he looks like a tightly strung bow ready to fire into the air.

"Where did you come from?" I hiss.

"I've been behind you the entire time," he rumbles, right before the door bursts open and Clara comes spilling out.

"Is everything all right? I heard a scream—"

"And you're about to hear shouting," August growls, rounding on her. "What do you mean, you're going to let Marissa have the rights?"

"Oh dear." Grandma's voice is faint from my phone, now sitting on the last flagstone before the studio. "I don't think we should be hearing this, Lena."

"Shhh!" Lena hisses. "We're getting to the juicy part!"

Oh my God, I'm living a circus.

Clara rests her hands on her hips, looking at August sternly. "I said what I said, and you will not take that tone with me, young man."

There he is.

The little boy I imagined when I thought of how August came to be this way, angry and isolated and scaring people off with his grumping and no-nonsense demeanor.

That boy is currently hanging his head, looking chastised as his mother figure stares him down with an iron will.

But apparently they have more in common than those penetrating blue eyes.

Because after a mumbled, painfully cute "Sorry, Auntie ...," August stiffens, his eyes narrowing. "I won't take a harsh tone with you, Aunt Clara, but I will say you're dead wrong about this."

"Ohhhh shit," Lena whispers from my phone.

"Shut up, shut up!" I snatch my phone up, whispering back into the speaker.

They don't even notice us.

"I'm not wrong about my feelings, August," Clara throws back. "I know what I want."

"What? To give up? Just like that, to abandon your life's work to a damn grifter who wants to steal everything you've created?"

Clara doesn't say anything. She only looks away, her mouth tightening as she glares mutinously toward the inside of the studio collage.

August recoils. "Tell me it wouldn't be stealing, Clara. Tell me she's right. I know you wouldn't. I know you better."

Clara's jaw trembles before she says, "There are complications at work here, and many of them are deeply personal. You don't know everything about my life, son. Nor do you need to."

"Tell that boy!" Gran shouts.

I glare at my phone.

"Gran, don't make me hang up on you too!"

August works his lips into a hard, angry battle line and folds his arms over his broad chest. "Aunt Clara, I'm about to face down a legal battle for the whole future of Little Key. The company built around you. If there's something that would affect the outcome, I need to know."

"What does it matter, if I'm willing to surrender the rights?" Clara demands.

"It matters because—" August throws his hands up. "Why are you so frustrating?"

"Because we both share the same cold blood," Clara retorts dryly. "But not so cold I don't think about the stakes. Our employees, Deb, you ... If anyone has to lose their jobs over this, I'll work night and day to help send them off to better ones with glowing recommendation letters, pulling every string I've ever touched. We share enough guilt in our blood, too, I'm afraid."

August lets out a deep sigh.

"That's the problem, Aunt Clara. Because if I have to pull rank on you right now, I absolutely will."

Clara whips back to face him fully.

It's a war of cutting eyes and forbidding stares.

I can't even breathe.

I'm just caught between two demigods who are about to start throwing lightning bolts, razing half of Seattle with them.

"Excuse you, young man. In what world do you outrank me? I raised you. And I hate to remind you that I am almost twice your age. You're not too old to be taken over my knee, even if you're four times my size."

Lena's giggle leaps up from the phone.

I give up and mute them both.

August lifts his head haughtily, looking down his sharp nose at his aunt—but there's something there. Something behind his eyes that even I can see.

A flicker of pain that he has to speak to her this way.

He really loves her.

My eyes are stinging.

I want to hug him so much right now, I want to end this, but I don't dare move.

Especially when he bites off, "At the moment, Debra has stepped down as CEO, and I've taken over as interim. Which means I'm technically your employer. If I have to give you orders as your boss, I will. Don't make me, Aunt Clara."

She briefly bares her teeth like a cornered animal.

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

My heart stops.

She tosses her head, her grey-streaked hair flaring briefly. "And what would your orders be, Mr. High and Mighty?"

Ohhhh shit.

Grandma and Lena would be screaming, if I could hear them.

August doesn't budge.

"My orders are for you to hold off on surrendering any damn rights until you hear what I propose. I want you to give it a fair shake with Inky, Aunt Clara. That's all. And that means—"

He stops and unfolds his arm, flinging one hand at me.

I freeze, pushing myself back with my feet until my shoulders hit the wall, my gut plummeting.

Guess he remembers I'm here after all.

"That means working with Elle," he commands. "That's all. Keep her as your assistant for the duration. However long she's willing to continue playing my fiancée, or until this lawsuit is fully settled, or until you're willing to tell me what the hell is so important that you can't share it with your own family to save everything you've ever worked for."

Clara's flinty stare is unwavering. "Haven't you drawn this girl into enough of your schemes? Why should I listen to you? If you're my employer, I can quit, can't I? I'll write up my resignation right now."

Oh no. Oh crap. Oh God, no.

I stare between them, panic rioting inside me like a scared jackrabbit.

I have to stop this.

Before the infamous Marshall temper is the death of me.

"But you won't," August retorts, his voice softening. "Because you know Deb and I are fighting like hell because we love you, Aunt Clara. And you love us too much to leave us flapping in the breeze."

Clara sighs.

"If you aren't the most stubborn—" Clara stops and throws her hands up in exasperation. I see my gran in the gesture, that moment when her pride won't let her back down, but she doesn't want to keep fighting with the child she loves either. Suddenly she turns to me, her voice softening. "Elle, I'm so sorry. Once August gets an idea in his head, he won't stop until he steamrolls everyone around him. Can you put up with me until this mess is sorted? You're welcome to use my studio to develop your own work. I'd actually love the company, and I make a lovely tea."

. . . put up with her?

My idol thinks I'd balk at putting up with her for months as her apprentice?

Holy hell.

I'm speechless.

This whole thing just came crashing down on my head, and now I'm getting wrecking-balled in the face by two obstinate Marshalls who've somehow made me the center of their mess.

Again.

I gulp. "I ... I already agreed to be your assistant as part of the deal with August. I promise I don't mind. It's cool." I try a shaky smile. I don't know how to feel—elated that my apprenticeship is confirmed, upset that I'm a burden to Clara, or hopeful that maybe I can be of some help to her. "I'd be honored to work with you."

"There," August proclaims triumphantly. "You see? It's all fine."

Clara plants her hands on her hips, scowling at him. "It's not fine. I see I failed at raising you when you're still obstinate as a bull, and when this all blows up in your face—"

"Debra already said that," August interrupts dryly. "She's offered to take Elle for a drink. I'm sure they'd love to have you for cocktails."

What a mess.

But then August diverts his gaze to me. I can't help it—a shiver runs through me, his stare so intense that rather than being cold, it flushes me with heat as it rakes my body in a quick, sharp survey.

"Speaking of cocktails, after you clock out, Rick will be waiting to escort you."

I blink, recoiling. I feel like I've been turned upside down and shaken.

"What? Escort me where?"

"Wherever you like to shop. We'll be having dinner at the Loupe Lounge tonight."

I blink numbly. "You mean the one in the Space Needle?"

"Of course," he answers offhandedly.

Of course.

And he's chosen now to tell me this?

He couldn't have texted me yesterday and told me?

This must be revenge for poking the bear so many times.

Clara watches us with an eyebrow raised, her arms folded as I ask faintly, "What am I shopping for?"

"A dress," he replies irritably, like it should be obvious. I want to thwack him. "Dressy, but comfortable. It's not a black-tie location. Perhaps one step below cocktail dress."

"Oh. That's . . . helpful."

Despite my phone being muted, I swear I can hear Lena cackling.

"Good," August proclaims. Oh, he thought I was serious? "I'll be by to pick you up at seven sharp."

With that, he turns and storms away, leaving Clara and me looking after him in frozen stillness.

Before Clara sighs, her shoulders droop. She looks down at me with a rueful smile. "Well then," she says. "I suppose I'll put on some tea."

She turns and walks inside the cottage, but she leaves the door open for me.

I don't get up just yet.

I'm still sitting here, hunched on the grass and pressed against the wall next to the door, my knees drawn up like some demented goblin.

I finally remember to unmute my phone as my brain starts working again.

"—e mute us? I bet that little bitch muted us."

"Lena, I know you have a foul mouth, but could you refrain from calling my granddaughter a ‘little bitch'?"

"You just said it!" Lena announces triumphantly. "Hey, I only say it affectionately. As in, that lucky little bitch."

"That little bitch can hear you," I groan. "Yes, I muted you. I don't even want to know what you guys were saying."

"Oh! There you are." Lena perks up, completely shameless. "There you are. So, what're you gonna wear?"

I stare down at my phone.

And then I instantly hang up, thunking my head back against the wall.

My God.

August Marshall has blown my life to bits in far more ways than I could ever imagine.

I've never had a day more awkward than this in my life.

Yes, that's counting the day in third-grade theater, when little Jimmy Schmitz pantsed me onstage in front of every parent, well-meaning aunt, and older sibling in my school district.

I made the best of that too.

I'm just glad I had on really cute floral panties that matched my bright sunflower costume, so, hey, technically I really wasn't that out of costume. It got a good laugh from the audience and Jimmy a week of detention, where every day as I passed by the classroom window during recess, I looked in, smiled at him, and waved as cheerfully as I could.

Look, I try to stay positive. But every now and then I can be positively petty.

Right now, though?

I'm positively tired.

I spent the whole day with Clara. If I thought I was going to work any miracles with her, I was wrong.

She didn't want to talk art. I didn't feel comfortable offering to show her my portfolio.

Instead, she had me sorting all the Inky originals, models, and merchandise so she could pack them up to hand them over to Marissa whenever a legal order shows up to do so.

She promised she'd keep the boxes until August made peace with the idea, but it didn't change the fact that her mind was made up. I wasn't about to get kicked out for starting an argument over this.

Depressing as hell.

Any joy I might've felt over getting to handle priceless one-of-a-kind artist originals was completely dampened.

Then there was the silent, strange ride in the car with Rick. He kept looking at me like he wanted to say something, these mournful little glances that made everything uncomfortable when he stayed silent except to mumble, Yes, Miss Lark, and No, Miss Lark.

The deference was weird. I know I'm supposed to expect a lot of butt-kissing as August's fiancée, but I'm still just me.

Not Miss Lark.

Except Angelique and the other girls at the boutique kept calling me that too. I didn't know anywhere else to go. I had August's Platinum Card in hand, about an hour to find a dress and get home to get dressed, and no time to wander from shop to shop.

At least they were nice about it.

Even if they exchanged pitying glances as they realized August wasn't with me this time.

Look at her. Poor girl. He's already tired of her.

Why do I care?

That question circles through my head, wearing frustrated ruts as I stare morosely at my reflection in my bedroom mirror. If anything, it's perfect.

Later, when the gossip rags spend one column on a third page on our breakup, these girls will pop up on Instagram saying, You know, I helped them at the couture shop I work at. The first time I saw them he was already ignoring her on his phone, and every other time she came in alone. He'd just throw his card at her like it didn't matter.

Believable, right?

So believable.

I rub my throat, right over the spot where a lump is forming, and smile at my own tired, pale face. Paler than normal, I should say.

Red lipstick with this dress was a terrible idea.

With an upset sound I rip a tissue out of the holder and scrub it off furiously, leaving red smears all over the paper.

I'm fine. I'm fine.

I look amazing. I really do.

This dress feels like an inverted white morning glory. A soft, shimmery sheath of sleeveless gossamer with a gently dipping neckline exposing a hint of cleavage.

Subtle ribs in the dress mirror flower petals as they form it to my body, flaring out over my hips into an A-skirt that skims down to midthigh. The subtle pearl dust of glitter in the ribs and at the hem matches the faint glittery body shine on my shoulders and arms, and the barely there shine of the simple white pearl-sheen pumps Angelique paired with the dress.

Again, I look like a little fairy dusted with moonlight.

So why can't I shake the gloom in my eyes and in my heart?

I paint on a smile—this time in a paler pearl pink that suits my complexion better.

I'm glowing tonight, from the pale shimmering pink of my eye shadow and darker glitter-pink liner to the subtle shades shifting in and out of my dress. It's a new look for me, honestly.

I usually go for bold, eclectic color combinations. I know I'm a wild mess, and I tend to dress to match.

But I don't mind this softer look either.

It feels like—

Never mind. It doesn't matter what it feels like.

Because I hear a car pulling up outside, and by now I know the sound of that engine. I glance through the curtains in my bedroom, and there it is. That deep-blue G80—such a flashy car for such a stiff man.

I wonder if he picked it himself.

His one splash of color, of boldness—whispering at secret urges inside?

Stop.

Stop romanticizing him.

He's your boss, and no matter what it looks like, this is a work dinner. Just play your role.

"Elle?" Grandma calls up the stairs. "August is here."

"I know, Gran," I call down. "Be there in a second."

I slide into a coat that's longer than the dress, thick and felted black, stylishly cut to flatter the feminine figure and keep me warm in such a thin, flimsy outfit. The little matching clutch purse to the dress fits right in the coat's pocket. Even with the thick coat on, I feel naked, maybe because I've pinned my hair up in a chignon again, leaving my neck bare except for a necklace of tiny seed pearls.

Right. No point in keeping Mr. Bossypants waiting.

I put on my smile and head downstairs.

Gran steals a quick hug as she catches me at the foot of the stairs.

"You look so lovely, darling," she whispers, patting my shoulder to scoot me toward the door.

When I open the door, I'm fully expecting to head down the walk and have Rick let me into the back seat of the car.

Instead, I jump back with a startled sound.

August himself waits silently on the front step, handsome as sin in a fine-cut steel button-down shirt and a pair of neatly pressed black slacks held up with a slim black leather belt dotted with a square gold buckle.

I don't think I've ever seen him this dressed down before.

His hair is a little messier, the same parted sweep but more disarrayed, softening the harshly handsome lines of his face into something more approachable and human.

The shirt is cuffed to his elbows and open at the throat. Enough that I can see the dip where his collarbones meet under smooth tanned skin.

I catch a faint wisp of chest hair, and everything goes tingly.

I'm suddenly so aware of that thousand-pound ring on my finger.

I've learned to ignore it, to forget it like I forget my earrings when I go to bed half the time, only to wake up with their imprint on my cheek.

But right now it's so heavy as I look at him with my heart in my throat and my head overflowing with crazy thoughts.

Like how nice it would be if he looked happy to see me.

But he's not looking at me at all.

He's on his phone again, and he finishes tapping out something that looks like an email before glancing up absently.

He's definitely playing the part of a man who's going to get dumped in the near future.

"Good evening, Elle—"

He stops short.

His lips remain parted, and he just looks at me, his blue eyes slightly widened.

Startled.

It's the same way he looked at me when I stepped out of the dressing room at the boutique. Like he's seeing something he never expected.

Like I've surprised him so much by not being a dumpster fire that he's actually seeing me for the first time.

It makes me feel naked, even in the thick coat. I bite my lip, failing to stop the smile creeping over my lips.

"Hi, August. You're early. Wanted to see me that much?"

It actually takes a second or two for him to speak. I hope that's flattering and not me looking so awful he's stunned into silence.

But then he flipping smiles, and I'm a total lost cause.

No amount of telling myself he's doing it for the paparazzi will make my heart believe it's not real and warm and just for me. A small, wry smile, devoid of that cynical bitterness or stiff formality.

Just a quiet thing that makes me think that boy who just wants someone to want him wasn't completely crushed to death under the weight of his life.

"You caught me," he mutters. His voice strokes me like I'm wrapped in raw silk and writhing against the texture. He takes a step closer, his sandalwood scent and heat overpowering. "Your suitor is impatient. Hope you can forgive me."

Faking it.

He's. Faking. It.

He's faking it too damn well.

I almost feel faint.

My skin steams, no matter the nippy chill in the evening, which is cloudless and bright with stars.

But I can barely see them, forced to tilt my head back to look up at him. He's all shadow, with the gold halo of the front step gilding him from behind, leaving his eyes like embers of cool blue fire.

They turn my heart into vibrant dust.

"You look nice," I manage. There's a thickness to my voice, like everything in me is slow and molten. "Um, I don't think I've ever seen you this dressed down before."

"If I can't relax with my fiancée, who the hell can I relax with?" But he stops, his brows pulling together. His expression sobers as he searches my face. "You're pale. Elle, if you're not feeling well, we'll do this another night."

This, I know, is definitely real.

For some unholy reason, this confusing, stubborn man actually cares about my health, about not pushing me too far.

That brings my smile back, even if it doesn't slow my heart. I curl my fingers in the front of my coat, drawing it tighter.

"It's just chilly. That's all," I say. I don't want to tell him I'm pale because I've been brooding and trying so, so hard not to want the reality behind the fiction.

I'm used to pretending to be happy until I really am.

I can do it now too.

August gives me a long look, like he can sense that something's not quite right.

But he lets it go and offers me his arm. "Dinner then?"

"Dinner," I agree, glancing back to wave at Gran, who's watching me with her eyes oddly misty before I shut the door and slip my arm into August's with increasing familiarity.

He escorts me down the walk, beneath the soft blue palette of a cloudy night sky. But when we reach the curb, instead of Rick stepping out from behind the wheel, August opens the front passenger-side door for me, giving me a peek into an empty car.

I blink.

"No Rick?"

"Not tonight," August answers, his lips quirking. It throws me off guard to see him like this. Being human, his guard down, his demeanor more relaxed, even if it's all for show. "If he was always shadowing us, people might grow suspicious that we never get any intimate time together."

Intimate time together.

This man is so freaking oblivious.

Just as he's oblivious to how being close to him makes my skin prickle as I slip past him and into the seat. He waits to make sure I'm settled and fully in, then closes the door gently behind me and strides around to the driver's seat.

As he settles in and starts the engine with the smooth, purring growl you'd expect from a car this expensive, I fasten my seat belt and settle to watch him as he steers the G80 into traffic with familiar ease. At least he's not one of those rich boys who can't drive because he's so used to someone else doing it for him.

"Hey, I've been meaning to ask," I say. "Did Rick pick this car out, or you?"

"Me," August answers, glancing at me with the same amusement that's messing with me so badly. "Surprised? Since I have such a stick up my ass."

I let out a startled laugh. "A little, yeah. I almost thought someone else bought this for you. Like Debra, maybe."

"I suppose it does suit my sister's flash." But it suits him, too, I realize. He looks casual and sexy behind the wheel, one arm draped against the window, pulling the muscles in his forearm taut. He scans the road in front of us, now and then glancing at me as he handles the wheel one handed with lazy ease, his legs rakishly spread and tight against his slacks. "Hot Wheels."

"Hm?"

"It wasn't video games," he murmurs. "The brats who shunned me were playing with Hot Wheels. I wanted to play too. Always did like fast cars."

. . . oh.

I realize what he's giving me.

A crumb of himself.

I don't even know what to say, but it warms me.

I smile as I settle in to watch the traffic in comfortable silence. It's scary how easy it is to just be with him, without needing to fill the space with sound, with noise, with anything but the quiet of us.

There is no us,I remind myself sharply.

And that's okay.

For now, this moment is enough.

That's why I'm not expecting it when August breaks the silence again. I almost don't notice.

He's so quiet tonight, his usual authoritativeness softened.

Intimate.

Close.

Inside me, every word.

"I don't expect you to singlehandedly save Little Key Publishing, you know," he says.

I glance over at him. The nightscape of Seattle and its traffic around us is dappling soft hints of color over his face, turning him into a portrait of pensive artistry, handsome and heart stopping in this weird grace where he doesn't seem so ice cold and unapproachable at all.

Not when those lights paint liquid color in his eyes, softening them from chips of ice into pools so clear and deep you can see all the way to the bottom.

I pull myself up from staring and this weird feeling like tonight could mean something.

"I don't understand," I whisper.

"Mmm." Again that little curl of his lips, subtle but captivating. I've never thought of men as beautiful before, but August Marshall is so darkly, devilishly sculpted that every expression on his face captivates me. "I know the burden I've dumped on you, no matter what benefits you might gain from it. Salvage my reputation to salvage the company. That's a big fucking ask. Let alone working with my aunt to see if her muse ever wakes up, just so we can keep her from surrendering her life's work to Marissa Sullivan and her little schemes. It's a hell of a lot to have dropped on your shoulders, I know. All because you fell into the wrong man's arms in a terminal."

I laugh. "I've been trying not to think too hard about it," I admit—and maybe, if I'm honest with myself, that's part of the reason for my jitters tonight.

Every step I take, I have to try not to screw things up for August and his family.

And actually falling for August, giving in to this magnetism that wants to draw me closer and closer to him?

That would definitely screw things up.

Fingering the delicate necklace against my throat, I look down at my lap.

"I just don't know how to do any of it," I say. "All I can do is be myself. I don't know how to be a billionaire's fiancée, let alone a struggling artist's inspiration."

"It's because you're you, Elle. That's why you're perfect," August says softly, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. My heart leaps so high it must touch the stars. But before I can ask him to explain, he continues. "You don't have to carry that alone. I know I've swept you along, but all I really need you to do is buy me time. I'll handle everything else. It's not your fight. Just bear with me through a few more date nights like this, and keep Aunt Clara distracted while I do what I need to." He glances at me sidelong, almost knowingly. "Instead of having to deal with everything on your own, consider us partners."

Yep.

Captain Oblivious.

He has no earthly idea what he's doing to me right now.

The tension in my chest.

The feeling like the walls that are usually closed up around him in mile-thick layers have thinned a little. I might even see a door starting to open as he lets me in just enough to reach a toe inside.

From the moment I met him, I've had this sense that somehow he sees me as the enemy—or at least another burden.

But now he's telling me we're partners.

He's starting to trust me.

That makes me ache so much worse.

If he only knew I was getting so emotionally messy and my breaths stop short every time he looks at me a second too long ...

It'd be a betrayal of that trust.

So I just smile. Even if it takes all my heart, all my brightness, all my desperate need to find the good in everything.

I smile.

And I tease, "It's more fun if we call each other ‘coconspirators.' Bonnie and Clyde? Like we're pulling off a heist."

August snorts, but that curl to his lips doesn't fade. "You are, as always, impossibly creative."

That's me.

Miss Impossible.

Except everything I'm creating tonight is the wrong feeling as I hold on to my smile and look out the window again, trying to drain these stupid thoughts into the night.

They can hang there like stars, shining and endless and so distant I won't be able to reach them again.