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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.
