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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.
