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“I have a meeting in—”
“Not for three hours,” Rick calls from the front seat. “Listen to the lady, sir. She’s right.”
“This is a two-way conversation,” August growls, shooting a glare at the driver’s seat. “Traitor.”
Rick just flashes me a smile in the rearview mirror and winks.
“Sorry.” I lean over to thunk his laptop lid down firmly. “You’re outnumbered two to one, and this is a democracy. So, what’s up? Why is the company struggling?”
August sits stiffly for a moment, then sighs out half his soul.
“Because my aunt hasn’t published a book in over a decade. You can only revive your backlist for so long before you’re spending more on advertising than you’re making, no matter how famous your books are. Originally, they planned to expand the Inky line from young readers into middle and young adult with illustrated short novels and new characters. That plan died when Clara lost her ability to work on new stories.”
Clara Marshall has lost her mojo? The news almost rocks me back.
“Why did she stop?”
“It’s complicated.” He presses his lips together. For such a grumpy-looking man, he has a surprisingly full red mouth. The framing of his dark, trimmed beard makes it stand out even more. Pressing his lips together does little to thin them and just makes them look fuller. “The Inky concept had a rough start that led to some personal complications. Those complications spiraled, eventually leading to my aunt losing her inspiration until she no longer wished to work on new concepts at all—even if the loss clearly pains her. But I’ve said enough. The rest isn’t my story to divulge.”
Vague much?
Even so, a little pang plucks at my chest. I rub at the ache, biting my lip.
“Wow, that’s heartbreaking. She made something that meant so much to so many children—and adults too. My walls used to be covered in my own drawings of Inky. Just scribbles, but Lord knows I tried. Oh, and I’d write letters to the address in the back of the book all the time. It always made me burst with joy when ‘Inky’ wrote back, and it was real, handwritten. Not just a form letter. Those stories, your aunt, they’re the reason why I’m a children’s illustrator. She inspired me. I want to make people feel happy the same way she did with me.”
August just looks at me in grim silence—and is there something different in his eyes?
It’s like spring coming to a frozen glacier, warming its frigid blue shadows into something softer.
But he looks away abruptly like he wants to hide that softness.
He gazes out the window. Seattle light at this time of day turns silver, tinted by rain, and it pours in pale edges over the sharp, decisive lines of a strong, masculine profile.
“You should tell her that, when you meet her.” His fingers drum lightly against his closed laptop. “I think it would matter a great deal to her. She answered every last one of those letters herself, you know.”
“Wait, what? You’re kidding?” That ache in my chest flips, turning into a sweet flutter. “You mean the real Clara Marshall actually wrote back to me?”
Though he’s hiding his face from me, I think I actually catch the corners of his mouth turning up.
“You know, it’s charming that you’re more starstruck by my aunt than by me.”
“Bleh. If you find me charming, we’re getting somewhere.” I snicker. “But I mean, c’mon. I grew up with her books! I’d never even heard of you until this whole flap set the internet on fire.” And I haven’t had a chance to check my phone and see what all the fuss is about, considering how quickly he whisked me out of the house. Plus, I’m still scared to look at my notifications and sift through the endless DMs from trolls. “Why does everyone in Seattle but me know who you are?”
Wrong question.
Wrong question.
That glacier goes arctic again, and his strong shoulders stiffen.
“Shit happened. My personal life was tabloid fodder for a while,” he says tightly. “If you don’t know, you don’t need to pry. Besides, I have an eleven-figure net worth, Miss Lark. I’m single, in moderately good shape for my age, and apparently I have a reputation as a bit of an asshole in my line of work. People talk. Bullshit travels at the speed of lies.”
Oof.
I’m so, so curious about this personal stuff, but he’s asked me pointedly not to look.
I’m not completely insensitive, even if I may be a little too tactlessly extroverted. This is also hardly the time or place.
I’d have to say that he’s in more than moderately good shape, though.
