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Several shop attendants drift around, wearing clothes just as nice as what’s on display. They move with this fairy-tale grace that makes me feel like I’m watching elves in The Lord of the Rings.
One of the slender, statuesque women glides closer, her perfect shell pink manicure gleaming. Her neck is so long she looks like a sculpture, and as her cool gaze flicks over August with interest and me with a touch of confusion—What is this urchin doing in here?—I have a terrible thought.
She’d look way better on August’s arm than I ever will.
She flashes a smile. “Welcome to—”
“We’re fine.” August cuts her off. He’s not even looking at her as his gaze drifts over the store, moving from one display to the next. “We’ll let you know when she’s ready to try something on.”
The woman blinks rapidly. Her smile freezes, then relaxes with professional practice.
“Of course,” she says smoothly, inclining her head in a way that might as well have said Well, fuck you too. “My name’s Angelique. Call me if you need anything.”
August doesn’t acknowledge her.
He just turns and leads me deeper into the store.
I press in a bit closer to his side—not for appearances, but so I won’t be heard in the echoing space over the distant tinkle of some astral-sounding soothing music.
“Did you have to be so rude?” I hiss. “She was only trying to help.”
“She’s trying to make her commission,” August points out flatly. “I was saving her the effort and the breath. She’ll earn without hovering over us. Can’t stand being badgered while I’m making purchases.”
“You can at least be polite about it.”
“Why bother when you can just get to the point?”
I side-eye him hard. “Where are you in such a hurry to be that makes every second spared a second wasted?”
He pauses and gives me the oddest look.
Then he moves on without answering, leading me to a display where a dress of deep-scarlet chiffon courses over a headless mannequin’s body. It’s sleeveless with a plunging V in the front, loosely belted and backless.
Before August opens his mouth, I shake my head.
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not?” he demands, scowling.
“For one, wearing red doesn’t flatter my complexion. It makes it worse. Trust me. I look like a zombie-girl in red. Even worse, I look like a zombie-girl covered in blood.” I tick off the points on my fingers. “Two, that’s not a dress for introducing your fiancée to the press. That’s a dress for taking your fiancée out to a fancy dinner and then bringing her home and ripping the dress off her to fuck her on the couch before you can even make it upstairs to the bed.”
August had been opening his mouth—to argue back, I’m sure—but he chokes on his stalled words. His eyes widen as he shoots me an absolutely searing look that might be anger if it’s not—
Hm.
Are Grumpy Boy’s cheeks a little red under that beard?
He stares at me like he’s waiting for me to apologize for being so crude.
I just smile, sweet as pie. “What’s the matter, Auggy dearest?”
“August,” he snaps, and I swallow my snicker. “And my house is single-story. There are no stairs to the bedroom.”
. . . what?
A smirk flicks over his lips, then vanishes.
He lets my arm go, drifting away calmly toward another display while I stare after him with my mouth open and my face too warm.
