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God, he’s confusing.
That just makes me want to mess with him more.
So I skip after him to the next display—and immediately grimace at the dress.
It’s this flared skirt thing like a fifties housewife’s, complete with a lace bib collar and the most awful shade of mustard yellow.
“Nope.”
“What’s wrong with this? It’s more reserved, isn’t it?”
“It’s ugly,” I say. “Dresses that length make me look stumpy. I know my own body, thank you very much. I know what looks bad on me. I just don’t know what would look good enough on me.”
Clenching his jaw, August darts me a look like he thinks I might just be doing this on purpose—I promise I’m not—and turns to another display. Before he even moves toward the weirdly duck-patterned minidress, I shake my head.
“Don’t even think about it.”
August turns back to me with a hiss, throwing his hands up. “Well then, what will you wear?”
“Don’t know,” I chirp back. All his hissing and scowling and grumping just doesn’t work on me. “But I have an idea.”
“Enlighten me,” he retorts.
“Hmm ...” Kicking my feet lightly, I lace my hands together and turn to slowly survey the shop. There are some pretty things in here, not just outfits that are weird for the sake of being weird because fashion. “Why don’t you dress me in what you’d like me to wear? Not what you think I should. What you want to see.”
I swear to God, August could singlehandedly cause a polar vortex with those man-freezes he does. I glance over my shoulder, and he’s gone cold again. I can practically feel my skin icing over, prickling with shivery goose bumps.
“I have no opinion on your dress as long as it’s press appropriate,” he growls.
He says it without ever unclenching his teeth or changing his flat tone.
Wow, I must really annoy him.
With a small smile, I decide to dial it down a notch.
Poor August.
He just tried to help a sick girl out at the airport, and now he’s stuck with a hyperactive artist who isn’t intimidated by him.
“August,” I murmur, stepping closer to him. “Just humor me, please?”
He purses his lips but relents, shaking his head. “I have a feeling I’ll be doing a lot of that in the coming months.”
I grin. “It just means your lovely fiancée has you wrapped around her little finger already.”
And I can’t help but run my thumb over the ring as I say it.
So weird.
Even if it’s just an act, I’m engaged.
August flashes me another resigned look before he shakes his head and wanders away. I let him, just watching his tall, agile figure as he moves from display to display, studying each dress and coordinated outfit with a thoughtful gaze.
That’s just how he is, I guess.
The man takes everything so seriously, even a silly request from a girl he feels obligated to just because we got our lives tangled up in the weirdest way.
Is it strange that I find that endearing?
