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He’s fascinating to watch. Mr. Buttoned Down, but he still seems like he’s going to realize how much he confines himself and come busting out of that tight-stitched shell with a primal roar any second.
It’s that one lock of hair that always falls over his brow, I think.
He’s so stern and buttoned up, but he just can’t tame that one glossy arc of black. Almost like it’s his own internal rebellion screaming to let loose and be the wild, sexy, dominant man he was always meant to be.
... have I mentioned I have a very active imagination?
August pauses on a pale flapper-style dress covered in tiny seed pearls, studying it intensely before moving on.
A high-waisted jacketed pantsuit with a silk neck scarf and legs so wide and flared each one could be a skirt.
A Lady Gaga–worthy thing that looks like a minidress made out of giant cotton balls—I bet that would itch like mad. I’m glad he moves past that one fast, and I watch curiously as he settles on a dress that makes me think of a moth under a tree, dappled in moonlight.
It’s lilac, but just barely. If not for the fact that its soft-shimmer gauze is layered, the color would never show through. The dress is sleeveless, with a high, demure neckline and a gathered waist. The skirt trails down in layers with tattered, pointed ends and a faint shirring.
On the mannequin, it falls just below the knee. On me, it would fall to just above midcalf.
Subtle hints of color speckle the fabric, hints of pink and peach and gold that disappear if you stare at them too long.
Silent, motionless, August looks at the dress for so long without his expression changing before a sudden knit to his brows tells me he’s made his decision.
He turns to look at me.
“This one,” he rumbles, his silky voice resonating.
I step closer, moving to his side, and look up at the dress. When I touch the trailing ends of the skirt, they’re so soft. It’ll feel like wearing a breeze.
“This one it is,” I agree.
It’s honestly lovely, and it suits me.
I’m actually getting excited about wearing something he’s picked out.
I just hope it looks as good on me as it does on the mannequin.
I look around for Angelique—but she seems to materialize from between two displays, moving as silently as an assassin.
I leap back with a squeak, letting go of the dress guiltily.
She smiles like nothing happened.
“You wanted to try this one on?” she asks. “Please, follow me to the fitting rooms. I’ll have my assistant bring the dress.” She flashes that fuck you pleasant smile to August again. I honestly think no matter how creepy and stuck up she seems, I might just like her. “If you’d like, you can wait outside the fitting rooms, sir. We keep refreshments for our shoppers’ gentlemen partners.”
I start to protest that he’s not my partner, then shut my mouth so hard my teeth click.
For now, he absolutely is.
That shouldn’t make me blush like an apple.
August trails Angelique and me like a silent hunter as she leads me on a weaving path to the back. The fitting area looks like a cozy, comfortable waiting room, with lush seating, an espresso machine, refrigerated drinks, snack trays, and even a chocolate fountain arranged against the back wall near the curtained-off changing rooms.
I nearly jump out of my skin again as another tall, statuesque elf-woman appears from behind one of the curtains with the dress draped over her arm.
Where did she come from? I look over my shoulder where the dress had been, then back at her, then—?
Elves.
She smiles knowingly and beckons.
