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They laughed at my polished shoes and suspenders and threw rocks at me until I ran.
How did she know?
How the hell did she look at me and know the days I spent alone, learning to throw punches instead of running, then ignoring the other kids and being so formidable that they’d fear me too much to laugh behind my back?
How did she look at me and see the quiet afternoons spent with my aunt, sharpening her colored pencils and feeling like she understood me because she wrote books Debra and I loved?
Elle pulls back, concern darkening her brow.
“August? I’m sorry. Did I go too far?”
“No,” I growl, forcing myself to sip my drink. Strong green tea with a splash of honey was always Aunt Clara’s favorite growing up, and the habit rubbed off. It’s a more regular morning go-to for me than coffee. “You just have excellent insights into how children behave.”
Her concern melts away into another beaming smile. “I hope so! I like to draw things that make them happy. So I’d better know how the little squirmers think, right?”
“That makes sense.”
I don’t know what else to say.
I feel oddly shaken, tense, but also like something that’s been binding me for a long time has loosened, and I don’t know how not to fall apart without it holding me together.
Elle seems fine with silence.
She settles in next to me, humming occasionally to herself and keeping me company for the rest of the drive to the office.
After some time, I feel her gaze on me and glance toward her. She’s watching me with a longing smile.
“Sorry,” she says softly.
“For what?” I cock my head.
“I’m not very good at this fiancée thing. The faking it in public part, I mean. I couldn’t even get one word out yesterday.”
Shit, she was worried about that?
“You’re doing fine, Elle. I promise you.”
That brings her smile back brighter than ever.
She shines on for a little while longer before going back to reading her phone, with the air a little lighter between us.
I’m slightly more awake by the time the tea’s caffeine has worked its way into my blood. From the scent of it, Elle’s drinking hot cocoa.
She makes the goofiest happy little murmur every time she takes a sip.
I try to tell myself it’s goofy, anyway, so I don’t wonder if it’s a noise she’d make in bed.
I also try not to be obvious about watching her as she flips through articles on her phone—mostly publishing industry news, but I catch her reading a few about us too.
It seems to be going well.
A few salacious headlines speculating about our age gap, a few trying to paint me as a villain robbing the cradle. Obvious clickbait sensationalized for maximum outrage, though the softer write-ups gush over how stylish and sweet we looked together.
Surprisingly, those kinder pieces have won more interest.
Gossip and scandal sells.
There’s no stopping that.
