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Stop.
Stop romanticizing him.
He’s your boss, and no matter what it looks like, this is a work dinner. Just play your role.
“Elle?” Grandma calls up the stairs. “August is here.”
“I know, Gran,” I call down. “Be there in a second.”
I slide into a coat that’s longer than the dress, thick and felted black, stylishly cut to flatter the feminine figure and keep me warm in such a thin, flimsy outfit. The little matching clutch purse to the dress fits right in the coat’s pocket. Even with the thick coat on, I feel naked, maybe because I’ve pinned my hair up in a chignon again, leaving my neck bare except for a necklace of tiny seed pearls.
Right. No point in keeping Mr. Bossypants waiting.
I put on my smile and head downstairs.
Gran steals a quick hug as she catches me at the foot of the stairs.
“You look so lovely, darling,” she whispers, patting my shoulder to scoot me toward the door.
When I open the door, I’m fully expecting to head down the walk and have Rick let me into the back seat of the car.
Instead, I jump back with a startled sound.
August himself waits silently on the front step, handsome as sin in a fine-cut steel button-down shirt and a pair of neatly pressed black slacks held up with a slim black leather belt dotted with a square gold buckle.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this dressed down before.
His hair is a little messier, the same parted sweep but more disarrayed, softening the harshly handsome lines of his face into something more approachable and human.
The shirt is cuffed to his elbows and open at the throat. Enough that I can see the dip where his collarbones meet under smooth tanned skin.
I catch a faint wisp of chest hair, and everything goes tingly.
I’m suddenly so aware of that thousand-pound ring on my finger.
I’ve learned to ignore it, to forget it like I forget my earrings when I go to bed half the time, only to wake up with their imprint on my cheek.
But right now it’s so heavy as I look at him with my heart in my throat and my head overflowing with crazy thoughts.
Like how nice it would be if he looked happy to see me.
But he’s not looking at me at all.
He’s on his phone again, and he finishes tapping out something that looks like an email before glancing up absently.
He’s definitely playing the part of a man who’s going to get dumped in the near future.
“Good evening, Elle—”
He stops short.
His lips remain parted, and he just looks at me, his blue eyes slightly widened.
Startled.
It’s the same way he looked at me when I stepped out of the dressing room at the boutique. Like he’s seeing something he never expected.
Like I’ve surprised him so much by not being a dumpster fire that he’s actually seeing me for the first time.
