Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
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?
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.