August chokes on a laugh, his stride tripping. “A what?”
He laughs again, all amused insouciance, but I see the tightness around his icy eyes.
“You heard me. Whatever. I’m trying not to curse in public.”
“Andpenis spewis acceptable?”
Oh, he’s loving this. I want to stomp on his big size thirteens.
“Shut up.” There’s no heat to my demand; I’m too embarrassed to form words with any force.
He bites his lower lip. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that.”
“You shouldn’t have said it at all. That was mean.”
“Mean?” He stops mid-stride, taking me by the elbow so I have to halt too. Foot traffic breaks and flows around us like we’re rocks in a stream. “No, Penelope. It was an honest proposal.”
What?What?
“What!” Apparently, I’m stuck on the word.
His handsome face twists in a grimace. “Shit. I am so fucking this up.”
“You think?”
He runs a hand through his hair, making the ends stick up wildly. “Look, I’m parked in the lot. Can we talk while I drive you home?”
His expression earnest, and my curiosity is running wild. I wilt.
“Okay, but if you pull any more wack shit, if you haul off and ask me to have your baby, or say you have twenty-four hours to live and need a kidney, I’m going to be very put out.”
“I kind of like angry Penelope.”
“Shut. Up.”
“On it.” He does the zipped-lip gesture, but it doesn’t hide the twinkle in his eyes.
“It’s lucky for you that you’re so cute.”
August’s brows lift high. “Cute, huh?”
“I didn’t mean to say that out loud.” I turn and continue walking, ignoring the wide, delighted grin on his jerk face.
We maintain a strained silence as August leads us to his parked car. When we exit the terminal, he takes a ratty Bass ProShops cap the color of hot dog mustard from his bag and pulls it on low. A pair of mirrored aviator glasses follow. His entire demeanor changes, from his confident stride to a soft shuffling. It takes me a moment to realize he is adopting a disguise.
I had forgotten: August Luck is famous.
Famous enough that his hat, glasses, and unassuming walk doesn’t stop a schluby-looking guy hanging out by the arrivals gate from turning his massive camera our way and taking a couple of shots.
“Ignore him,” August says. Now that he’s been caught, he straightens his shoulders and walks in his usual loose-hipped stride. “Or try to. I know it’s hard—hell.”
His lips pinch as he glances at me. “I forgot to warn you. There might be pictures of us on the plane.”
“On the plane,” I parrot.
“Yeah. People take sneak shots. There was one of me sleeping on the flight to Boston.”
“They do that?” I know I sound naive when, in actuality, I’m pissed.
