It’s always striking to me how different the light is here. In Boston, there is a bluish-gray tint to the world, a coldness even in the heat. Here, everything is softly golden. That gilded soft patina is beautiful to look at, but I am of quiet, dark libraries, cozy sitting rooms with roaring fires. Flirty skirts, sunbaked skin that gleams, and hair fluttering in the breeze aren’t me. But I still love LA.
August fits. Even with his winter-sky eyes, he fits. He’s a bit grim now, however. Frowning at the road as he easily maneuvers the Grouch through the snarls of LA traffic. The silence between us is a living thing breathing down my neck.
I can’t take it. “Are you ever going to tell me what the hell you meant by that ridiculous declaration?”
“Ridiculous.” It’s a mutter as he winces then changes lanes. “Way to kick a guy when he’s down.”
“I wasn’t aware you ever got down.”
Hot silver eyes shoot my way. “Why the hell would you think that?”
“And anyway, it isn’t an insult to call that... ” my voice gets a bit high and panicked, “marriage proposal—if that’s what it really was—‘ridiculous.’ Any nondrunk or drug-free person would agree.”
“Okay, okay.” He lifts a big hand in surrender. “Given the way I blurted it out, the whole thing sounds ridiculous.”
“I don’t think it would matter how you delivered that bomb. It would still blow up in our faces.”
“Ha.” He turns off the expressway, heading toward Santa Monica Boulevard. An expansive sigh escapes him. “I don’t know how to begin.”
The confession comes out so hopeless that I soften.
“Try the beginning.”
I get a sidelong glare.
Then his shoulders sag. “Let’s start at the fucking infamous chicken dance.”
“That was . . . interesting.”
“Wasn’t it just,” he mutters darkly. “Never living that one down.”
“I admit, I was a little shocked. Drunken dancing on tables doesn’t seem like you.”
“It isn’t.” August rubs the back of his neck with his free hand before putting it back on the steering wheel. His fingers drum an impatient rhythm. “I’ll be honest, Penelope. I don’t know what the hell got into me. It was like I was outside of myself, looking down in horror, begging myself to just stop. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.”
“Sometimes anxiety can lead to acting out of character. It isn’t always about hiding in your room.”
“Are you saying it can also be acting like a complete goober asshole?”
“Maybe. You have a lot on your plate.”
“I should be used to it by now.” The frown is back and darker. “Regardless. I did the deed—deeds. And now I look like an unhinged, undedicated player.”
“Okay.” I’m starting to get the picture, but I can’t quite believe it. I must be wrong. I have to be.
“We had a meeting. My agent, manager, PR, team staff, all that fun stuff.” August swallows audibly. “The consensus was that I need to clean up my newly tarnished image.”
“By getting married?” It comes out in an undignified sort of squeal.
“Well . . .”
“They can’t make you dothat!”
“No. It’s more a matter of optics. I buckle down, don’t party, get a nice fiancée so that it appears I’m focused on work and family. That sort of thing.”
“But to get married.”
He holds up a finger. “Engaged. We don’t actually have to marry.”
