Page 20 of Splintered Memories
Melanie turned and walked away.
Lark pulled in a breath and lifted the dress’s heavy skirt. “Maybe I’ll try a few more and if we don’t find anything…” She shrugged. “Maybe I’ll just make my stupid dress.”
Lark turned and shuffled back toward the dressing room, disappearing behind the curtain and leaving August and me alone.
I grabbed the champagne and took another drink. I felt August’s eyes on me.
“Three glasses, huh?” he said, and I stiffened.
The champagne met my lips again, and I made a point of taking a long, exaggerated gulp, swallowing slowly and smacking my lips at the end. “Good thing I have a private chauffeur.”
August shifted beside me. “You would, except that you demanded we take separate vehicles, remember?”
Oh, I remembered. I slightly regretted dying on that hill this morning. But having him following me around was bad enough. I wasn’t going to be driven around by him on top of everything else.
I shrugged, all nonchalant like it didn’t matter at all as I took another sip of champagne. It was some cheap, sweet stuff you could buy at the local market, but now that I was halfway done with my third glass, I couldn’t ignore the tingling in my limbs. Maybe I should’ve consumed something today other than coffee.
August shifted, seeming as close to disgruntled as I’d ever seen him. “Emy.” His voice dipped low in warning, on the verge of a growl.
The sound of it snaked up my spine and made me tense. The feeling wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but my teeth clamped together. I didn’t like it when he used that name. It was far too intimate. Only the people closest to me used it, and he hadn’t earned that right.
My gaze snapped to him. He’d turned toward me, leaning in like he was about to whisper something into my ear.
I jerked back on instinct, but there was nowhere to go on this tiny couch. I almost spilled my stupid drink, backing into the armrest.
He focused on the glass in my hand before flicking his eyes back to my face. “Are we really going to sit here and pretend like nothing is wrong?”
My fingers tightened around the delicate glass flute. “There’s nothing wrong.”
His brow quirked, as if he knew how pathetic the lie was. He had definitely seen the grief I’d been fighting earlier.
I grimaced. Leaning as far back as I could, which wasn’t much, I crossed my arms over my chest. I caught a glimpse of Melanie ducking behind the dressing room curtain, carrying a dress bag.
“Emersyn?” August pushed, and his expectant tone had me bristling.
“Why are you so much better at this than me?” I snapped, instantly regretting my words once they spilled from my mouth.
August frowned in confusion. “Better at what?”
Heat rose in my cheeks, and I wished I could physically claw the embarrassed flush away. Maybe I could blame it on the alcohol.
I glanced at the wall of mirrors on the platform. Our reflections stared back at me. August was still leaning toward me, his knee grazing mine as his arm lined the back of the couch. He was so big compared to me, he made the couch look comically small. Like he was sitting on furniture made for a child and not a grown adult.
I met my own eyes, startled by my lack of glasses. I wore contacts today, something I didn’t do often, but I wanted to look different. I needed a change.
“I’m—I’m not good at this,” I mumbled, staring at myself in the mirror. “This whole thing—” I waved a hand toward the platform. “This girly dress thing in this fancy store isn’t what I’m good at.” I finally looked back at August, and some of the confusion cleared from his face. “But I don’t understand why you, big bad August Ramsey, are good at it.”
August blinked at me. Once. Twice. And then his face split into a grin. He tilted his head back and laughed, deep and loud. His whole body shook with the force of it.
I felt it in my bones.
“It wasn’t that funny,” I grumbled, uncurling my arms from around myself and taking another drink.
August laughed harder. Literal tears glistened in his eyes before he finally got hold of himself, sucking in a breath and letting it out with a slow sigh.
“No, it was that funny. And yourface.” He shook his head as another chuckle escaped him. “You make the best faces, Emy.” Before I could snap at him for using that nickname, he reached over and plucked the champagne flute from my fingers. He downed the rest of the glass in one quick gulp.
“Hey!” I yelped. “That was mine.”
