All the Feels (Spoiler Alert #2)(22)

“You have a suck-ass wardrobe, Nanny Clegg,” he told her.

She blew out an exasperated breath. “My nicer clothes, I brought with me to Spain. They’re already in the guesthouse.”

He tried to think back. “I don’t remember any nice clothes.”

“I wore a dress to dinner that first night!” She threw up her hands. “A swing dress! It’s dark green and pretty!”

He’d like to see her in it again. At the time, he hadn’t paid sufficient attention, clearly.

“Maybe so, but it’s not a cocktail dress either.” He perched on the end of her bed, and holy Jesus, the woman needed a better mattress, stat. “What do you have that’s sparkly?”

Another withering look. “I don’t do sparkly.”

When she produced a black dress, he nodded. “I see. You do funereal instead.”

“It’s lace.” She shook the hanger in his face. “It’s a lovely dress, and I feel good in it.”

That brought him up short. If her depressing black dress and unmemorable green swing dress helped her feel comfortable in her own skin, he’d have to be a real asshole to insult them.

He frequently was an asshole, of course. But maybe not so much today.

“Let’s see it on,” he said.

“What?” Her face scrunched up in confusion, and honestly, it was kind of adorable.

“Try it on.” His flick of the hand directed her toward the bathroom. “If it’s not appropriate for the red carpet, we’ll figure something else out. I can call in some favors, or there’s always Gates’s wardrobe department. They’d probably be able to whip up a suitable dress in time.”

“I’m not playing dress-up with you,” she said dampeningly.

“Why not?”

She didn’t have a good answer to that, apparently, because she bustled into her bathroom with the dress. Or, more accurately, stomped, which was a different sort of victory.

After several minutes, she poked her head around the door.

“This has to be good enough, Alex.” Her mouth was pale and tight with tension. “I don’t want you to call in favors, and I don’t want your costume department to do extra work for me.”

From what he could tell, she didn’t like anyone doing much of anything for her. Ever.

“Okay.” He reclined back on the bed, bracing himself on his elbows. “Look, here’s the deal. When we walk the red carpet, all the photographers will just tell you to move anyway. They’ll want you out of their shots, because I’m the dude their audience pays to look at. Not a random woman they’ve never seen before and may never see again. So as long as your dress isn’t actively embarrassing, it doesn’t really matter what you wear.”

“Then why all this talk about couture?” Her voice contained entire worlds of strained patience.

He shrugged. “I like sparkly shit.”

“Of course you do,” she said in that dry Santa Ana voice.

When she stepped out from behind the bathroom door, he had to smile. Genuinely smile, because yes, that dress was clearly not couture or even high-end, but it was lovely on her. It might have been black, black, black, but the floaty knee-length skirt and peeks of pale skin beneath the lace were pretty.

“The dress is fine. You’ll be fine.” He collapsed down onto the bed and waved her away. “I may not be, however. I need to work on my speech for the auction and get it approved by Ron before tomorrow.”

The bathroom door shut again, and she called out from behind it. “What’s the charity?”

“A local organization that works to prevent domestic violence and provides shelters for abused women and children.” He scratched absently at his beard. “I’ve been involved with them for a few years. Hopefully my exceedingly handsome face will bring in some high bids, because my speech is currently as heinous and inadequate as your daily wardrobe.”

He needed to script a better speech, and he would. It might be especially hard to bear down and finish projects when he was tired, but he’d had years of specialized therapy to help him through situations just like this.

“Are there any other big names coming?” she asked, her voice still muffled.

He closed his eyes, suddenly tired again. “Asha had planned to attend, but she’s evidently on a quest to make out with her pop star boyfriend in every Mediterranean port. She sent a big honking donation in apology.”

He had to admit, he was a bit jealous. Not of Asha or her ginger boy toy, but of what they were experiencing right now. That all-consuming need to be with another person. The sort of raging desire and attraction that meant you couldn’t—wouldn’t—be parted for long.

He hadn’t felt that for years. Maybe for more than a decade now.

“Otherwise, the big names are my cast friends who live in the area. Carah Brown. Maria Ivarsson. Peter Reedton.” He hadn’t bothered issuing an invitation to Ian, and Mackenzie had already given money on Whiskers’s behalf. “I don’t think you’ve met any of them. They’d all finished filming before you arrived.”

Marcus would have come too, but he was currently in San Francisco and utterly preoccupied with a geologist named April, and Alex wouldn’t get in the way of that.

He’d just make sure Marcus sent the charity a healthy donation later.