I SPENT THE WHOLE way back to August's beach house thinking about how he didn't care about the article. My article. His article.

How could he not care about what I write about him? Thousands, if not millions, of people will undoubtedly read whatever I put together, and he doesn't care?

Sure, I never got the impression that August was too concerned about his image or his reputation. Having a relatively squeaky clean one came naturally to him. He didn't have any scandals attached to his name. He didn't make outlandish remarks that ended up circulating the internet. He was just a guy who was really fucking good at playing football.

Still, this article would be his last statement on his career. His final chance to tell his story, to help people understand his legacy and why he chose to walk away from it. He didn't care about any of that?

It bothered me. Even though my ultimate goal was to not need to write a retirement expose at all and instead convince August to come back to New York. His dismissal still made me feel insignificant and useless like he was just humoring me and my little article when this was likely the most important piece of my career.

But even more than it bothered me, it confused me.

I understood that August didn't care what other people thought of him, but to not have any interest at all? It baffled me. I wished I could be that self-assured. That dismissive of how the world viewed me.

August seemed to know that he upset me. He hadn't brought it up again, but he had been altogether too nice to me the rest of our grocery trip. I wasn't really a fan. It felt like pity...or something else disingenuous.

But my irritation only lasted until he poured me a glass of that Pinot and started rolling out pizza dough he'd made from scratch.

I hadn't even tasted his cooking yet and I was already regretting making fun of his cooking abilities. Somehow, I had a feeling that this would be the best pizza I'd ever had.

"Can I help with something?"

I didn't like feeling useless. I wanted to be more than the tag-along little reporter who followed the big-shot NFL player around. Retired NFL player, but still.

"I have a brick of parmesan in the fridge. You could grate it."

I nodded, hopping down from the barstool to walk around the kitchen island. I brushed past August as he continued working the dough and didn't miss how his body stiffened at the tiniest contact.

God, this man.

One minute he was pushing his way into my shower, and the next, he was recoiling when I so much as grazed his arm in the kitchen. This was going so well.

After getting the cheese, I looked to August, who wordlessly pointed me to a drawer on the other side of the kitchen. I followed his directions, opening the drawer to find a cheese grater sitting on top of a collection of utensils. I grabbed it before rummaging through his cupboards to find a small bowl. Then I took all the items and went to stand next to August at the counter.

And unless it was my imagination, he seemed to...shrink away from me.

What the hell was going on?

I decided to ignore it, focusing instead on the task he'd given me and trying not to admire the way his hands worked the dough, kneading and pressing it into the perfect crust. With the risk of sounding like a weirdo, I had to admit that August Fletcher had beautiful hands. They were large, rippled with just the right amount of veins, and looked more than capable.

He cleared his voice. "Something wrong with the dough?"

But of course he caught me staring.

"No, it looks great."

"You're inspecting it as though you're just waiting for me to do something wrong."

I laughed and decided to get through this in the easiest way I knew how: turn it into a joke.

"I'm not inspecting the dough at all, Fletcher," I admitted with a slight grin. "I'm just wondering if you realize you could have a career in hand modeling if your other retirement plans, which you won't tell me, don't work out."

His movements slowed, his hands flexing in a way that only made the whole thing that much more erotic. So to combat the way my thoughts were going, I simply kept talking.

"Honestly, it would be perfect," I continued. "A hand model doesn't have to show their face, so no one will even know it's you. It can be an incognito thing if you want, and there are a million online opportunities that would love to have you."

August arched a brow as he looked over at me, his knuckles gradually working to flatten the dough to just the right degree of thickness. "And what kind of things do you imagine my hands to be doing in these...modeling shots."

Oh, God.

"I mean, I wasn't imagining it," I sputtered.

He lifted his other brow, goading me to tell the truth.

I was starting to think that my assessment of August Fletcher's character had missed a few things, including how his cockiness overshadowed his humility from time to time.

"You can't just feed me ideas without specifics, Castle." His lips twitched, and I realized he was having far too much fun with this even though he was trying–and failing–to keep a straight face. "Am I modeling to sell products? Or am I the product?"

I made a grab for my wine on the countertop. I needed it for support. "Could be either, honestly."

"Well, I need to know if I have to find a modeling partner," he shot back, and the gravel in his voice made warmth run down my spine. I chased it with a gulp of wine. "I could make my hand into a necklace, but I doubt that content would sell unless I have a pretty neck to put it around."

I nearly choked on my wine before staring at his nearly-empty glass. "How much of that wine did you have?"  

His eyes twinkled as he looked down at me. "You're the one chugging it."

I put my glass back on the counter with more than enough force. It clanked loudly, and I grimaced, worried for a second that it would break. "Yeah, well, it's hot in here," I said, waving a hand in front of my face.

Despite the airy, open-concept kitchen, the space felt stuffy. Overheated. Like I was a couple seconds away from breaking a sweat even though I was just standing here.

August gave the dough a final smack as though satisfied with the crust he'd made. "The A/C is blasting, and the last time I checked, red wine isn't exactly considered refreshing."

I rolled my eyes, giving him a playful push since he'd bested me into a corner, but I forgot for a moment that he was a massive hulk of a man who didn't so much as budge when I shoved him. My attempt did make him bite down on a smile, though.

"You keep trying to catch me off guard with these little questions of yours, Castle," he said in that gruff voice of his as he turned to face me, leaning one hip against the counter. "But I'm quicker than you give me credit for." He leaned forward, his proximity burning through me as he lowered his pitch. "And if you want to know about my retirement, you'll have to work a little harder than that."

I forced myself to swallow past the dryness in my throat and propped a hand on my hip. "You can at least tell me if I'm hot or cold with the hand modeling thing."

"Cold," he chuckled, leaning back again, allowing me to breathe easier. "Very, very cold."

"Hmm," I considered, giving him a once over. "For a second, it really seemed like you knew what you were talking about."

August reciprocated my look, his eyes flicking up and down my body. At this point, the kitchen didn't just feel warm. It felt downright sweltering.

"Just because I haven't made it a business doesn't mean I don't know what to do with my hands."

I made another grab for my wine glass. "You're talking about football, right?"

"Right, Castle." His lips curved slowly. "I'm talking about football."

I wasn't sure I believed that, but I definitely wasn't about to press it any further. Egging August on when he had that fire in his gaze seemed like a terrible idea, yet it was taking everything in me not to do it.

He cleared his throat. "Now, if you're done staring at my hands, this dough needs some sauce."

"I wasn't staring," I argued. "I was observing."

"Mhm," August murmured before he turned around to grab the pizza sauce from the bag of groceries we brought home.

I sighed and took another sip of my wine, knowing that arguing with him was useless.

I'd been staring. Admiring. Imagining. I'd been doing everything he accused me of. But in defense of my professionalism, teasing August had proved a great way to get him to open up, bit by bit. Sure, maybe I didn't get to the bottom of his retirement, but every opportunity to loosen his tongue had to benefit me in the long run, right?

August and I redirected our conversation to dinner for the next ten minutes. Which was good–pizza was about as safe a topic as possible. I helped sprinkle cheese over the sauce, and August seemed considerably more relaxed than when I first brushed past him in the kitchen. Plus, our conversation in the grocery store about my article had long since disappeared to the back of my mind.

Once it was time for August to whip out the pizza stone and fire up the grill, I let him take over, happy to sit back and watch the man work as I sipped my wine on the deck.

I should be watching the ocean. Or the sunset. Or anything that wasn't the flex of August's muscles as he lifted the cover on the grill, but I starting to realize just how hopeless I was. And considering his back was to me, what was the harm?

The harm, of course, was that eventually he'd turn around and catch me staring. Again.

So I sank lower in my chair and focused instead on the swirling of seagulls along the shoreline until dinner was ready.

We ate outside since it was so nice, and August allowed me to set the table. Honestly, after his little show in the grocery store about wanting to be a good host, I was surprised he even let me help with dinner at all. And then he surprised me yet again when he sat down and threw me an investigative bone.

"I do have a couple business ventures that I've been involved in," he said. "And I'm only telling you this because I have a few calls I'll have to take care of tomorrow. You might be on your own for a bit."

"Do these business ventures involve hand necklaces?" I questioned, cocking my head to the side. "Or why can I not be included in them?"

I might have been imagining things, or perhaps it was the reflection of the sunset, but August's face turned a slight shade of pink. But then he shook his head with a playful–and rare–smile.

"No, Castle. I just don't think you'll find them very interesting."

I leaned forward.

"I think I'll be the judge of that, Fletcher."

☀️

a/n:

they're both riding the struggle bus 🚌

thanks for reading!
xoxo amelie