Autumn had never been more excited for a pageant.

She clasped her hands together, practically buzzing as she circled you, taking in every stubbornly masculine detail—broad stance, sharp jaw, the sheer brick wall of muscle.

“Oh, darling,” she sighed, adjusting her heart-shaped glasses. “This is going to be so much fun.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “I’m here to investigate.”

“And I’m here to make sure you don’t scare the judges into confessing before you even get to the finals.” She tapped a manicured finger against her lips, already running through a list of things to fix. “Okay, first things first—your shoulders.” She placed her hands on them, pushing lightly. “Drop them. Relax. You’re standing like you’re about to be tackled.”

You stayed as rigid as ever. “I’m not wearing a dress.”

Autumn gasped, stepping back dramatically. “Oh, don’t say such horrible things.” She spun toward the wardrobe, already flipping through options. “You’re tall, so we need something that flows, something that softens all of this—” she gestured vaguely at you “—so you don’t look like you’re about to throw someone through a wall.”

You sighed, but she was on a roll. “We’ll need padding. A lot of padding. And your hair? Honey, your hair is a problem.”

“My hair is fine.”

Autumn shot you a look. “Your hair is government-issued.” She reached up, fingers itching to muss it up. “Some waves, maybe a wig—oh! And makeup. You have to let me do your makeup.”

“This is a mission.”

“And this—” she held up a shimmering emerald gown “—is how we make sure you don’t look like a very lost, very angry security guard.”

You stared at it. Then at her.

Autumn grinned.

A long pause—then, with the enthusiasm of someone facing a firing squad, you took the dress.

Autumn beamed. “Oh, this is going to be amazing.”