9. Jack
JACK
I leanagainst the cool granite of the kitchen counter, my coffee mug cradled in my hands.
My wife, meanwhile, is a whirlwind of motion before the oven, her apron dusted with flour and stray streaks of white across her cheeks like war paint.
“Try this one.” Marlie holds out a delicate macaroon with an expectant gleam in her eye. It’s a pastel green, probably her signature pistachio flavor.
“Looks too good to eat,” I tease, but I take it from her, biting down.
The shell cracks perfectly, giving way to a rich, buttery filling that has me closing my eyes for just a moment longer than necessary.
“God, Marlie.” I swallow, savoring the taste. “You’re going to make a killing with these.”
She beams at me, pride lighting up her gorgeous eyes. “You really think so?”
“I know so. Your macaroons are fucking delicious.”
Marlie’s smile gets even wider. “Thanks, Jack. That means a lot.”
The sun has barely peeked over the horizon, and it’s already shaping up to be a whirlwind of a day.
Tomorrow is our wedding reception, and Marlie’s been in the kitchen since dawn, her hands moving in a flurry as she churns out batch after batch of macaroons.
In an attempt to distract herself from the mounting pressure of our impending nuptials, she’s turned to what she knows best—baking.
I lean against the kitchen doorway, watching her with an admiration that surprises me. She’s got this fierce determination etched on her face, her brows furrowed in concentration as she meticulously pipes out each macaroon shell.
The sight of it impresses me more than I care to admit.
Marlie returns to her workstation, wiping her hands on a towel as she talks me through the various flavors lined up in neat rows.
“Chocolate ganache,” Marlie announces, her voice as sweet as the dessert she’s describing.
I nod, my eyes drifting from the delicate macaroon in her hand to the curve of her hip outlined by those tight yoga pants.
“Salted caramel.” She holds up another one.
Her fingers are dusted with powdered sugar, and I suddenly find myself wondering what they taste like.
“And this one?” I manage to ask, pulling my gaze back to the macaroons.
“Oh, it’s an exotic passionfruit concoction.” She grins at me, her enthusiasm infectious.
It’s clear how much effort she puts into Macaroons by Marlie. Her dedication is nothing short of awe-inspiring.
“You want to try another one?” She offers a raspberry-filled creation, but I shake my head.
“I have a better idea,” I smirk. “How about we take a break?”
She looks surprised but then nods in agreement as she removes her apricot-colored apron, revealing more of that fitted attire that does an excellent job showcasing her figure.
“Sure.”
“I’ll refresh your coffee.” I stand up and head toward the coffee pot. The scent of fresh coffee fills the air, and I pour two cups.
Marlie trails behind me, stepping out onto the balcony where the salty sea breeze plays with strands of her brunette hair. The view from here is breathtaking but not nearly as captivating as the woman next to me.
I sink into one of the balcony chairs and tug Marlie down into my lap. She gives a soft, weary sigh that stirs something protective in me.
“Tomorrow’s going to be such a busy day,” she murmurs.
“Excited?” I try to gauge her mood. There’s an undercurrent of tension in her voice that sets off my internal alarms.
She nods, but there’s something about the way her lips press together that tells me she’s holding back.
As I absentmindedly twirl a lock of her hair around my finger, I probe further. “Did Melanie and her boyfriend get into town okay?”
“Yeah, they did.” Her words are punctuated by a small laugh that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Actually, my whole family is here now—Daphne and Cody too, and even Dean.”
Her giggle rings out then as she continues. “Melanie is showing them around Barton Beach like she owns the place! She even took them to see the potential new spot for Macaroons by Marlie.”
At this, I freeze momentarily. A few weeks ago, Patricia found an ideal vacant spot for Marlie’s store—the owner was even offering it at an unbeatable lease price.
But Marlie had yet to make a move on it, and I suspected our marriage was part of her hesitation.
I swallow past the lump in my throat—my feelings for Marlie run deeper than she knows—and force myself back into the conversation with a light chuckle. “Sounds like fun.” Then, with mock seriousness, I add, “I’ll have to warn John about one of the famous Walker brothers staying at Barton Beach Hotel.”
Marlie laughs again, this time more freely, brushing away my concern with a wave of her hand.
“Cody isn’t that famous.”
I can tell she’s pleased by the playful banter. Yet beneath our easy exchange, I can’t shake off the sense of unease.
I vow to myself that I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure her dreams come true—even if it means revealing my own heart in the process.
“What about you, Jack? Are you excited for the reception?” Marlie’s voice pierces my thoughts like a ray of sunshine breaking through a cloudy sky. “Or are you too worried about work?”
A chuckle rumbles in my chest. “I’m excited.”
But there’s an undercurrent of understanding in her question that tugs at me. These past few weeks spent guarding Diego have been nothing short of a minefield, each day a new problem to navigate. And despite all my efforts, the identity of the rat remains elusive.
“Are you still planning on bringing Diego to the wedding?” Marlie’s question pulls me from my internal musings.
“Yeah,” I reply without hesitation.
The stiffening of her body is immediate and unmistakable.
“What’s wrong?” I turn her fully toward me now.
“I don’t know...” She hesitates. “It just feels like we’re inviting danger or something by having him there... But maybe I’m being silly.”
The sweet scent of strawberries wafts up from her hair, and I bury my nose into it and pull her closer into an embrace.
Her worries are not unfounded—our situation is far from ideal—but there’s no room for fear here.
“I promise, baby,” I murmur against her hair, feeling the tension gradually seep out of her body at my reassurance. “Nothing is going to happen to you. You’re safe with me.”
Marlie snuggles deeper into my chest, her body warm and soft against mine. Her voice is a gentle murmur against my skin. “I like this.”
“What?” I ask, the words a low rumble in my throat.
“This. Us.”
Her words are so quiet they’re almost lost in the silence of the balcony. My heart hammers in response as I pull her closer, my arms tightening around her.
“Me too, baby.”
The admission slips out before I can stop it, and our world narrows down to just us two.
Her next words hit me like a punch to the gut. “Thanks for being a great fake husband.”
Fuck.
I swallow hard, fighting back the rush of emotions that threaten to overwhelm me. “You’re welcome,” I manage to reply, hoping she doesn’t hear the strain in my voice.
Inside me rages a storm—love for Marlie that’s so strong it scares me sometimes, pain at her casual reminder of our arrangement, confusion about why I haven’t confessed how I feel yet.
Maybe it’s because of past experiences, or maybe because I’m just an idiot when it comes to matters of the heart.
I hope with all that’s left in me that she’s testing the waters—trying to see if there’s more between us than this sham of a marriage. Because I never want this to end.
Marlie breaks the silence first. “I should probably get back to my macaroons.”
“Yeah, good idea,” I agree reluctantly, pushing myself up out of the chair.
Marlie follows suit, but there’s a frown etched on her face.
Before she can make her way back inside, I reach out and grab her hand. The surprised look in her eyes makes me hesitate briefly before I finally blurt it out.
“I think... after tomorrow... we should talk.”
Her frown deepens, and she pulls her hand away. “Is something wrong?”
”No,” I assure her quickly. ”Nothing”s wrong. We”ll talk tomorrow.”
Her eyes widen just a fraction, searching mine for a clue. But I give nothing away. Not yet. She needs to hear it all, not just bits and pieces.
”Okay,” she replies, her voice is neutral, but I can hear the question mark at the end of it.
In the charged space between us, there”s an acknowledgment of something looming. Something that might change everything. I tuck away the image of her right now—the way she looks under the warm glow of the kitchen lights, dusted with flour and full of life.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Marlie’s voice pulls me back, her brow furrowed in concern.
“Yeah,” I lie, offering her a half smile. “Just thinking about work agin.”
“Always the protector, huh?” She chuckles, though there’s a shadow in her laughter.
“Always,” I affirm, and it’s the deepest truth I own.
But tomorrow, after the facade of champagne and forced smiles, I’ll peel back the layers of the protector.
Tomorrow, I’ll stand before her—not as a bodyguard or a husband in name only—but as a man stripped bare by love.