Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Hallie
“ I take it from Erica that you’ve known Julian and Marcus since they were kids?” Andrea asks.
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror behind the small platform Marcus is to stand on.
“I’ve known them for longer than I care to admit these days. I feel old just thinking about it,” I say diplomatically, watching the way she and Cara work seamlessly together as they prepare their creative space.
“You’re telling me. The fact I’ve had Cara here for two years already blows my mind, and now Marcus says he’s found a second apprentice for me?” She sighs dramatically. “Teenagers make me feel old.”
“You mean you’re grateful for the sharp eyesight and quick wit that comes with hiring youth?” Cara quips, raising a dark brow at her employer. With her high-waisted, wide-legged jeans and ribbed sweater, she looks like a 1970s dream in comparison to her sleek, 1950s-styled boss.
Andrea gives her a friendly nudge with her shoulder. “What are we going to do with someone else on board? Do you think they’ll cope with our sarcasm?”
“You never know, Andie. He might meet the two of you and run for the hills if given half a chance,” Marcus throws in as he makes his way out of his fitting room. “I know I probably would.”
Suddenly, I’m grateful I don’t have to speak because the proverbial cat seems to have caught hold of my tongue. The suit is formal black and made to fit like a glove. I have no idea what adjustments Andrea wants to make, as I think changing a thing about it would be a crime. Desire hits me low in my belly as I take in the broad set of his shoulders before using the strategically placed mirrors to check out his front. It’s in the reflection that I catch Andrea’s knowing gaze and the small smile on Cara’s lips as she pulls her long, black braids back into an orange scrunchie. I avert my eyes from the mirror, refusing to see if I’d been caught looking by Marcus himself.
“Did you say he ? Marcus, did you miss the sign on the door that says O’Byrne & Daughters?” Andrea’s mock outrage is written all over her face. “Wait. You made the sign. You couldn’t have missed it.”
“Andie, are you really telling me you’re going to refuse a young guy who wants nothing more than to learn from you?” Marcus challenges playfully, shifting in his suit jacket and adjusting his collar.
My mouth waters, and my resolve weakens at the sight.
“You know I wouldn’t,” Andrea says as she straightens the lapels on his jacket, “but I do like it when you’re dressed fancy and playing white knight. It makes a nice change for someone other than just myself and a bunch of young people to see it.”
“Hey, Cara, do you mind closing your eyes for a second?” Marcus asks kindly.
“No worries, Mr. Scott.” Cara lifts a hand to cover her eyes as he turns to quickly flip Andrea the middle finger.
“Okay, we’re good to go.”
“Do you mind if I get started on your jacket, Mr. Scott?” Cara asks, both eyes now uncovered.
“Go for it,” Marcus answers clearly and kindly.
Cara steps in close, measuring tape in hand.
“It’s our store policy—we ask people before we touch them. Verbal consent, wherever we can get it. That Friends episode scared me as an apprentice. Poor Joey,” explains Andrea, shaking her head as she makes her way over to me with a different garment bag draped over her arm. “Now, what’ve I got for you! Erica gave me an estimate of your measurements when she first came in with Julian to talk about the suits for the wedding.”
I raise my brow at this, wondering just what she could’ve said about me that added such inspiration. I’m hustled toward another of the fitting rooms, so I don’t have time to ask any further questions.
“Call me through once you have it on, and I’ll do up the back for you,” finishes Andrea.
Then she pulls the curtain closed, leaving me in the quiet space.
I unzip the pale, cream-colored garment bag.
My heart squeezes inside my chest with a sudden sweep of emotion, which I push down. It’s not healthy, but if I don’t want to cry in the next fifteen minutes, it’s going to have to do.
Wiping my now-clammy palms against my jeans, I get automated in each of my movements. Pants off and folded, top and bra hung on the gold hook on the wall.
Then, I lift the beautiful silk dress from the garment bag.
The zipper is barely audible as I lower it, taking care not to accidentally catch the delicate material against anything while I step into it. One look, a single second’s glance, is what I allow myself to see—the gown a younger me would’ve picked for my own wedding day. A style I love that only a best friend would have known to pick as the perfect bridesmaid’s outfit. The finest spaghetti straps fall away into a gentle cowl neck before the silhouette tapers in at the waist, fitting snugly against the curve of my hips before waterfalling to the ground.
If only I hadn’t dreamed of myself in something similar all those years ago.
I call Andrea into the fitting room, sticking my head out from behind the curtain in the hope Marcus will be, I don’t know, waiting curbside.
I have no such luck.
Forcing the corners of my lips upward at her delight in the near-perfect fit, I nod at the adjustments she tells me need to be made. Holding still becomes a battle of wills as she releases my hair from its messy bun atop my head, rearranging the mass of waves to her liking. The delicate picture in the mirror has me wishing for a red lip or chunky boot—something, anything of who I am now—to make me remember just how strong I can be.
Instead, I make my way out from behind the curtain to the small podium, trying not to show the same delicate vulnerability as my bare feet and naked lips.
The intensity of his eyes on me hits me like lightning, my spine straightening even as everything inside me becomes supple. The impact he has on me is as annoying as it is arousing.
The slit cut up the right side of the dress allows for a deceptive amount of movement and makes an appearance with the length of my strides. I can feel the instant he notices the skin of my thigh on display, and I slow my pace. Finally perched in front of the floor-length mirrors, I avoid my own reflection, instead seeking out Marcus. My self-preservation skills aren’t strong enough to keep me from doing so, and Cara seems to have disappeared with his suit jacket, leaving me with his undivided attention.
He sits in a typically manly fashion, feet planted apart, thighs splayed, torso leaning forward to where his chin rests upon his palm. One might think he was bored, except for his eyes, which scream anything but boredom.
The space falls into silence as Andrea works, gently lifting and pinning the fabric pooling around my feet, ensuring the fit of her creation is nothing but exquisite.
The entire time, Marcus’s gaze is locked on mine, a silent war waging between us. His thumb rubs against his lower lip as he tracks my every movement through the glass. Saliva pools in my mouth at the image of him, and I want nothing more than for him to bite down on the pad of his thumb.
Whatever he sees on my face has his brows raising and his mouth quirking up in a half-grin.
It’s beyond my control when my lips tilt the same way.
The intensity of the moment is broken as Marcus’s phone rings, and I’m grateful when he gets up to take the call elsewhere.
With his absence, I’m able to breathe easier, and it must be palpable because Andrea asks gently, “Does he really put you on edge that much?”
I’m not shocked by her personal question and grateful for the lack of judgment in the words. “Yes and no,” I reply with a gentle shrug. “It’s been a long time.”
“Since you were together?”
I give her a sad smile in the mirror. “Well, there’s that, but it’s been a longer time since we were friends.”
Weirdly, it’s not terrible to be talking to a stranger about Marcus, about the strange tension constantly between us.
“It probably doesn’t make any difference to you just yet—you’ll need to figure things out for yourself, obviously—but my wife respects the hell out of him. And she doesn’t like anyone.”
I glance behind me just to make sure we’re still alone. “Why does she respect him?”
Andrea looks up to meet my eyes directly, no longer settling for the use of the mirror. “I’d say because, as ruthless as he is in business and as ridiculous as he’s been known to be in his personal life, he hasn’t forgotten how he became so successful. Marcus fought for the things he wanted, and he helps teach a new generation how to do the same. And when they’re struggling to find someone to give them a leg up, he uses his endorsement to make it happen. How the hell do you think I landed an apprentice?” She smiles ruefully.
“How did you meet?” I ask, curious as to how he has gotten this talented woman’s endorsement.
“He helped to create all this.” She gestures around the room. “He was the only builder who really listened to what my vision was for the store and didn’t try and tell me no before we’d even begun.” Andrea looks at me again, this time utilizing our reflections. “He took notes in every meeting and would confirm them with me. He’d even bring a highlighter—I found it very endearing.”
My heart clenches at her words, and I can’t help but remember all the times Marcus watched me as I studied, making notes and highlighting them. This man Andrea speaks of seems in such direct opposition to the Marcus I know. To think of him as someone who stays and fights for what he wants, who lifts others up in the process—it’s a lot to take in, especially being the one thing he hadn’t fought for and had been happy to let go of.
It’s only when Andrea finishes her adjustments and leaves the room that Marcus returns, beginning to unbutton his shirt before he even reaches his fitting room.
I want to ask him about the work he does, about why he works with young people. But transfixed by the skin exposed by the two buttons of his shirt, only a low exhale emerges from my parted lips.
Finally, I make use of my gaping mouth to say, “Andrea seems to think highly of you.”
He pauses, his hand holding open the heavy fabric of his fitting room curtain. A grin slowly unfurls, lighting up his face. “Hallie, were you talking about me this whole time?”
“Not by choice,” I reply a little too eagerly.
His grin remains steadily in place. “Uh-huh. And just what did Andrea force you to listen to?” Skepticism coats his voice.
“That apparently you’re good for something other than your mouth.” I shake my head to dispel my thoughts and slip behind the heavy velvet curtain of my own fitting room.
His bark of laughter is only slightly muffled as the curtain closes behind me.
I’m reaching behind my back for the delicate zipper when the curtain lifts and Marcus slips inside. “You don’t have to believe her, you know. It’s probably better if you don’t.”
His presence in my space is all-encompassing and, therefore, infuriating.
“You still don’t knock?” In the mirror, I raise my brows in his direction and then turn to face him.
Our little intense moment out there aside, he’s yet to apologize for being an ass the other day.
“Do you see a door?” Marcus gestures at the curtain.
“There are other ways to ask for consent.” My smile is sharp and all teeth. The push of effort and ease between us pushes me off-balance.
Marcus senses the challenge and steps closer. “Uh-huh, ongoing, enthusiastic, and increasingly filthy dirty talk is personally my favorite form. Shall we start now?”
I raise both my hands, palms forward. “Don’t you touch this dress. I won’t be sorry for the pins poking you, only for the blood that’ll damage such a beautiful thing.”
He steps forward again until my palms are flush against the fabric of his shirt. “Then take it off.”
I refuse to drop my hands, though my chest rises and falls rapidly. “That would be a terrible idea. Also, it’s not allowed as per Julian’s truce.”
“Then ask me to leave.”
I can’t speak, though I could easily push him away, giving a physical response to his verbal request.
But I won’t ask him to leave, just like he’s never asked me to stay.
“Turn around,” he directs, voice soft but firm.
I do as he asks, spinning slowly back toward the mirror. “Tell me again how you don’t want to get blood on the dress?”
I repeat the words back to him, aware of where he’s leading us. “I don’t want to get blood on the dress.”
From the base of the spaghetti straps at the top of my breasts, his fingertips trace a line of wildfire over my shoulders to the zipper at my back. “Don’t you think it’s much safer if we take it off?” His voice is low and just for me.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say yes, to let the word simply fall from my lips, but I’m hesitant, and he sees it.
Because with me, he sees everything I’d rather he didn’t.
Marcus holds my gaze in our reflection, and leaning in close, he whispers, “I was wrong, Hallie, and I’m sorry. It’s not your silence I want. It’s your words. Will you give them to me? Will you let me give you this?”
The urge to let my eyes drop away from his is tempting, but it’s different than the other night, and I let myself find power in it. In the fact that I want this. That it never had to be forever—a hookup is just fine.
I keep my eyes connected with his as I lift my hands behind me and begin to unzip my dress.
I reply, “Yes.”
Marcus stays close as I lower the zipper down my back. The material slips from my shoulders and slithers down my chest. Catching me by surprise, he kneels at my side, gently removing my hands and replacing them with his own, easing the fall of the silk down my legs. Lungs burning, I await the brush of his fingers against my skin, but the touch doesn’t come.
Silently holding the dress for me to step out of, I give in to my own need, placing a hand on his shoulder to steady myself. The simple contact hits me like an exhale, releasing the tension from my body. With uncanny timing, Marcus looks up, and the sight of him on his knees with my hand on him has lust curling low.
He places it on the hanger with deft fingers before stepping back in, barely a breath between us.
His gaze eats me up as he stands behind me.
My breasts had been bare beneath the dress, and his eyes now lock on the small tattoo in the center of my chest. “This is new.”
He rests his palms on my shoulders, squeezing gently before trailing them down my arms, then back and up over my collarbones.
My body comes alive under his touch, lifting to meet him with every breath I take.
“Not that new.” I bring a finger up to stroke the small serpent tattoo resting between my now-aching breasts.
“Is it poisonous?” he asks, tracing a finger of his own over the swells of my breasts.
“Deadly.” My breath catches.
“I think it’s worth the risk.” His finger moves down, following the path of my own.
Goose bumps blossom along my arms, causing my already puckered nipples to tighten further.
It’s only the firmness of his touch on my chin, directing my lips to his, that breaks my focus on our reflection, my body twisting within his grasp to get closer.
Our last kiss had been quick, dirty, and spontaneous, a test to see if the spark between us had withstood time. This one is different, deeper, and darker, and it asks for more.
Long gone is the boy I’d once kissed. Now, holding me and touching me is the man he’d become, so much surer of himself than he’d been back then. Yet the biggest difference comes from within me. I’d grown, but I’m still the girl who takes what she wants, even if it’s taken me a little while to remember it.
Consequences be damned, at least for now.
Marcus draws the rough pads of his fingers along the sides of my ribs before coming to cup my breasts, fingertips lightly pinching my nipples.
“Harder,” I gasp.
He brushes his lips over my shoulder, his teeth sinking against the skin at the base of my neck even as he pinches harder. It’s firm enough to cause a spike of pleasure to run through me, pooling between my thighs. When he bites again, I pull his hand from my breast, dragging it down my body and beneath the fabric of my panties. He’s quick to switch our positions, placing his hand over mine, directing both of our fingers lower to where I’m slick and ready.
His larger fingers control mine, widening my index and middle fingers to gently separate my folds and then dipping one of his own lightly inside.
“Be a good girl and hold yourself open for me,” he growls softly, nipping along the delicate shell of my ear. “Just as wet as the first time you let me get to third base.”
I shiver at his words, even as sarcastic ones leave my mouth. “I’m waiting for evidence that your moves have improved.”
A single moan escapes me as Marcus traces my wetness back up and over my clit. I can’t help but press my hips back and into his in the most basic of instincts, feeling the hard outline of his cock against my ass.
“Shall we play, then, Hal? Even with people just at the front of the store?”
He grates the words against my cheek, pushing one of my own fingers down and inside of me alongside his own. I don’t have it in me to reply. Instead, I let my head fall back against his shoulder, pressing into him with each stroke.
On some level, I’m aware that if anyone came back into the fitting room area, it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out what we were up to, curtains not exactly being known for their soundproofing qualities.
I just can’t make myself care.
Breathing spiked, heart racing, I find myself on the tips of my toes, lifting to meet and match Marcus as he adds another finger, stretching me just so.
And then all thoughts cease as he picks up speed.
My eyes are drawn back to the mirror, witnessing both our hands inside of my now-ruined panties. I use my thumb to rub and press against my clit, urging myself on, as Marcus finds the spot inside that weakens my knees. The pleasure is unrelenting as I continue to take in the erotic picture of us together, me nearly nude and him still fully clothed. I grasp for something to hold on to, and it’s his dress-shirt-clad bicep I clutch while I come apart in his arms.
My breathing slows, and still he holds me, supporting my trembling body.
Closing my eyes, just for a moment, it’s easy to pretend we’re alone, that he’s someone else, that perhaps it’s all just a dream.
A tender kiss presses against my jaw, just once, before a delicate cough from right outside the curtain catches our attention. Instantly, I try to push myself away, but he doesn’t let go, and I refuse to make the noise of a struggle.
“Marcus, thanks so much for suggesting I send Cara out to grab lunch. I just wanted to let you know she’ll be back in five minutes, and I have my next appointment in ten. If that, you know, works for you?” I can hear the unchecked amusement in Andrea’s voice.
“I think that works for me,” Marcus responds, looking and sounding just as smug.
I shove my right elbow back and into him as hard as I can, but he only laughs.
“If you could just pass me the dress once you have it off, Hallie, that’d be great.”
The words are barely out of her mouth before Marcus has the dress and hanger in hand and reaches them out of the fitting room curtains.
“Oh! Well, then, I’ll just leave the two of you to get changed, then.” Andrea doesn’t wait for a reply and moves away with an amused chuckle.
I sigh, all hope of any type of secrecy well and truly out the door.
“Thanks, Andrea,” I call. “We won’t be long.”
With all the strength I can muster, I turn and push both palms against Marcus’s chest. “You are the worst. Get out!”
There’s no heat behind my words, and he grins at me, delighted in my frustration. He lets himself be moved out of my personal space with ease.
As a parting gift, he calls, “By the way, I have to take care of a work thing, but Erica and Jules called before to ask us to go to drinks tonight. I told them you’d be in. I might even let you kiss me again if you’re on your best behavior.”