Chapter 4
four
The imposing man doesn’t flinch or squirm as I gather the courage to meet his eyes.
I have a feeling, even if I hadn’t studied them twenty minutes ago, I would vividly remember the clear, dark brown irises. Their rich color—and the unflappable air of control layered beneath it.
My heart spasms, twisting in two directions. The stupid, silly flutter of excitement at seeing him again so soon. And the jagged, slicing sting of realization that he wasn’t actually flirting with me.
He was only nice because he had to be. As part of his job.
I can practically hear my mother scoffing. Of course he had a reason for flirting. And of course it had nothing to do with actually liking you.
The phrase sounds dumb, even in my own head. Because, really—who thinks like that? I’m thirty, for crying out loud.
My cheeks flame as mortification liquefies the butterflies in my stomach. I immediately turn my gaze to my walking shoes, struggling to swallow past the lump that appears in my throat.
“Oh,” I say to my feet. “H-hello again.”
The big man exhales quietly. In my periphery, I see him offer another of his solid nods. “Miss Moore.”
My last name rolls off his tongue in a low baritone. And somehow, despite all my embarrassment, I find myself raising my chin. Seeking out his gorgeous, solemn, impassive face.
See? He’s real, after all, my brain chimes. And now the whole encounter makes perfect sense.
In the most depressing way possible.
His etched mouth presses into a straight line when our gazes touch. He extends his huge hand, hovering it in the space between us. “Marco Amir,” he offers. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Marco Amir.
And he’s acting like we didn’t meet downstairs.
I mean, I suppose we didn’t, technically… but I still sense a snap of urgency flashing in his deep, espresso eyes. Perhaps asking me to play along? Or forgive him for deceiving me?
No, that can’t be it. Because why would he care?
I’m too frozen and stubborn and nauseous to pretend.
Seconds pass, and I don’t reach for his hand.
Ella jumps in, giggling nervously as she rests her palm on my forearm.
“Marco is always super formal,” she stage-whispers, clearly teasing Grayson’s head of security.
“But I think we’ll be able to break him eventually. ”
Grayson laughs under his breath. “Good luck with that, ladies. Many have tried, and many have failed. Either way, I have a meeting downstairs, so I’ll leave you to it.”
Ella squeezes my wrist, whispering a promise to come right back before she follows him into the hallway. Tris stands between Marco and me, glances at each of us, and blurts a chipper, “I have to pee!”
Her heels clack out of the room, but I can’t turn to watch any of them leave. I’m too busy keeping my chin up, ignoring the large, brawny hand extended toward me.
Marco finally drops it. His lips part, but I shock myself by cutting him off.
“It’s fine,” I murmur. “You were working.”
His next nod looks more like half a shrug. As if he can’t decide whether or not I’m right. “In any case,” he starts, “I should still—”
A sharp stab hits my chest. I’m not sure why, but if this handsome stranger apologizes for flirting with me, I have a feeling I’ll simply crumble into dust. Instead, I step back and shake my head. “J-just forget it. I-I—”
Have to get out of here.
And possibly flee the country.
My words flail into sputtering silence, as they do all too often. I brace, waiting for the imposing man to interrupt with his dreaded apology. Or try to guess what I was struggling to say.
He does neither, though. He just… waits. With his eyes steady on my face and his stern mouth shut. Watching me. Listening.
The pressure should probably make me more nervous, but the weight of his full attention feels settling. I blink twice, awed at his patience, before peeping, “I need to t-talk to Ella. T-to schedule our first meeting.”
Marco absorbs that, but still doesn’t interrupt. He takes one step closer. My nerves flutter back to life. “If you’d excuse me,” I nearly gasp. “I-I’ll just…”
I try to slip around him. But I’m too big.
Or, rather, he’s too big. Taking up the entire doorway like a cologne-model-meets-Navy SEAL-shaped barricade.
I’m already impressed by his manners, even before he automatically steps aside, bowing his head in deference. I start to scurry past, but a warm, firm touch lands on my upper arm, carefully curling just above my elbow.
His hand. On me.
“Miss Moore.”
My eyes automatically snap up to his. Again. His reaction is so immediate, I barely catch the millisecond smirk that flits over his mouth before he flattens it. His other hand reaches for the inside pocket of his black blazer, extracting a charcoal business card. Engraved with a phone number.
“Call me when you have a date set for your meeting. I’ll pick you up.”