Chapter 9
nine
“Miss Moore?”
Oh God.
“Miss Moore?”
Oh no.
I can’t decide if I’m dead… or if I want to be.
Because I know that voice. And it means I’ve either lapsed into some dream-like state between this world and the next—
Or Marco Amir actually found me, crumpled on the street like a discarded Starbucks cup.
And if he did, he clearly brought me… somewhere? I’m not sure, but it’s warm here. The surface behind me feels soft, too.
My head pounds dully as I peel my eyes open, revealing Marco and Ella. My friend’s pretty face is soft with concern, while her head of security looks utterly pissed.
Can I blame him, though? I just lost all their wedding details to a couple of paparazzi punks. On my first day as their planner.
Ella doesn’t seem angry, at least. The second I flutter my lashes, she cries, “Oh, thank goodness you’re awake!”
She turns sharply, long golden hair falling over her navy sweater. “It’s okay!” she calls out. “She’s awake!”
My bleary brain whirls, trying to work out who she’s speaking to.
Across the lavish parlor—wow, is this her house—I barely catch a group of EMTs being halted on the threshold.
Another security guard, in a suit similar to Marco’s, keeps his arm stretched in front of them, awaiting his boss’s orders. Almost as if—
Oh. Marco called the ambulance?
I suppose that makes sense, given the state I was in when he found me. If he was the one who found me.
Marco’s swirling eyes snap over my profile. He makes a frustrated sighing sound and nods at the wide archway. The other guard and the medics begin to file out. Ella follows them, humming something about handing out scones for their trouble.
The air in the room somehow gets tighter. My bleary brain can’t comprehend the sensation, until my gaze snags on Marco’s glare.
Oh GOD. He’s furious.
His thick brows crouch lower. “Are you alright? They said you passed out from panic and you don’t have any head contusions. But I can make them come back if you’re feeling—”
Fresh mortification clenches my middle. “N-no,” I rasp. “P-please.”
To try and prove myself, I push upright. The room blurs for half a second before refocusing. Marco’s frown somehow—impossibly—deepens. “You’re really fine?” he husks out.
I’m not, but I nod anyway. His expression only grows tenser, though.
“Good,” he bites out, stepping closer. “Then I suppose we can move on to why the hell you were on the subway, alone, when I clearly told you to call me for a ride.”
My face pulls into a cringe. What can tell him?
You’re too handsome? I was trying to avoid further humiliation?
Ironic.
Marco isn’t done. He closes the gap between us, looming less than a foot away while he scowls down at me. “What were you thinking, Miss Moore? Those bastards got all of the details on your wedding board and they took your driver’s license.”
Ah, so that’s the one card they took.
Bizarre. Why would they want my ID?
And how does he know all of this?
Marco sees the befuddlement quirking my features and continues glowering.
“We’re hooked into every CCTV camera for several blocks surrounding this property.
When you didn’t call for a ride, I assumed you’d taken a cab—which still would have been risky—so I monitored the street views to ensure no one harassed you when you pulled up.
Imagine my surprise when, instead, I saw you racing up the subway steps a block away. Being chased and assaulted.”
Wow. He is mad.
I suppose that makes sense. His entire job hinges on his ability to protect Ella and Grayson. Now I’ve gone and compromised their event details mere days after being hired.
It’s only sheer luck that I didn’t have the wedding date or location anywhere on the poster.
Today’s meeting was set with the purpose of locking that information in, so I could add it later.
It never even occurred to me that painting their names on the custom inspo board would cause them any trouble.
So stupid, Alice.
The thought is mine, but the shrill tone is one I’ve heard in my head for my entire life. I clasp my hands in my lap to hide my shaking. “I-I’m sorry. R-really. I-I didn’t r-realize there would be paparazzi w-waiting around.”
Just like the morning we met, Marco doesn’t use my stutters as an excuse to interject. He waits, as patient as he is pissed off. Though, the more I stammer, the softer his scowl seems.
“I—I shouldn’t have this job,” I go on, knowing it’s the right thing to do. “It’s c-clear I’m really not equipped for it. I—I’ll just tell Ella she can hire someone else. Someone better.”
Marco finally exhales, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. “You would give up this big event?” he asks flatly. “And the commission?”
I wince at the thought of my empty bank account. But my issues aren’t Ella’s problem—and she obviously needs a more experienced coordinator. The thought fills me with equal parts sadness and relief.
“Honestly?” I answer, “I d-didn’t want this job in the first place.”
Marco’s thick brows arch. “Then why did you take it?”
I look around the opulent sitting room, noting traces of Ella’s simple, no-frills nature, strewn about in stark contrast to the Strykers’ wealth. The half-finished knitting creation on the arm of a priceless antique armchair; the small pot of daisies sitting on the bar cart beside crystal stemware.
My bruised shoulder aches as I shrug, admitting, “I f-felt bad. Ella was having a hard time finding someone to work with who won’t take advantage of her. I figured the only way to help was to—”
This time, he does finish my thought for me. Only he does it with an incredulous murmur. “Do it yourself.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Marco truly has the deepest, most beautiful eyes. He holds my gaze for a long moment, searching it. Whatever he finds there has him sighing, dropping down to sit on the edge of the coffee table next to me.
“I’m not sure why,” he replies, “but you’re the only person I trust for this job, too.”
The depth of his sincerity matches his bottomless brown irises. It helps quell the rising panic pinching my lungs.
Because I’m starting to see; there’s no way out of this. For either of us.
No, Marco is stuck with me and I’m stuck with him until the wedding is over.
Or until it implodes.
I am going to kill Tris for getting me into this.
Marco watches his words sink in. He glowers once more as he adds, “Despite the fact that you’ve now compromised your identity as their planner, gotten your personal information stolen, and you seem to have a self-sacrificing stubborn streak.”
My face pulls into another wince.
He isn’t wrong.
I can’t let this man continue to be nice to me out of a misplaced sense of duty, though. I have more pride than that, at least.
But the most pressing reason isn’t my dignity. It’s the way my heart squeezes when his dark, intense eyes bore into mine again.
“Stubborn doesn’t scare me, Miss Moore,” he husks. “But the things I’m trying to protect you from should definitely scare you. So if you think you can continue trying to avoid me, you ought to think again. Because keeping you safe is now my job. And I’m very good at what I do.”