Chapter 19
nineteen
“Walk me through this again…”
I’ve put this conversation off as long as I could, knowing it would make me feel like crap.
It isn’t Tris’s fault, really. If anyone else heard that Marco Amir had asked to come over to see me… well, I suppose they would have equally incredulous reactions.
It’s understandable. The man is a sexy, single millionaire with a muscle-stacked body and a secret, sensual sort of smile.
And I am a potato.
If my thirty years of ignominy haven’t driven that point home sufficiently, one look in my mirror after ten hours on my feet sure does.
I spent Friday pulling off three separate events that my last employer contracted out to me.
Small jobs that paid a pittance—nothing they wanted for themselves, in other words.
My day started at six a.m. with a corporate breakfast. Then came a bridal luncheon at a Japanese tea garden. And, last, a baby shower at three p.m.
The one highlight in my otherwise dismal work came courtesy of Ella Callahan.
She called me after her Friday yoga class and asked if I would be willing to meet with a friend of hers.
Apparently, the girl is set to marry one of the city’s richest bachelors—a former classmate of Grayson’s—but she doesn’t have a planner yet.
We set a breakfast meeting for Sunday morning.
Now, as twilight darkens my viewless window, Tris sprawls on my bed, kicking her heels up behind her while she watches me grimace at my reflection.
“You’re saying that Marco—the Marco? Big guy? Glossy black hair? Soulful brown eyes? Former-military, muscle-bound, could-pick-you-up-and-literally-fuck-you-sideways, Marco?—is coming to our apartment in forty-five minutes to ‘borrow’ a romance novel? From you?”
I rip my hair tie out of my hair. And instantly regret it. Hours pulled back and kinked up only made the whole mess limp and tangled.
While I groan in hopeless despair, Tris carries on. “Marco?” she sputters again. “Sexy bodyguard? Black clothes?”
“Yes, Tris,” I snap. “That Marco. He asked to come over and borrow a book after work. That’s it.”
I squirt some goop into my hands and follow the bottle’s instructions, smoothing it over my hair before scrunching it into the ends. Miraculously, it starts to tame some of the frizz.
“On Friday night?” Tris asks, then rephrases, “He chose tonight?”
I huff out a frustrated snort. “Yes! Lord, is it that impossible to believe a guy would want to come borrow a book from me?”
“Noooo,” she drawls. “But it is a little surprising that a man like Marco Amir invited himself over for a hookup. I’ve been throwing him invites left and right for years, and he’s never even sent me a dick pic.”
“Beatrice Dunn,” I shriek. “Ew!”
She grins, cocking her head to the side. “Just sayin’. I didn’t have him pegged as the forward type. But I must have been mistaken, since he invited himself over here to get it on with you.”
Get it on? I scoff. “Oh yeah, sure. Of course not! I mean, that’s what you’re saying, right? That there’s no way Marco is actually forgoing a night out with this week’s supermodel to get a piece of this?”
I gesture at my recycled gray skirt and the matching charcoal turtleneck. Tris eyes the outfit with outright disdain. “That’s not fair, Alley Cat. You know how much I hate that skirt.”
I throw my scarf at her. “Just… listen, I know this is impossible, and he doesn’t like me as a woman or probably even know that I am one, but could you help me, please?
I’m pretty sure he’s only doing all of this to keep an eye on me while I work for your boss, but I’d like to give the impression I at least own a hairbrush! ”
Tris isn’t known as the most empathetic person, but I can tell from the look on her face that she understands my desperation. Sympathy fills her hazel eyes before they dash to the phone lying beside her. “Forty-one minutes,” she announces, leaping up. “Let’s do this.”
Thirty-some minutes of primping later, I almost feel human again.
Tris convinces me to wash off the day’s dirt and makeup, leaving my skin clear aside from a light layer of “glowy” moisturizer, as she calls it.
She also talked me out of my work clothes and into a camisole, leggings, and a light, open sweater.
As her last trick, she teases the knots and kinks out of my hair before spritzing it with a spray bottle and re-winding the curls around my face that make the most impact. The rest, she leaves looser, though whatever nonsense I raked into them seems to help a bit.
While she works on me, she also adjusts her own hair and makeup. Apparently, she has a date she’s going to be “uber late” for, but it doesn’t seem to bother her.
As a “finishing touch,” Tris spreads mascara over my lashes and dabs shiny gloss over my lips. “Okay, baby cakes,” she crows, hurrying out of my room and into hers. She throws her cosmetics onto her bed and whips on a shimmery sequin jacket. “I’m out of here. Smooches.”
With one last pucker of her painted lips, she twirls out of the apartment.
Nerves seethe in my stomach, reminding me that I’ve only eaten scraps at events all day.
I wander into the kitchen and put the kettle on, deciding that’s a nice, normal thing to do when someone is dropping by.
In a moment of weakness, I also put out a plate of the chocolate chip cookies Ella sent home the other day.
I pick an English blend for the tea. It’s bold and dark, intended for those who like to put milk in their brews, so I fill a little ceramic pitcher with milk, too.
The white porcelain got cracked in one of our ill-fated Tris-does-the-dishes incidents. Because the tiny carafe was one of my favorite little trinkets, I pieced it back together. Now, the long, thin scar running diagonally through the side feels like a metaphor for my general inadequacy.
It sits in the middle of my coffee table along with my favorite candle, two teacups, and the cookies—mocking me as I wait for the man who, in all likelihood, won’t stay long enough to notice I’m making tea at all.
This is so stupid. He’s going to knock, take the book, and go about his Friday night. He did nothing to indicate that he would stay. Why would he? To talk to me? Of course not. See? Stupid.
My hands fidget in my lap, the chewed-up fingers knotting. Looking at them reminds me of his large, solid hand, stretched out to demand my book. His thick, smooth skin. The rich color, the square nails.
Everything about Marco is like that, come to think of it. Straight, sharp. Chiseled. Masculine.
Much too handsome for the likes of me.
Telling myself that over and over actually helps calm me down.
He has no interest in me outside of making sure I don’t ruin his boss’s life, I reassure internally, recalling the moment I realized the handsome stranger from the coffee shop was really a bodyguard investigating me.
All the flirting is just his way of being sneaky about it.
If I act like a normal, competent person, maybe he’ll finally leave me alone.
My heart pinches at that thought, but I shove the hurt aside. I should be offended, damn it. Not sad. Or, worse, sympathetic toward the man.
Sure, he’s shockingly chivalrous. And earnest… most of the time.
But still.
The Smart TV’s clock says eight on the dot when three hard raps hit my door. Ever punctual—I wonder if it’s because he used to be a soldier. Then I mentally slap myself. Because I shouldn’t care.
Blowing out a long breath, I shake my arms and legs to dispel some jitters before shuffling over to let him in… just before my mouth falls open so far that my jaw practically unhinges.
Oh. My. God.
In a black cashmere sweater, black slacks, and an open, tan coat, Marco looks like he stepped out of a men’s cologne ad and onto my landing.
My gaze absorbs how his pants cling to his thick thighs, then roam up to the slight V of his bare chest revealed by his thin sweater, all the way to the crisp lines of his facial hair.
A heavenly scent creeps into the space between us—warm, manly spice with a touch of leather.
I feel like one of the heroines in my Victorian romances, about to swoon over the very sight of a man. And then he smiles.
“Sorry, I’m overdressed. I came straight from work. Can I come in? It’s freezing.”
I squash the burst of excitement at how hopeful he looks. Of course he wants to come in, I chide myself. He’s trying to make sure I’m not a loose end.
“Uh—sure,” I bumble, pulling the door wide open.
Marco steps into the apartment, instantly filling the room with his broad strength and sheer size. Power rolls off him in a fluid ripple as he shrugs his coat from his shoulders and hangs it on our coat rack. His dark eyes glance over my face as his smile turns rueful.
“The tea smells amazing. I’m embarrassed to admit how much I’d hoped you’d make some. In fact…”
He reaches into one of two large pockets concealed in the satin lining of his coat. Two bags appear in his grasp—one a white paper sack and the other a familiar sachet from my favorite tea shop. “I brought some to replace what you gave me last time. And a couple of Ella’s scones.”
A nervous giggle trips out of me. “I just put out Ella’s cookies. And I brewed the perfect tea for scones. It’s English Breakfast. Darker, to go with milk.”
Realizing I’m rambling, I swallow the rest of my words. Marco hovers close, lingering with both our hands wrapped around the scones. His eyes flicker from my revived hair, down to my exposed chest, before looping back up to my face and zeroing in on my mouth.
“Perfect,” he praises.
Perfect? Me?
But he means the tea, of course. He proves as much when he suddenly steps away, edging into our living room and dropping onto the edge of the light yellow futon. He looks almost comical there—his wide frame, dressed all in black, dwarfing the tiny pastel couch.
Unable to come up with anything clever to say, I silently fetch the kettle. It’s just shy of boiling, which is my secret for brewing tea properly. I pour it into the pot with the bags and carry it in on an oven mitt, laying it beside the plate of cookies and adding Ella’s scones on top.
I don’t realize I’ve started humming until Marco raises his brows at me. “Are you alright?”
“Alright?” I choke out, lowering myself onto the blue-patterned armchair. I don’t want to lie to him, so I can’t say yes… “Why do you ask?”
Like a gentleman, Marco pours a cup of tea for me and then one for himself. He places a cookie on each of our saucers before thinking better of it and cramming scones on the plates as well.
“You were humming,” he points out. “You do that when you’re nervous.”
I swallow a knot of chagrin. “No,” I deny. “I—I like to sing.”
Marco surprises me by nodding in agreement. “I know. You sing when you’re happy. You hum when you’re stressed.”
With a start, I realize he’s right.
“How do you know that?” I murmur, biting the side of my thumb again. “Do I do it that often?”
His smile melts from teasing to kind. “Not really. I just noticed that you normally hum in stressful situations—like last week when you were getting the tea out of the cabinet and couldn’t reach it.
Then, on Wednesday, while you were reading, you were relaxed.
And you sang under your breath every now and then.
” His gaze burns into mine. “I like the singing.”
A shiver skirts up my sternum, lodging in my throat. “Y-you do?”
With a confident calm, Marco picks up his tea and sits back with it, nodding easily. “I do.”
I can’t figure out why he would go out of his way to compliment me. I know he has some agenda, but I’m already here. With myself and my place both totally accessible to him.
It’s almost cruel for him to be so gallant when he doesn’t need to be. Still, one of my mother’s rules comes to mind. A lady never refuses flattery.
“Thank you,” I reply, wooden.
Marco starts to frown, then takes an absent-minded sip from his teacup. His attention snaps down to it, earlier concern forgotten. “Damn,” he mutters, drinking more. “Thank you. This is perfect. Again.”
He shakes his head at himself. “I tried to recreate your hibiscus blend at home. It wasn’t nearly as good as yours. I thought it was a fluke, but…” He holds up his cup. “It seems I’m outmatched.”
I feel a blush bloom over my chest and neck. “Thank you,” I say once more, the words quivering this time.
Marco gazes at me over the rim of his teacup, deep brown eyes warm but sharp. They linger on my cleavage for a beat too long before sliding up to meet mine. We stare at each other, neither of us speaking, until my nerves get the best of me.
“I, um, I should get you that book. I’m sure you have places to be.”
He takes another sip of tea before setting the cup back on his saucer and rolling his massive shoulders. “Not at all. Do you?”
I almost laugh. “Uh, no.”
His beautiful smile melds with the warmth of his gaze. “Great. Then we’ll both stay in.”