Chapter 21
twenty-one
Stupid, silly, sad sack. Why did you do that?!
There’s no excuse, really. I was standing there, in the candlelight, looking up at the most beautiful man I’ve ever been alone with… and something in me snapped.
For a moment, I didn’t want to be boring, invisible, or a means to an end. I wanted to believe. And let myself fall into the feeling of being wanted by someone like Marco. Even though it isn’t real.
He looked so conflicted, too. Brooding, the way he did the day we met and the afternoon he had to rescue me.
No matter how much I want to hate him for flirting and leading me on to make his job easier, his turbulent gaze did strange things to my heart. Pinching and pulling. Prodding until it swelled large enough to find compassion for him.
The same way it does for Tris. And my mother. And everyone else who makes me feel bad without meaning to cause any real harm.
Because, really, this guy doesn’t know about my past. To him, this game he’s playing is probably just a fun diversion. One I just encouraged by throwing caution to the wind for a delirious moment.
But, God, he kissed me like he was trying to save me. Or himself. How could he fake something like that?
That realization sinks into my stomach like a stone, and I hate myself for how much it hurts.
Why can’t I just be like Tris? Why do I have to want romance and love and the whole stupid thing? Can’t I just settle for this very hot man being willing to make out with me? Who cares if it’s under false pretenses??
I do. Unfortunately.
The brawny fingers holding my chin flex gently. His espresso irises swirl. So serious, even when his lips kick up into his mysterious half-smile. “I’ve never had a beautiful woman apologize for kissing me.”
Of course not. Because he’s some cross between a Greek god, a warrior king, and a GQ ad.
Deep down, I suppose I don’t actually regret it. Even if he leaves now and I never see him again—well, at least I got to pretend he actually wanted me for a few heartbeats.
I turn my face, twisting out of his grasp.
Looking at the wall and not his horribly handsome face.
“Sorry,” I say again, reflexively. Then force a steadying breath before I ask, “Do you need anything to measure for the cameras? I only have Tris’s tool kit—it’s pink and only has two screwdrivers and some double-sided tape, but you’re welcome to borrow it. ”
I can’t see his expression, but there’s a beat of silence before he clears his throat. “No, that’s alright. I brought a tape measure. I’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes.”
There’s another pause before he adds, “I’ll see you tomorrow, right? At the engagement party?”
He won’t. Since the entire soiree is Grayson’s mother’s way of placating her team of event planners over not being selected to coordinate the actual wedding, I felt it was in poor taste for me to show up.
But I’m sick of this man having unfettered access to me. I signed up to be his boss’s wedding planner, not a prisoner. He can’t keep tabs on me, twist my feelings at will to manipulate me into making his job easier. Or, at the very least, I don’t have to help him.
“Sure,” I lie, mumbling to my feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Marco doesn’t make me look at his face again. Instead, he looms close enough for the warm, masculine scent of his throat to envelop me and presses a fleeting kiss to my crown. “Tomorrow,” he repeats, stern and somehow soft. “Sweet girl.”