Chapter 44
forty-four
Well, this has been fun.
Thanks for joining me, but I really ought to get going.
Remember when I said we could be a long-term thing? Well, actually…
My mind plays through all the polite ways for this man to extricate himself from my pathetic presence. Meanwhile, Marco gapes at me like I’ve just told him I have three weeks to live. Horror. Shock. And—worst of all—pity.
I fix my posture, too restless to sit still. But he is frozen, with his sharp, dark eyes boring into my face as I nervously take a sip of wine.
Moments tick by. Gradually, his hands fist in his lap. The molten emotion in his gaze hardens into iron. “I need a last name.”
Realizing what he means, I almost choke on my next swallow. My head shakes furiously.
“Tell me,” he rasps, balling his fingers tighter.
“Marco, n-no.” Just thinking about the two men meeting mortifies me. Scalding tears sting my vision. “P-please.”
A rough breath vaults out of him as he reaches down and tugs my chair closer with one swift yank. His solid arm winds around my waist, pulling me into his solid strength. He holds me fiercely, not giving an inch, but his hands are gentle; one against my hip and the other cupping my chin.
“I want to find every person who’s ever made you cry and make them regret it,” he rumbles, gruff. “If you won’t tell me his name, at least tell me you kicked him in the balls before you dumped him.”
He’s kind to phrase it that way, knowing full well the guy was neither my boyfriend nor the one who got “dumped.” I shake my head again, a hopeless, watery laugh bubbling as I recall, “Tris did it. I don’t know what she said or what she did, but I never saw any of those guys at that bar again.”
Marco’s embrace constricts. He doesn’t speak, but he drops his forehead to rest against my shoulder, and, somehow, his ragged breathing says more than words ever could.
He regrets upsetting me on our first real date. He’s furious on my behalf.
And he isn’t planning on going anywhere.
With my floodgates firmly open, Marco makes it his mission to find out every possible detail about me.
He asks if I like the dry Italian red wine he’s chosen and then insists on hearing why I like it. While I tell him all about my misadventures in Tuscany with Tris, he listens as though I’m explaining the secrets of the universe.
Then, he wants to know more.
He asks about high school—torture, for a nerdy fat girl. If I was in any clubs—I begrudgingly admit to my membership in the Future Librarians Club during sophomore year.
Which class was my favorite? And how did I pick my small, liberal arts college? Did I like it there? What about my major? Did I ever regret leaving Georgia to come to the city after graduation?
The questions themselves aren’t unusual for a first date, but his intensity is. He absorbs every word like it’s vitally important for him to understand everything about me. Every follow-up question delves a bit deeper, peeling back layers no one has disturbed for years. If ever.
He asks about my childhood, frowning thoughtfully when I describe growing up in my country-club-centric hometown and all the Cotillion nonsense I endured.
“What about your mom?” he asks, pouring me another glass from the obscenely expensive bottle. “What is she like?”
My chest heats while I try to come up with an honest, diplomatic answer. “She’s… very put-together.”
His brows twitch. “As in ‘organized’ or…?”
I roll my lips, considering. “She values beauty. Her own and others’. She likes to carefully curate the way everything looks.” Herself, her house. Me. “It can get a little tiring.”
“Hmm.” He doesn’t like that, I can tell. “And your father?”
My throat tightens. “I don’t know him. My mom never—I guess they were a casual thing, because she gave me her maiden name and has never mentioned him at all.
By the time I was old enough to ask, she had married my stepfather, and she usually just shut me up by telling me that he was my father, now. ”
Marco’s scowl deepens. “And is he? Like a father to you?”
A very unladylike snort tears from my lips. I promptly hide behind my wine glass, mumbling, “He’s more like an annoyed, distant great-uncle.”
Marco hears me loud and clear. His mouth quirks at my sad little joke, but his warm hand envelops mine, squeezing gently. “So he never intervened? In raising you?”
I shake my head. Marco clearly has a hard time picturing the whole arrangement. He keeps frowning while he asks, “What does he do?”
“Some sort of insurance?” I’ve honestly never bothered to nail down the exact details. I only know one other thing about him for certain. “He plays golf a lot. My mom usually deals with me on her own.”
Lord. I know the bitterness in my bearing isn’t attractive, but I can’t help it.
Every kind word Marco gives me only underscores how few I get from my own family.
Or anyone. After a week of his attention, I have a whole new kind of clarity on my relationship with my mom.
Especially after Monday’s FaceTime episode.
The intent focus in Marco’s eyes takes on a harder edge while he remembers the same incident. “I didn’t like the way she spoke to you this week. If she were ever to talk to you like that in front of me, I’m not sure I would be able to stop myself from having words with her. Would that bother you?”
A wave of anxiety rolls over me. “T-Tris has tried,” I stammer. “My mom doesn’t listen, and it just ends up being a big, dramatic scene. I-it’s not worth it.”
Marco lifts the hand entwined with his and presses his lips to my knuckles. “It is absolutely worth it,” he says, staring right into me.
I open my mouth to argue, but his stern lips pull tight.
One sharp shake of his head. Another reverent kiss to my hand. And words I might replay forever. “The more I get to know you, the more convinced I am. You are worth everything.”