Chapter 48
forty-eight
I spend a lot of time thinking I look horrible… but this time, I think it might actually be okay.
Tris and I spent the better part of Thursday night arguing over text about what I should wear. She kept pushing low-cut dresses and short skirts at me, insisting I play up my “ass-ets.”
A month ago, I would have told her that I didn’t have any assets. Now, that doesn’t feel true.
Marco truly seems to love running his hands over my hips and my backside… following the line of my spine with his fingertips while he takes me from behind… propping me up in his lap to focus entirely on the way my breasts loom in front of his face.
And then there are the sweeter things. He still likes to gently pull my fingers away from my mouth when I start to bite them.
He never grimaces at the paint-stained cuticles or makes a single sound of reproach.
He only brushes his lips across the abused skin and tucks my hand into his iron grip for safekeeping.
Whenever I laugh or sing or smile at a scene in one of my smut books, his stern lips soften into a smile of his own. When we spend our evenings snuggled on his sofa, sharing a throw blanket he barely fits under, he listens to every word out of my mouth. Even the stammers and mumbles.
Marco Amir is not a man who softens. But he does for me.
Case in point—he’s planned another date.
Insisted on one, actually.
The thought banishes the anxiety crowding my lungs. I stare at the navy-blue dress Tris and I finally settled on and give myself an encouraging nod. Marco will like it. He seems to like everything I wear.
He somehow finds redeeming qualities for even the ugliest, least flattering pieces.
My terrycloth robe that always highlights my round mid-section?
Also offers a tantalizing flash of my boobs.
The yoga pants that bunch around my thighs?
Make my ass look great, apparently. The stretched-out panties that I forgot to change out of before he came home one night?
He liked that I didn’t like them, because it meant he could tear them in half in his single-minded quest to get his mouth between my thighs.
I’m starting to suspect that maybe he just… likes my body.
I’m starting to think that maybe I do, too.
The navy dress is pretty. I put it on and stand in front of Marco’s full-length mirror. It’s tucked into his huge closet—which is entirely too big for the man who only wears black suits, exercise clothing, and barely there boxers.
Last weekend, he claimed it “just made sense” to move my things in here while I stay with him. You know, since he has all this extra space…
The memory of his gruff, muttered explanation and embarrassed flush puts an almost-smug smile on my face. I’ve been at Marco’s place for three whole weeks and—despite the paparazzi losing interest in my apartment—he has vehemently argued every time I suggested going back to my own place.
I’d maybe start to suspect he simply wants me to stay, but Marco has also proven truly fanatical about my protection.
My phone buzzes with a FaceTime call, and I swipe at the screen without looking away from my reflection, assuming it’s Tris. She was supposed to call me an hour ago.
“Alice!”
My mother’s shriek freezes the blood in my veins. I instantly have to fight the urge to duck and hide.
“M-mama?”
Sure enough, when I peer at the screen wedged in my hand, there’s my mother. Wearing a pink wrap dress, holding a martini in her manicured hand. Glaring at me.
Gulping, I glance around, trying to figure out which wall looks the most like my own apartment. But it’s a lost cause. This is clearly a man’s place. And I’m obviously in his closet.
A nauseating thrill darts through me when I realize there’s nothing to be done. She’s going to disapprove… and I don’t care.
She huffs around the rim of her glass as she takes a fortifying sip. “Well, now I see why you’ve been avoiding me. Are you still in that man’s apartment? It’s been weeks, Alice. And you haven’t fixed your hair yet, either?!”
She’s right when she assumes I’m avoiding her. More than anything, I didn’t want to explain Marco.
She knew about Tony… and then I had to tell her how and why it ended. Given how much better Marco is than Tony in every category, I’m terrified of what she’ll say about Marco’s interest in me. Especially once she sees a picture of him and finds out just how out of my league I truly am.
I angle the screen away from his belongings, digging deep to find the insane burst of courage I had seconds before. Drawing from it. “I-I like the curls, Mama. I’m g-going to keep them.”
Her painted pink lips pucker while she rakes her eyes down what little of me she can see. “Is that a cocktail dress?” she demands. “Where are you going in a dress on a Friday night, anyway? Do you have an event?”
I repress a wince. “I have a dinner,” I hedge, trying to avoid the word date. “And I have to leave in a few minutes, so…”
She starts to offer some unsolicited opinion just as the bedroom doors open. Oh dear sweet heavens. It can’t be—
“Alice?” Marco’s deep timbre reverberates as he approaches the closet. He sounds irritated.
Wide-eyed, I snap my head to the side. My grip on my phone turns clammy. “Is that him?” my mother asks, putting her glass down with a clank. “The man who has you over at his place so often?”
My mouth gapes while I try to scrape out words. An explanation for Mama. A warning to Marco. An excuse to slam the closet door or end the call. Something. Anything.
But, of course, it’s me. So nothing comes out.
Marco appears on the threshold, looking ridiculously handsome in a thin black sweater, black slacks, and an open camel-colored coat. Even set in a ferocious frown, his face could steal my breath. If I were breathing.
“Alice,” he starts, not realizing I’m on a call. “Sorry I’m late, sweet girl. Traffic was a nightmare and—”
“Alice Lillian Moore!” I cringe as my mother’s tinny voice bursts from the phone speaker. “Who is this man? And don’t even think about lying to me! I can see you.”
Marco’s eyes fly to mine. Your mom? he mouths.
Again, I have no words. I barely manage a weak nod. Mama sees me silently respond to someone off the screen and starts up again. Addressing Marco directly, to my horror.
“Young man!” she calls, shrill. “I can hear you! It is unconscionably rude to interrupt a conversation without even bothering to introduce yourself.”
The easy resignation that falls over Marco’s face surprises me. He doesn’t seem angry to have to deal with my mother. Instead of rolling his eyes or fleeing, he places a steady hand on my shoulder and steps into the space behind my body.
“Mrs. Moore,” he says, looking into the screen and ignoring the sour look on Mama’s face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Marco Amir.”
Mama visibly startles. Shock fills her face while she examines his. Seeing, of course, how horribly outmatched I am.
“It’s Mrs. Campbell,” she snaps. “Mrs. Richard Campbell.” As if that means anything to anyone outside their silly country club. “Are you the man my daughter has been seeing, Marco Amir?”
She sneers his name as if it’s an insult. Her creamy features pinch as much as her Botox will allow.
Marco subtly squares his shoulders, arching his brow. “I am,” he replies, brusque but calm. Brokering no argument. “And I’m the only man she will be seeing for as long as she’ll have me.”
My insides flutter and liquefy. I can’t help but turn my face up to his, seeking the solid sincerity I know I’ll find in his dark eyes. When it glints at me, surrounded by steely resolve, I almost smile.
My mom chooses that moment to scoff.
I expect her reaction. Really, I do. I’ve dreaded it for weeks, knowing that she’d balk the second she heard a gorgeous, successful, intelligent man had set his sights on me.
So I’m not sure why watching her gasp and then smirk—because, clearly, this has to be a joke—hurts me so deeply.
But it does. Her scornful face hits my heart like a bullet, ripping straight through to the other side. Marco watches my features crumple on the screen and immediately forgets about my mom. He pivots to me, reaching one hand up to cup my cheek.
My mother says something else, but I don’t hear it. I’ve fallen into Marco’s clear, bottomless eyes. They tighten when he reads my expression. She’s upsetting you. Let me tell her to go to hell.
I subtly shake my head. That will just make it worse for me later.
I don’t miss the way his jaw hardens as he turns to the screen wedged in my frozen fist. His body stays angled toward mine in a distinctly intimate way. My mother notes his stance with another scathing scowl.
“Exactly how long have you two known each other?” she asks, the very picture of indignation. “A proper gentleman would have introduced himself to me before pursuing my daughter.”
She looks offended, but her tone still holds the same mocking edge. Like, at any moment, I will admit this is all an elaborate prank and she needs to be able to say she knew it all along.
Marco stares back at her, undeterred. “I believe it’s been about six weeks. We met through work. Alice is coordinating an event for my employer.”
Mama’s tweezed blonde brows arch. “Your employer,” she repeats, acidic. “And who might that be? Alice doesn’t have any clients.”
The hand on my shoulder squeezes; a gesture of pride. “Actually, I think she’s up to four now, right, sweetheart?” The look he shoots me would be conspiratorial and amused, if not for the hard edge of his tense jaw. “But I work for her largest client. Grayson Stryker.”
Of course my mother knows I have the Stryker wedding.
She only said I don’t have any clients because she “doesn’t count” Ella as a “real” client due to our friendship.
I would have told her about the other commissions that have started rolling in, but anytime I bring up another bride, she cuts me off.
It’s part of her constant crusade to convince me to get “an actual job.”
Mama leans back and regards Marco with a supercilious air, narrowing her made-up eyes. “And what is it you do for him?”
The outright insult instantly knocks me out of my stupor. “Mother!” I cry, aghast. “Don’t speak to Marco that way! He—he’s—”
Marco’s expression turns utterly flat, aside from the anger burning in his gaze. He runs his hand down my back in a comforting caress. “It’s okay, sweet girl,” he murmurs.
A sardonic smile touches his stern lips. “Actually, Mrs. Campbell, I’m an executive at Stryker he only uses it when he’s teasing me or being unbearably romantic. I can’t tell which it is, at the moment. But I love it.
“Of course,” I smile back, only sparing my mom one final glance. “We have to go, Mama. Call you later.”
She starts to reply, but I hit the end button, dropping the phone to the floor like it burns my palm. Marco stares at it for a long second before he scoops me into his arms and turns to his bed. “Come here.”