8. Chapter 8 Marcus
Chapter 8: Marcus
I shouldn't go back.
The memory of Daisy's skin under my hands kept me awake all night. The way she tasted, those little sounds she made when I kissed her.
"Stop." I grip the workbench, trying to clear my head.
Scout whines from his bed in the corner of my workshop. The traitor had followed me to the Trading Post last night, then came home looking mighty pleased with himself.
"This is not going to happen," I tell him.
He thumps his tail against the floor, as Luna wanders over to him and slumps down.
How the hell do I now own two dogs?
It's already dark. I should stay here, work on the commission pieces that are actually paying my bills. Definitely not drive down the mountain to torture myself with something I can't have.
Fuck it.
"It’s just work," I mutter, grabbing my tools. "Nothing else."
Scout's already at the door, Luna beside him.
"You're not coming." But they both give me that look. "Fine. But behave."
The drive down is familiar. I've made the drive at midnight for months, checking on the furniture I couldn't bear to see sold off. Now Daisy owns them all, and somehow that makes it worse.
The Trading Post's lights are on. Of course, she's waiting. She knew I would be back.
I park out back, taking a moment to steel myself. Then I see her through the window.
Christ.
She's wearing my flannel again, but this time with worn jeans with holes in interesting places. Her hair's piled up, exposing her neck. She's got sawdust on her cheek and she's singing along to some pop song, dancing as she works.
Scout barks before I can stop him.
She spins, face lighting up. "You came!" She opens the door and the two dogs spill inside and I follow, with my tools. Like there was ever any doubt. Like I could stay away.
"Said I would."
She bites her lip. “About last night?”
"We're not talking about that."
"No?" She moves closer. "Because I've been thinking about it all day."
My hands clench around the toolbox. "Daisy."
"Fine." But her eyes promise trouble. "Show me how to restore this table properly."
I set up my supplies, trying to focus. "First we need to strip the old finish. Years of polish build-up needs to go."
"Sounds dirty." She grins at my glare. "Sorry. Couldn't resist."
"This is serious work."
"Oh, I'm very serious." She rolls up her sleeves – my sleeves – exposing delicate wrists. "Teach me."
God help me.
I demonstrate the proper stripping technique, trying to ignore how she watches my hands. "Gentle pressure. Let the chemicals do the work."
She takes the tool, mimicking my movements. Her technique is good, but her angle's off.
Before I can think better of it, I step behind her. "Like this."
My hands cover hers, adjusting her grip. She feels small against me, fitting perfectly under my chin. Her vanilla scent fills my head as I guide her movements.
"Smooth strokes," I murmur. "Feel the grain."
She shivers. "The wood or you?"
"Daisy." I growl.
I should step back, but I love the feel of her against me. I help her finish the section, and her breath catches when my thumbs brush her wrists.
"Tell me about these carvings," she asks. "The stories in them."
My hands still on hers. "My grandfather carved what he saw in his dreams. Said the mountains spoke to him."
"And you?"
"I carve what haunts me."
She leans back against my chest. "The war?" My hands itch to slide under the shirt, to run my nose up the column of her throat.
"Sometimes." I close my eyes, breathing her in. "Sometimes older ghosts."
"Show me?"
I guide her fingers over the pattern. "This wolf pack running through winter storms. I made it after my first tour, when sleep was... difficult."
"Beautiful," she whispers.
"Dangerous."
"Maybe that's what makes it beautiful."
Her head turns, bringing her mouth inches from mine. The air thickens between us.
"Marcus?"
"Hmm?"
"If you don't kiss me again soon, I might scream."
My laugh is rusty. "No one will hear you.”
Her hand comes up, cupping my scarred cheek. "You're allowed to want things, you know."
"Not this. Not you."
"Why not?"
Because you're light and I'm darkness. Because you'll run when you see who I really am. Because I can't bear to watch you flinch.
"Because," I say instead, "we have work to do."
She sighs but lets me step back. "Fine. Show me the next step."
We work in charged silence, restoring inch by inch. I demonstrate techniques, she follows. Sometimes our hands brush. Sometimes she stands too close. Always, that vanilla scent teases me.
"The finish is original," I say, desperate for safe topics. "We'll need to match it exactly."
"How?"
I pull out my grandfather's recipe book. The leather's worn soft with age.
Her eyes light up. "Family secrets?"
"Five generations worth."
She takes it reverently, fingers tracing the handwritten notes. "Thank you for sharing this with me."
The simple sincerity in her voice undoes me. "Christ you are killing me."
She stands before me, head tilting back, as she tries to look me in the eyes. Her body is open for the taking and she has made it clear she wants me. So, what the hell is holding me back?
"I see you, Marcus Steel." Her eyes meet mine as she points her finger into my chest as if to make a point. "The real you. Under the scars and the growling and the self-imposed exile. I see the man who rescues dogs and checks on furniture and carries his grandfather's secrets."
My chest aches. "You see what you want to see."
"No." She steps closer and stands on tip toes. "I see what you try to hide. The artist. The protector. The man who kisses like he's dying of thirst."
Heat floods my veins. "Don't."
"Why? Because it's true?" She winds her arms around my neck. "Because you felt it too?"
"Daisy." Final warning.
"Marcus." Challenge accepted.
She's too close. That vanilla scent surrounds me, mixed with wood and chemicals and woman. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.
"Please," she whispers.
I break.
My hands cup her face, thumbs stroking her cheeks. But I don't kiss her. Just hold her there, foreheads touching, breathing her air.
"You make me want impossible things," I confess roughly.
"Nothing's impossible." Her fingers curl in my shirt. "Just improbable."
"This can't—"
A truck door slams outside.
We spring apart as Jake's voice carries through the night. "Marcus? You here? We've got a situation."
Daisy swears creatively.
"Stay here," I order, already moving to the door.
"Like hell."
I'm gone before she can follow, the taste of almost on my tongue. Some things are better left as maybes. Even if they taste like coming home.