Chapter Fourteen
Wren
My eyes slowly flutter open.
Lemon-colored daylight fills the room, coating the bed, the chest of drawers, and the chair, all of which I’ve never seen before.
My mouth is completely devoid of moisture and tastes disgusting. My head has a whole drum set playing inside it.
Slowly, I sit up, groaning. I look around, puzzled. Where am I? And how on earth did I get here?
I push myself up the bed so I’m leaning against the pillows and look around. I’m in a big bedroom, high up, judging by the view, which looks down on the Auckland CBD. The Harbour Bridge is in the background.
The room is elegantly decorated with pale walls and navy bedding. There are, however, red rose petals scattered across the bed and all over the carpet.
Eyes widening, I look at the bedside table, at the vase of roses and the champagne in the bucket of what was presumably ice last night but is water now.
I look down at myself. I’m wearing a T-shirt that’s way too big for me. It smells faintly of masculine cologne.
Next to me, there’s a Marcus-sized dent in the bed.
Slowly, the day before comes back to me. The beautiful wedding. The relief and joy when I saw Marcus standing there, so handsome in his dark suit. Saying ‘I do’ in front of my family and friends. And through it all, Marcus’s intense gaze focused entirely on me.
My nerves grew as the evening wore on. There was dancing, and champagne. A flutter in my stomach every time I looked at him and saw him watching more. More dancing, and more champagne.
The memories become blurry toward the end. Saying goodbye to everyone, and getting in the car. A dreamy drive through Auckland, with a quiet Marcus by my side. And then arriving at the apartment… Did he carry me up? I’m sure he lifted me into his arms at one point.
I remember sitting on the bed and getting tearful. I think I told him I was nervous. And he said, “I know.”
I asked him to stay. The dent suggests he did. But he’s not here now.
I press shaking fingers to my mouth. God, how can I have been such an idiot? I just meant to take the edge off my nerves, not make myself comatose.
It’s only then that I look at the other bedside table. A glass of orange juice and a bottle of water sit there next to what looks like two Panadol.
With a groan, I roll over, fetch them, and knock them back with half of the juice in one go. Ahhh… that’s better. And now I need to pee.
I get up and walk a little unsteadily into the bathroom. It’s only afterward when I’m washing my hands that I look at the mirror and see my wedding dress hanging on the back of the door.
Marcus helped me take it off, I remember now. Oh God.
I dry my hands, my heart hammering. I remember him lifting it over my head and helping me on with the T-shirt. But he didn’t touch me. And when I asked him to kiss me, he brushed his lips against my forehead.
I look at my reflection. I didn’t take off my makeup last night, and my mascara is all smudged. I need my backpack.
Returning to the bedroom, I discover both my case and the backpack by the door. Well, that’s something.
To one side, a door stands closed. I open it cautiously and peer in.
Wow, it’s a walk-in wardrobe. I go in and wander around.
It’s full of men’s clothes. A variety of suits and shirts on hangers, a few dozen ties, folded T-shirts, jeans and shorts, a few racks of shoes…
I look at the large watches displayed in a box, some of which I recognize, and the tray of cufflinks and tie pins.
The whole room bears the faint scent of a masculine cologne.
Ohhh… this is Marcus’s bedroom.
I hesitate, wondering if I should go and find him. But I look a mess, my mouth tastes awful, and I need a shower. My mind made up, I go into the bathroom, nibble my thumbnail for a moment, then lock the door.
Now that I know I won’t be interrupted, I take a quick shower, dress in jeans and a loose white shirt, clean up my face and apply a little light makeup, and towel dry my hair.
I check my phone; it’s not quite eight a.m. Feeling a bit more human, I open the door, then walk down the corridor toward what I assume is the living room, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet.
Pausing in the doorway, I look around the apartment. It’s huge! The large windows of the living area look to the north and east, with a magnificent view of the CBD, Waitematā Harbour, the Harbour Bridge, and the North Shore in the distance. Ohhh… I think we’re in the penthouse.
What am I saying… of course Marcus would have the penthouse.
The vast living room leads to a dining area with a long glass table and eight chairs, and beyond it, a tiled area with an outdoor suite.
There’s also a smaller, round table, and Marcus is sitting there, studying his phone and sipping from a takeaway coffee cup.
A plate of croissants, butter, and preserves sits on the table, and my stomach rumbles.
He’s wearing jeans and a light-blue polo shirt, and I can see his hair is damp, so he’s obviously had a shower, too. He’s stretched out his long legs, and his feet, propped on the chair opposite, are bare like mine. He looks young, healthy, gorgeous, and sexy.
And I’m married to him. Oh dear God.
He looks up then and scans the room. I fight the urge to retreat into the shadows, and eventually he sees me. Surprise registers on his face, and he springs to his feet and comes inside.
I walk into the living room and meet him halfway.
“Good morning,” he says with a warm smile. “I didn’t expect to see you for another hour or two. How are you doing?”
“A little delicate, but I’m okay.” I slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans, my shoulders hunching automatically.
He notices, but he doesn’t say anything. “Coffee?” he asks instead.
I give a heartfelt sigh. “Please.”
He goes into the kitchen and busies himself with turning on the machine and making one.
I hover by the counter. I feel awkward and embarrassed about what happened last night.
It was his wedding day. He would have been expecting a romantic finale.
And instead, I drank too much and passed out.
He has every right to be mad, or at least to be pissed off and sulk, but he just glances at me and smiles.
When he finishes the coffee, he picks it up and says, “Come outside. It’s a lovely morning.”
We go out onto the balcony, and I sit opposite him. He gestures at the croissants, and I choose one, break off a piece, smear it with butter, and eat it.
“Good girl,” he says. “It’ll make you feel better.”
I give him a wry look at the endearment. He just lifts his eyebrows. I have a mouthful of coffee and stifle a groan as the hot liquid slides down, grounding me.
It’s no good; I have to say something. “Mars, I want to apologize for last night.”
He tips his head to the side. “You’ve nothing to apologize for.”
“Oh come on… the rose petals? The champagne? I know what you were expecting, and I’m sorry I didn’t fulfill my end of the bargain.”
He fixes me with a direct gaze. “I’ve waited ten years. I can wait one more night. It wasn’t a problem.”
I remove a flake of croissant from my lip with my tongue. His gaze drops to watch before returning to mine, a fraction hotter.
My pulse picks up a little. It’s odd, having this strange power over a man.
I’ve never experienced it before. I’m only now beginning to realize how lackluster my relationship with Cory truly was.
He never looked at me the way Marcus does—with a gaze like a blowtorch, searing through me.
With eyes that suggest he’s thinking about me naked, his mind running through options of what he wants to do to me, discarding some, and adding new ones to the list.
I suppose the fact that I turned him down is like catnip to a man who negotiates international business deals for a living. He’s not used to being told no, and it’s created a ten-year-long obsession that he’s determined to see through to the end.
And then what? I tear my gaze away from his and look out at the view. Nothing’s changed. I still need to think of this as an arrangement. When I get what I came for, I can decide then what I want to do going forward.
He changes the subject, asking me whether I’ve been to Cambridge before, and I tell him that I haven’t, as when I’ve visited Clare in Wellington I’ve always flown, so I haven’t had the chance to explore much of the area.
He leans back, chatting about the journey, and my tension gradually dissipates as I realize he’s trying to help me relax. Last night might have been a mistake on my part, but he doesn’t seem angry about it.
“When do you want to leave?” I ask, finishing off my coffee.
“As soon as we’re ready. I think you might feel better once we’re at the farm. It’s less…” He thinks about what word to use. “Intimidating, maybe.”
I nod. “You’re probably right. My uncle—my mum’s brother—has a farm, and Clare and I used to go there as kids.”
“Great,” he says, “so you know what to expect. Well, shall we?”
Part of me had wondered whether he was going to suggest we return to the bedroom, and I feel a rush of relief at the thought that he wants to wait.
He says he has a quick phone call to make, so I take the opportunity to collect my case and backpack, carefully fold my wedding dress and pack it, brush my teeth, and pull on my sandals, and then he joins me, sliding his feet into his Converse sneakers.
We collect our bags, and head out of the apartment and down in the elevator to the car park.
To my surprise, Marcus loads our cases into the boot—not of the dark-gray Bentley, but into a silver Bentley Continental GTC.
“The second love of my life,” he states, putting my backpack on the back seat.
“After the other Bentley?” I confirm as we get in.
He just laughs, starts it, and presses a button to lower the soft top, giving me an impish smile that suggests he still isn’t immune to the delights of owning a convertible. Within a few minutes, we’re on the road, heading toward State Highway 1.