Chapter 18
(Marcus POV)
The office was too quiet after she left. Papers in neat stacks, her scent still clinging in the air. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face when she said: Not today. Say it out loud.
I’d handled million-dollar deals, storms that wiped out crops, machinery breaking down at the worst possible time. I always had a solution. Always had control.
But her? She was the one problem I couldn’t solve by force.
If I wanted her to trust me, I had to give her the one thing I’d never given anyone else. My control. My pride.
So I sat down at my desk, tugged my belt loose, shoved my pants down to my ankles. Christ, if the crew barged in now, I’d never live it down. But that was the point. This wasn’t about control. It was about showing her I was willing to look ridiculous just to win her back.
I grabbed a sheet of printer paper, scrawled the words big and black: I’m trying.
Propped it up over myself, angled the camera, snapped the photo.
For a second I stared at it, shaking my head. The Marcus Hale I’d been a month ago would’ve rather set himself on fire than do something this stupid. But for her? I hit send.
The phone buzzed a minute later. Three dots appeared, vanished, came back. Finally, her reply lit the screen.
God, Marcus.
A beat.
You’re insane.
Another beat.
But you made me laugh.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Progress. Not forgiveness. Not trust. But a crack in the wall she’d put up between us.
And for now, that was enough.
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(Aria POV)
I sat cross-legged on my bed, staring at my phone like it was some kind of miracle. The picture sat there in my messages. Marcus Hale, pants around his ankles, a sheet of printer paper propped in front of him like a middle school science project. I’m trying.
God help me, I smiled. No, I laughed. Out loud. Alone in my room like an idiot.
Because it was ridiculous. Because it was unlike him. Because it was exactly what I needed after the way he’d gutted me earlier.
I tapped the photo again, biting my lip, warmth blooming in my chest. He wasn’t untouchable. Not with me.
My fingers flew over the screen before I could overthink. I snapped a picture of the menu from the little Italian place downtown, the one with the handwritten chalkboard and checkered tablecloths. Then I typed:
I canceled. Take me to dinner tonight. Just dinner! Or your picture goes viral
I hit send, heart racing, already half-regretting it.
The typing dots popped up almost instantly.
Marcus: You wouldn’t dare.
Me: Try me.
Marcus: You’re trouble.
Me: Always.
Marcus: Pick you up at seven?
Me: Are you crazy? One step at a time. Meet you there.
I set the phone down, grinning, nerves buzzing through me.
The ball was in my court now. And for once, Marcus Hale had no choice but to play my game.
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(Aria POV)
The little Italian place was already buzzing when I walked in. The warm smell of garlic and bread wrapping around me like a hug. Checkered tablecloths, and wine bottles stuck with half-melted candles. It was more cozy than chic, but my pulse still jumped like I’d walked into a gala.
Because Marcus was already here.
Black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open at his throat. He looked too big for the narrow table, too sharp for the soft lamplight. When his eyes lifted and found me, the rest of the room disappeared.
I slid into the chair across from him, tossing my hair like I wasn’t rattled. “So. Dinner.”
“Just dinner,” he said, lips curving like he didn’t believe it for a second.
The waiter came, dropped menus, rattled off specials. I ordered pasta. Marcus ordered steak. Wine was offered, then politely refused, me underage, him too controlled. The server left us alone in the golden hush.
“You look…” His gaze swept me once, slowly, deliberately. “Beautiful.”
Heat flared up my neck. “Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
His mouth twitched. “Don’t push your luck.”
We talked or tried to. About the winery, about numbers, about the weather. But every time his hand brushed the table, my fingers ached to close the distance. Every time his knee shifted under the cloth, mine seemed to drift closer.
At one point, I twirled pasta onto my fork, felt sauce slip onto my chin. Before I could reach for a napkin, Marcus leaned forward, thumb brushing my skin, wiping it away with infuriating tenderness.
My breath caught.
“Messy,” he murmured.
“Bossy,” I shot back, but softer than I meant.
The waiter returned with more bread, interrupting the moment. When he left again, Marcus’s hand found my knee beneath the table. Warm. Steady.
I froze, pulse hammering, then glanced at him. His expression was unreadable, but his thumb traced a slow circle over the fabric of my dress.
“Marcus…” I whispered.
He leaned in, close enough that his breath fluttered my ear. “Just dinner.” But his hand didn’t move.
The check came too soon. Marcus paid it without looking at the total, sliding bills into the leather folder like the numbers didn’t matter. The only numbers that mattered were the ones thrumming in my veins. One heartbeat, two, three… each one louder when his knee brushed mine under the table.
He stood, pulled my chair back like a gentleman, but when his hand brushed the small of my back, I knew. Gentleman wasn’t the whole story.
Outside, the night was warm, the street quiet. My car was parked at the far end, his truck closer. We stopped between them, the hush pressing in.
“Just dinner,” I said, breaking the silence, my voice thinner than I wanted.
“Just dinner,” he agreed. But his eyes were darker than the sky.
I should have walked away. Should have waved, climbed into my car, and driven home. But my feet wouldn’t move. Neither would his.
Then his hand slid around my waist, pulling me closer. My breath caught, my body melting into his like it had been waiting.
“Marcus…” The rest was swallowed by his mouth on mine.
It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t gentle. It was hunger held back too long, crashing into me all at once. His hand cupped the back of my head, angling me, taking me, and I let him. God, I wanted him to.
By the time he broke away, I was breathless, lips tingling, heart pounding so hard I thought it might crack my ribs.
He pressed his forehead to mine, breath rough. “Just dinner,” he whispered again.
But we both knew it was a lie.
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(Marcus POV)
Her taste was still on my lips when I slid behind the wheel of my truck. Most men would’ve been cursing themselves, fists tight on the steering wheel, swearing they’d gone too far. Again.
Not me.
I laughed. Low, quiet, shaking my head like I couldn’t believe it. Because she’d said “just dinner,” and I’d kissed her anyway. Because she hadn’t pulled back. Because she was fire and nerve and smarter than I gave her credit for. I’d never wanted anyone more.
She thought she had the upper hand. Sending me threats, making demands, telling me one step at a time. Good. Let her.
Because the truth was, I liked it. I liked that she didn’t fold easily. I liked that she made me work. I liked that she had teeth.
And God help me, I liked the game.
The key was still in her bag. The photos were still in my phone. The kiss was still burning between us. The season wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
And I intended to win.