18. Brooke
Chapter eighteen
Brooke
My arm lands hard as I turn in my sleep, waking me. Clearly that was not the mattress. I squint my eyes open. They’re distracted by the hotel clock first. 4:08. I know that’s only one back home, but still. Noticing my hand on Marcus’ thigh, I pull it back into my own bubble before taking him in. His fingers are frozen mid-typing, and his eyes are locked on my movement. God, he’s hot when he’s wearing his black frame glasses. “What are you doing?” I ask groggily, glancing at the screen. Even with the brightness turned down, it glares at me. Even if my eyes could adjust quickly, I’d still have zero idea what he was doing. My guess is coding? Because in my head, I picture coding to look like a bunch of hieroglyphics, and this looks just as unreadable. This man is brilliant. But also, maybe a workaholic.
“Working. Did I wake you?”
I shake my head, curling my hands beneath my face on my pillow and gazing up at the way the dim computer light makes his handsome face glow and hoping it’s not clear that I was having a dream about him. It wasn’t inappropriate or anything–at least it hadn’t gotten there yet . Surely it’s only because I’m sleeping in bed just inches from him. “No. Just restless.” I tug the comforter down, leaving me covered only by the sheet and Marcus’ shirt. God, it smells so good. I take a sneaky deep breath of the fabric, reveling in the way the sandalwood calms me the way you’d expect lavender to.
Marcus glances at the clock, and I use the second to my advantage to scan him. My gaze catches on the script along his bicep, barely below the hem of his T-shirt sleeve. Sisu. “What does that mean?”
He follows my gaze. “It’s Finnish,” he says, closing his laptop, the light in the room disappearing as it clicks. Setting it on the bedside table, he adjusts, scooting down on the bed until his face is close to mine. I can feel him despite my eyes not adjusting to the darkness yet. “It’s a core element of one’s psyche. There’s no direct translation, but in essence, it means, ‘the drive and courage to see a goal through to the end, one step at a time.’”
“So . . . fortitude?” Sometimes I think Marcus is way too smart for me. I only know this word because of my love for One Tree Hill .
“Similar. Fortitude refers to the actual strength of the mind in the face of adversity. Sisu is essentially the spirit of someone who embodies tenacity, and it’s activated when we feel we couldn’t possibly handle any more.”
“Maybe you could elaborate on that a little bit so I understand better.” Part of me thinks I should feel stupid for asking, but I’m so curious, and Marcus has never spoken to me like I’m dumb.
He nods, a faint smile gracing his lips. “Sisu is a visceral energy that resides deep inside you and fuels your grit, creating your ability to surpass your preconceived limitations. It’s usually harnessed in the face of adversity by accessing this stored-up energy or spirit to get you through any endeavor in life, even if you have no idea how you’ll make it to the end.”
I think that's the most words he’s ever strung together in my presence. It’s like my interest unlocked his talkative side. When I was younger, I had this impression that being part of a world with other business owners could be collaborative–the whole idea that you’re a combination of the people you spend the most time with, so you want to surround yourself with people always asking questions, learning and growing. But since working alongside Beau, I’ve seen first hand that more often than not, everything is competitive, and no one is willing to learn at the cost of looking unintelligent. Something tells me that Marcus thinks willingness to learn is a sign of intelligence instead. “Oh, okay. That makes sense. Why did you get it?”
Silence.
I let it hang there. Maybe I was totally off base. I’m prepared to let go of the conversation and fall asleep if he’s not comfortable telling me, but still, I breathe slowly and wait.
“My senior year of high school, I created an app. I knew it worked and that it was brilliant, but I was too young to know what to do with it. All I knew was that I wanted to help my parents pay for my tuition and thought maybe I could sell it. I placed my trust in the wrong person.”
A small gasp leaves me. “What happened?”
“They stole it.”
“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m more diligent now. Prepared. Organized. Cautious.”
“You didn’t fight back? Didn’t you work hard on the app? I can’t imagine it’s easy. ”
“It took me two years to code. But I didn’t get a copyright or have proof that it was mine first. I had no leg to stand on.”
“I would have been so upset. Debilitatingly so.”
He chuckles. “There might be a laptop in a dumpster somewhere serving as collateral damage.”
“So, what did you do?”
“I came up with another idea and made a new app.”
“You say it like it was easy.”
“Anything but. I didn’t see another choice, though. One day at a time. One decision. Week after week until I figured it out and got it done. That’s why I got this. It’s a permanent reminder that I can tap into sisu whenever I need to so my life and dreams can continue on the path I’ve chosen.”
“Wow. I love that,” I whisper in the dark, wishing I could see him better. “You probably think me acting like my mom is some insurmountable mountain is ridiculous then. Not a real problem.”
“Adversity is subjective. We’re all entitled to our triggers and challenges based on our experiences. It’s more about how we overcome them that defines us.”
I keep my hands to myself despite their urge to reach for him as if I could extract my own sisu from his. I should feel pathetic hoping he’s my lifeboat, but I don’t. I feel hope that I can turn this situation around.
He holds my gaze in the dark, the glow of the hotel clock the only thing casting light across his face. The way he doesn’t close his eyes and lets them scan my face draws me closer to him. As if I’m possessed, I reach to touch his arm. The way he’s laying with his hands under his face like a pillow, the tattooed part of his skin isn’t even visible, but I brush my fingers along the outer edge of his bicep anyway. He doesn’t flinch. His skin just feels warm under my touch .
“It already exists inside you too, you know,” he tells me.
“You think so?” I whisper.
“Positive.” He speaks with certainty like he’s known me my whole life.
Against my rational thoughts, I let my fingers wander. They slowly scan his arm–down his bicep, along the crook of his elbow, brushing over his forearm to where his face rests on his hands. He doesn’t follow my touch–rather keeps his gaze on me, his emotions untelling. My pinky nearly links with his, my hand ending its journey near his mouth. Holy shit, I want him to kiss me. I want his fingers in my hair. I pull my hand away like my thoughts lit his skin on fire.
“Goodnight, Marcus,” I whisper, turning over, away from him.
He’s close enough behind me that I feel his breath on my hair when he returns the sentiment.
A glow from behind me is the only light in the room when I crack my eyes open. In my line of sight, the curtains over the window are pinched together by the pant clasp of a coat hanger to prevent daylight from seeping through. That’s a neat hack. My vision is blurry with a film of sleep. I wipe it away and turn slowly, taking in the way Marcus’ laptop screen lights his face. Again? Already? Does this man ever sleep? Or do anything besides work? His hair is pulled back neat where his head leans against the headboard, his black shirt fairly tight against his chest.
He glances over at my movement .
“Morning,” I manage with a raspy voice.
“Morning,” he says, his deep first words of the day tone doing something to my insides. It’s so foreign, us being together in bed. Yet, it’s casual, like we’ve done it a hundred times. Why is he working so much, though?
“I thought you were on vacation?”
He glances at me again before focusing back on his screen. “You were sleeping. Might as well be productive.”
“You don’t know how to rest, do you?”
“I like work.”
“Uh-huh.” I sit, tugging the edge of his shirt down before sliding out of bed to get ready.
“What’s the plan for today?” he asks. When I glance up from where I’m ruffling through my suitcase on the floor, his fingers are still hovering over the keyboard like he intends to keep writing.
“My mom is working a wedding. She’s in charge of catering, so after she yells at a bunch of people, she’ll have time to meet us for lunch. I thought maybe after that I could show you around the club? I kind of hate it there, but it is where I grew up. You probably don’t care about that, though. Today is mostly a free day.”
“I’d love to see it.” He hesitates, but then closes his laptop.
“Okay. It really is beautiful. And I can show you all the places I used to hide from Mom.” I chuckle, excited to show him the disabled laundry elevator shaft and wondering if I’ll still fit in it.
“Can’t wait. How fancy is this place? Does it matter what I wear?”
“It’s faaaaancy. I should probably wear a dress, but no thanks. I’ll wear this.” I pull out a sheer loose-fitting white tank that I plan to french tuck into my jeans from my bag. “Your usual is perfect.”
With my clothes in one hand and my curling iron in the other, I retreat to the bathroom.
Thirty minutes later, I rejoin Marcus in the room. He’s in the same position he was to sleep in, but fully clothed now. Black jeans are tight around his bulky thighs and his feet are crossed at the ankle. He’s swapped out a typical gray T-shirt for a button-up rolled to his elbows.
He looks up from his computer resting on his lap again, his eyes narrowing as they take me in. “You look . . . different.”
I’d take offense, but I know I do. I curled my hair and put on more makeup than just light sunscreen foundation and mascara. I did the whole blush and smokey eye thing. The shades of rose I chose do make the green in my eyes pop, but it doesn’t feel like me . “Yeah, well. Not wearing a dress will give my mom enough to complain about. The makeup and hair are the compromises I’m willing to make.”
“And the nails.”
He noticed my nails? It’s something I also hate making time for, but I knew Mom would drag me to the salon as soon as I got here if they weren’t done already. She always says no man will ever believe in my ability to help him if I don’t take my working hands seriously. Whatever the hell that means. “Yeah, those too.”
“For the record, I like the waves better.”
Whether it’s to make me feel better or the truth, I grin. “Thanks. It’s this sea salt spray that gives the same effect as the ocean in Thailand.” I went through seven until I found the perfect one. I can’t help but smile at the discovery. A piece of Thai Brooke that’s easy to hold onto .
“A glimmer?” he asks, closing his laptop and sliding it off him to stand from the bed.
“Definitely. You ready?”
“I updated my will in case I don’t survive lunch with the devil. So, I’m ready as I’ll ever be.”
Laughing, I look over my shoulder on the way out the door. “Don’t worry, she prefers slow torture over a quick death. You’ve got plenty more days left in you.”