Page 27 of Best Man Speaking

Hallie:I bet that’s what you tell all the girls.

Marcus:Hurry up, Hallie.

I give myself as little time to think as possible. Wearing black leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, I’m not exactly dressed to impress. Taking my phone and my cup of tea with me, I move out the door and across the lawn. I don’t bother to mask my curiosity at the fact I’m going to see inside Marcus’s home. The back sliding door is open. Inside, off-white walls and shiny timber floors welcome me, bouncing warm light around the room.

“I noticed Layla and Jason didn’t make it back to the site today,” Marcus states blandly.

He moves around the kitchen, unloading his dishwasher, as if my being in his space were the most normal thing in the world.

As if we hadn’t come to verbal blows just a few hours ago.

“You were right,” I admit begrudgingly. “They really are great kids.”

“And did they manage to complete at least three tasks before tormenting one another?”

“Three exactly. But the tormenting was done fairly quietly, and they both gave as much as they got. For teenagers, they could be a whole lot worse.”

Marcus looks up at me with a shadow of a smile. “I’d put money on Jason being the biggest softie on my site most days—a giant marshmallow, that kid. Layla’s the only one who brings any kind of temper out in him.”

“It seems that if anything, she drags a little more life out of him,” I say, thinking of the way Jason had progressively gotten more confident in response to Layla.

“Oh, I know. I’ve asked them both on separate occasions if they would rather work apart, but they’re adamant they’re fine.”He shrugs. “Now I just use it to my advantage to get the best out of them in a working day.”

Marcus flips on his coffee machine, and taking a mug from the cupboard above, he gestures it toward me.

“No, thanks. I brought my own,” I say, raising my own mug to him. I’m glad I have something in my hands to fuss over.

Or, you know, something in my hands to throw at him.

Whatever comes first, really.

I’m wary of how calm he is, of the lack of heat in the moment, especially after our call earlier today.

Each time we’ve shared a space or had a simple conversation, there’ve been sparks—a zing that’s both incredibly uncomfortable and highly pleasurable. Its absence is disconcerting.

I move about his home with ravenous eyes, mostly so I stop focusing on how good he looks in sweatpants and a well-worn black T-shirt. The space is open, allowing me to stay in his line of sight the whole time.

I take my time looking at a few artfully arranged photos in the hallway, all of them black-and-white prints of faraway destinations.

Large frames hang in contrast to the white walls: Petra in all its ancient glory, windmills in what’s most likely the Netherlands, and another of what could only be somewhere in the Scottish Highlands.

They’re beautiful photos, and I’m instantly curious to know if he took the shots himself and, if so, when. Because if he’d taken the pictures himself, it’d mean he hadn’t been all that far away from me, not all that long ago.

And just like my other issues regarding Marcus, I needed to not overanalyze that too much.

He’s pouring himself a coffee as I head back into the main living area, and I take what I hope is a silent breath, releasingit slowly. The urge to say something, anything, is strong. The silence between us makes my skin itch.

Kicking off my shoes, I make myself comfortable on his black leather couch, my legs pulled up beneath me.

“I thought I would’ve heard from you sooner—a complaint about my sense of style or a broken dishwasher,” Marcus finally comments. His tone is dry, and I’m not impressed.

Here’s me trying to be on my best behavior.

“Honestly, it could still go that way, but I’m attempting to be good. I’ve gotta say, though, I’m surprised you’re okay with me being here.”

He laughs. “There’s the bluntness I was missing.”

He’s so unbothered, it makes me wonder if I’d imagined all the sharp and fire-filled words between us over the last few days.

---