Page 61 of Best Man Speaking

Marcus:He means we rub off on each other in all the best ways.

I don’t reply, worried about being obvious, but I also don’t disagree.

“Sorry, Laura,” I say, meaning it. “I can’t help myself when it comes to Marcus.”

It surprises me how much I mean those words too.

Julian rolls his eyes as if this is the most obvious fact he’s ever heard in his life, as Erica keeps moving through the house, happy to ignore our never-ending nonsense.

Marcus:I knew you found me irresistible. Can’t keep your damn hands off me.

“I know I’ve been busy on my phone, but please feel free to keep insulting me like I’m invisible. My ego can take the beating,” Marcus chips in, eyes still very much on his phone and his “emails.”

Marcus:Beating…you could beat me off in the coatroom? Isn’t that a British term?

Pocketing his phone, Marcus moves to walk past me, catching up with Erica, but I don’t imagine the way he tugs gently on my hair as he brushes by. My heart gives a little squeeze. And he thinks I’m the tactile one.

The ballroom, its table layout, and the arrangements Erica’s agreed to are next on the agenda. She confirms the ribbons and flower sprigs she’d like on each chair and sneaks in a last-minute change of mind on the centerpieces.

We’re all in agreement that having to look over or around a centerpiece to see anyone else at the table should be illegal. Jules helpfully adds he’d like knives to be left out of the cutlery arrangement for both the best man and maid of honor. And Marcus pipes up that they shouldn’t bother, as I’d most likely prefer to stab him with a fork anyway.

Everyone laughs, Laura included, because it is funny and comfortable to joke about. We’ve come a long way since the first dinner we had together, and the absolute kicker is I’m no longer on the outside.

I’m no longer on the outside, and the more comfortable I get, the closer I get to leaving again.

Which is what I want. I do want to go back to Edinburgh, to see Cade and Loki, his cheeky, blue-eyed collie, and to sleep in my own bed.

But the thought of leaving isn’t filling me with the same type of joy it had just over a week ago.

Marcus finds me in the restrooms, just outside the ballroom. The space is black and chrome and shiny, with an abundance of unisex stalls where no one will call us out for being in the same place at the same time. He comes to stand next to me, where I wash my hands in front of the wall-length mirror. And I’m happy to see him, even here.

“Do you want to ride back with me?”

My first thought is to ask if it’s code for “Do you want to ride me?” but for once, I let myself think before I speak. “Are you going home?”

“Yeah, I’m going to finish the day from there.”

I nod. “Then yeah, I’d appreciate it.”

He remains looking at me in the mirror as I move to the small pile of white towels to dry my hands. When his eye contact still doesn’t break, I stick my tongue out, and when that doesn’t work, I throw the small square of fabric at him. Which he catches with ease before throwing it into its respective basket under the counter. It does, however, get me a smile.

The silence between us is comfortable as Marcus rests his hip against the sink, and I use the ever-present elastic on my wrist to pull back my long hair and tie it into a high ponytail. In the mirror, his eyes follow my hands as they lift the heavy strands from my neck.

“I always loved your hair,” he says, voice just a little rougher than it was moments ago.

I shift my body to face him once more, rolling my eyes. “Well, it was never up for debate whether you had good taste, just common sense.”

Marcus rolls his eyes in a direct mimic of my actions. “Tsk-tsk,” he sounds out, moving in close enough to curl a finger under my jaw, thumb resting on my chin. “No need to be nasty now. There’s no one else here.”

He leans forward, pressing his lips to mine in the most chaste of kisses.

I still, even as my heart rate increases dramatically. “What was that for?”

“Because I wanted to.”

“Well, maybe I didn’t want you to.” I don’t know how not to be a stubborn pain in the ass, it seems.

Marcus moves swiftly, a featherlight touch as he traces the seam between my lips with his tongue.

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