Page 147 of Reckless Hearts
I’ve had the privilege of being able to kiss him, touch him.
But I’ve never been able to truly call him mine.
And I never will.
That truth hits me hard.
Marcus warned me off him repeatedly in the beginning. He told me he was no good for me. He told me he would break my heart.
I ignored his warnings because all I could see was a chance to be with a gorgeous and charming guy.
In that way, am I any better than all the other people who have exploited Marcus over the years? Seeing Marcus purely as an object, a prize to win, even more so because he’s my sister’s best friend.
But that was before I really knew him. Before I discovered the man beneath the perfect exterior—the way his eyes light up when he’s truly interested in something, how he remembers every random animal fact I tell him, how gentle he can be when he thinks no one is watching. Before I fell in love with his quirks and vulnerabilities, the parts of himself he rarely shows to anyone else.
Sure, his beauty first drew me in—I’d challenge anyone not to be dazzled by Marcus Johnson. But what made me stay, what made me fall so completely in love with him, is everything else. The way he listens when I ramble about conservation, his unexpected kindness, his struggle to be better despite his demons. Even his flaws are precious to me because they’re part of who he really is, not who Hollywood wants him to be.
But my warm feelings toward Marcus fade abruptly when he returns to our table from the restroom. Because his pupils are pinpricks despite the dim lighting, and there’s a slight tremor inhis hand as he picks up his drink. His usual fluid grace has an edge of jittery energy.
My stomach drops.
“What did you take?” I ask quietly.
Marcus adjusts his designer shirt cuffs, tugging them straight with methodical precision. “Just something to take the edge off.” His voice has that artificial smoothness like he’s reading from a script. “All the fans were getting to me.”
“You said you were going to cut back on the pills.”
“I am cutting back.” He gives me his trademark grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m completely in control of it, Seb. You don’t need to worry.”
“Really? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you need chemicals in your bloodstream just to get through a simple dinner.”
His expression hardens. “You don’t understand what it’s like. The constant pressure, everyone watching, judging…”
“You’re right. I don’t understand,” I reply.
The unspoken lies between us. The tragedy of his childhood explains so much about who he is now, this beautiful man who thinks he’s too broken to deserve help. But he can’t keep swallowing pills to keep his past at bay.
I take a deep breath and press on. “I don’t understand why you won’t talk to someone professional.”
“I don’t need therapy.” He signals the waiter for another drink, avoiding my eyes. “I need people to stop trying to fix me.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Because isn’t that what I’ve been doing? Thinking my love could somehow heal him?
Marcus’s hands are shaking more noticeably now as he reaches for his fresh drink. My scientific brain catalogs the symptoms automatically—pupils constricted, tremors, mood swings. The clinical part of me knows these are warning signs. The part that loves him is terrified.
“Give me your car keys,” I say.
“What? I’m fine to drive.”
“You’re not fine. You’re high.” I keep my voice low, conscious of the other diners around us. “Give me the keys.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to argue. Then his shoulders slump and he hands them over.
“Whatever makes you happy,” he mutters.
The drive through London’s unfamiliar streets is nerve-wracking. The Ferrari responds to the slightest touch, powerful and temperamental as a wild animal. Marcus slumps in the passenger seat, his head against the window, the streetlights painting streaks across his perfect face.
I grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles are white, hyperaware of the fortune in automotive engineering I’m responsible for. But it’s not really the car I’m worried about.
