Page 63 of Reckless Hearts
“I’m okay. Your brother just found a creative way to share his meal.” She turns to me. “Next time, just pass the plate, sweetheart.”
Now everyone is staring at me. I slouch in my chair, my cheeks heating past the point of being radioactive. Is it possible to spontaneously evolve chameleon-like camouflage abilities? Could I pass as a particularly lifelike tropical plant?
Because I appear to have a masochistic streak, my eyes seek out the movie star in the room.
The first time I ever saw Marcus, I spilled a box of Froot Loops. It appears I’m continuing my trend of mishandling food around him.
But when I meet Marcus’s gaze, my heart almost stops at the expression on his face. It’s not amusement or secondhand embarrassment. It’s not even the bemused tolerance I’ve grown accustomed to from people witnessing my social blunders.
Instead, the look on his face can only be described with one word.
Affection.
A fizzing begins inside me, like someone’s replaced my blood with carbonated water.
But before I can fully process what I’ve seen, the waiter appears by my side.
“Would you like some assistance with your crab, sir?” he asks.
“I think that might be the safest course of action for everyone,” Dad says with a chortle.
“That would be great, thank you,” I say.
I navigate the remainder of the meal with only part of my mind focused on wrestling with the crabs on my plate. Luckily,my choice of chocolate mousse for dessert doesn’t offer any chances to demonstrate my impressive lack of fine-dining skills.
Before I know it, dessert plates are being whisked away and chairs are scraping back.
Most people drift back toward the bar.
Should I call it a night? My villa is incredibly tempting right now. At least there would be no further chances to embarrass myself there.
But my brain is still replaying the look of affection on Marcus’s face.
What kind of scientist would I be if I didn’t choose to further investigate that phenomenon?
Instead of retreating, I take a deep breath and head into the bar.
From the loud laughter, it appears most of Saskia’s friends consumed quite a lot of wine at dinner. Saskia herself still seems sober. She’s sitting at a table with one of the resort staff, armed with a folder so thick it could probably double as a bulletproof shield.
I approach the bar and order another beer.
I’m midway through calculating how many different species of tropical fish are in the aquarium behind the bar when Marcus appears at my elbow.
The bar’s dim lighting catches on his cheekbones, creating shadows that somehow make him even more striking, if that’s even possible.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I reply.
It feels like a chemical chain reaction has just ignited in my chest, my emotions catalyzing into something volatile and unstoppable.
What do I say to Marcus after seven years?
My brain comes up with a whole lot of suggestions and then rejects every one of them.
Finally, I nod to where Saskia is going over what looks like battle plans with the resort employee.
“It appears wedding preparations are more complex than coordinating a space shuttle launch. Although I guess there is marginally less rocket fuel involved.”
