Page 86 of Reckless Hearts
“So, you’re in your house now?”
“Yep. Do you want the grand tour?”
“Sure.”
“First up, I have to show you the view.”
Marcus steps out on a balcony and turns the phone around to show me a sprawling network of lights that reminds me of synapses firing in a giant neural network.
“Wow, that’s incredible. My most exciting view is of the neighbor’s overgrown hedge.”
Marcus grins, and then the phone is moving, the camera swaying slightly as he walks, showing gleaming hardwood floors, sleek modern furniture, and artwork that probably costs more than my entire education.
“And this is the kitchen…” He turns the camera around so I can see appliances that look more complicated than some of thelab equipment we use for DNA sequencing and enough counter space to prepare a feast for a small army.
“Holy hell. I think that’s bigger than my entire flat. Do you actually do any cooking in there yourself?”
The camera angle catches part of Marcus’s face so I can see his upturned lips. “Does microwaving count as cooking?”
“In my world, absolutely,” I say.
“Then yes, I’m a master chef,” Marcus says.
He leaves the kitchen and pads down a long artwork-lined hallway, his footsteps muffled by what looks like an obscenely plush carpet.
Marcus enters a spacious bedroom dominated by a California king bed. He settles down on his bed, lounging back on some pillows.
And then we start to talk.
It’s not quite the same as lying beside each other in bed in Fiji, but it’s close. Our conversation meanders back and forth. I tell him about Dot and all the volunteers at the fairy tern recovery project. He tells me about the challenges of nailing a 1920s Chicago accent, the itchiness of period-accurate wool suits, and how he accidentally knocked over a prop Tommy gun and nearly gave the sound guy a heart attack.
I keep wondering if he called me because he wanted someone to mess around with, but he doesn’t attempt to take the conversation anywhere dirty, and I don’t mind.
It’s nice to just talk to him. I like talking to Marcus.
It’s only when I find my eyelids drooping that I glance at the time and realize it’s almost midnight.
“It must be late there. I mean early. Early today.”
Marcus looks at his watch. “Yeah, it’s nearly three a.m.”
Shit.
We’ve talked for so long. Does it mean anything?
I decide to take a punt.
“I can’t believe we talked for four hours and didn’t even have phone sex,” I say.
Marcus’s eyes widen slightly, then darken with lust.
“Next time,” he says.
“Next time,” I agree.
We stare at each other. Marcus gives a small smile, and I can’t help matching it.
“Well, I guess we both better get our beauty sleep,” he says.
