Page 63 of Wildflower
“No.”
“Alright.” He doesn’t leave but looks at me, looking at her. “You’re not Damian,” he says, and I shift my focus to him. He’s serious now. “And she’s not multiple people. She’s one person. And you met outside work anyway,” he says, smiling now. “Don’t overthink it, Mark. Just feel your way.”
“What do you even mean by that?”
He leaves with a laugh hanging in the air. Absolute wanker.
I watch as Rey stands still for a moment. She looks around, and then she makes her way into the throngs of people, disappearing out of sight, away from me, and I can’t take it.
I know her, and I need her to realise I’m not the massive dickhead she probably thinks I am. And Aiden could be right. We met outside of work. She’s not a regular intern.
Hope heats me from within, and adrenaline surges through me as I make my way through the market crowd.
Robin might stand her up. But Mark will be there instead. Could she warm up to me without knowing I’m Robin? Without finding out?
I spot her wavy hair and tattooed shoulders up ahead. My size is a definite advantage. People move out of my way while she’s struggling to squeeze through.
Time to orchestrate a coincidence.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
out of place
REY
I knew Robin seemed too good to be true, although I’d like to think he has a reason for standing me up today. You don’t spend weeks on the phone with someone and then just ditch them. Is he in a relationship after all? Did he see me and change his mind? Maybe he doesn’t like my style. Should I have asked him to meet somewhere else?
A sad-faced version of me stares back from the cafe window’s reflection. Long wavy hair and hourglass figure (my best features by far), but maybe he’s not into the tattoos or my sequin shoes? The two things my mum always asks me not to show at our family gatherings.
I hoped Robin was different. He knows I’m not a VVIP. Not even an IP. But maybe he still expected more.
Turning from my reflection, I start down the street. I need to get out of here.
The market crowd is tight, and I struggle to squeeze my way through. I finally get past one tall back filling my view, and then knock straight into a hard chest. A familiar scent of a clean shirt and cedarwood hits me, and for a second, I’m flooded with a sense ofrelief.
But then I look up.
It’s Mark Becker.
What the fuck?
“Sorry,” he says, his mouth curving in a crooked apologetic smile. If he wasn’t the one person in the world who makes my blood curdle, currently competing with Mum, I’d think it was a ridiculously cute look on such a chiselled face. I push the thought away. Mark is anything butcute.
“Rosemary,” he says, his voice deep and rugged, and as always, the sound of my given name gives me a stomach ache. “Didn’t mean to block your way there,” he adds.
“That’s okay, I’m just trying to leave.”
“Can I take you somewhere? My driver is here.” He points to an out-of-place looking man in black with the ear-thingies people in movies have. It strikes me I’ve never seen one in real life before. So they actually have those?
“Is he your bodyguard too?”
“Sort of. Can’t be too careful.”
I look Mark up and down. I’ve only ever seen him in three-piece suits. Today, he’s in a crisp white shirt, which makes all other white clothing at the market look dirty, and an elegant olive-green blazer that I’m certain could pay for someone’s car. He stands out like a sore thumb among the band t-shirts, ripped jeans, and graffiti walls. My thought is proven by the long glances of the people passing us, looking up at the shiny demigod in our midst.
“What are you doing here?” I ask before I can think. “Oh, sorry, that’s none of my business. I’ll leave you to it.”
Fuck, I can’t annoy him even more by questioning his presence. He probably owns this street for all I know.
