by Shandi Boyes
Another stint of silence stretches between us. I’m starting to realize bouts of silence are a necessary requirement in this bizarre kinship we are developing. It gives me time to sit back and rationally think—well, the best I can in the presence of a man with Marcus’s aura. Usually, my mind strays to wickedness when he is close by, but occasionally, I can rein in the desires of my body to have an intellectual conversation. It's rare, but it still happens—sometimes.
“If you love flying so much, why aren’t you flying?” I query as my eyes dance around his handsome profile. Just drinking in his carved chin, sculpted nose and soul-stealing eyes diminishes the turmoil swishing in my stomach.
Marcus takes his time configuring a response before he ultimately replies, “Something more important came up.”
“Something more important than flying?” I ask, shock in my tone.
When he nods, I add on, “What could be more important than that? You love flying, you just said so.”
Marcus locks his eyes with me. “Not a what, a who.” He brushes his fingers down my cheek, which is damp from a rogue tear I failed to hold in during our commute to the airstrip. Then he clarifies: “You.”
My stomach does a weird whooshing thing when the jet lifts off the ground. I can’t be sure if it was from gliding into the air or from Marcus’s confession. When the giddy feeling continues to grow as the plane soars into the scattering of white clouds in the sky, I can happily testify it was caused by Marcus’s admission. He just said he loves flying, yet I’m more important to him than that. Does that mean he cares about me just as much as flying? Or more?
My heart rate doubles when I connect my eyes with Marcus. Before I can pry any more information out of him than his forthright eyes are transmitting, the snooty flight attendant from last week arrives at Marcus’s side. “Mr. Everett, would you or your guest care for any beverages before we serve brunch?”
Wow—for a lady whose face is as hard as a brick wall, her voice is strikingly pleasant. . . except for when she sneered “guest.”
When Marcus shifts his gaze to me, I shake my head, soundlessly advising him I’m still full from the breakfast Abel made this morning. Although my late awakening saw me scarfing down three pancakes in under a minute, it was adequate enough nutrients to sustain me until lunch.
“We are both fine; thank you, Gabriella,” Marcus replies, his tone as low as Gabriella’s slit eyes become when he devotes his attention to me.
With a huff and a final sneaky glare, Gabriella spins on her heels and ambles down the aisle as stealthily as she arrived. Her quick departure is thwarted when Marcus adds on, “But can you turn down the bedding in the sleeping quarters. Ms. Garcia and I will be retreating there shortly.”
Gabriella’s eyes rocket to Marcus even more quickly than a bullet fired from a gun. She stares at him as if he just asked her to sacrifice her firstborn child for him. Her startled response assures me there has never been anything between them, because if she had slept with him, she’d realize sacrificing her firstborn is a small price to pay for a night with him.
Marcus dabs his thumb under my puffy, dark eyes. “Lexi may never let me steal you away again if you come back looking this tired.”
Feeling Gabriella’s furious gaze burning a hole in the side of my head, I reply, “I wouldn’t look so tired if you knew the meaning of a quickie. But since you’re so determined to spend hours testing every position known to mankind, who am I to stop you?” My last sentence comes out with so much attitude, I’m beginning to wonder if Lexi snuck into the cabin before we ascended thirty thousand feet into the air.
My tease has the effect I’m aiming for when Gabriella huffs so loud, three continents heard it. She pivots on her heels and charges down the aisle, her feet stomping with every step she takes. I fight to hold in my childish grin, but the smallest smile stretches across my face before I can shut it down. I should feel bad I’ve made her upset, but I don’t. She deserved it. I did nothing to her, so why should I feel guilty for feeding her back the attitude she is dishing out?
“If I wasn’t incredibly turned on by your cattiness, I’d be tempted to punish you for goading my staff, Cleo,” Marcus utters, his timbre so low, goosebumps rush to the surface of my skin.
“If I weren’t so incredibly turned on by the idea of you punishing me, I’d be tempted to apologize to Gabriella, Master Chains.”
A wave of nausea hits me as a second dose of guilt slams into me. Although my remorse managed to hang around longer than it did this morning, it still wasn’t long enough to be deemed respectable.
“What happened to Richard and Stephen was not your fault, Cleo. So why should you harbor blame for their decisions? They were grown men—both of them,” Marcus declares, shifting my focus back to him.
“It isn’t that I’m feeling guilty, but I should be feeling something, shouldn’t I?” I reply, my voice revealing my utter bewilderment. Not just about my goat hill moods, but that Marcus can read me so easily. How is it possible he already knows me so well he can intuit the cause of my silence?
I connect my eyes with Marcus’s. “Doesn’t it make me a terrible person that I’m smiling and enjoying life when two people just lost their lives?”
“No.” Marcus shakes his head. “Guilt isn’t rational. It weighs down innocent people’s hearts when the person who should be harboring it feels nothing. Don’t feel guilty because of the consequences of others. Understand that when people are hurting, it was their guilt that made them irrational, not yours. Nothing you could have done would have changed the outcome for either of those men, Cleo, because their decision was made long before you entered the picture. You just got tangled in the wrong web.”
“Me or you?” I reply, vainly trying to ignore the shakiness of my heart in my words. “Ever since you got snagged by my net, your life has gone into turmoil.”
Marcus unlatches my belt, seizes my wrists, then carefully drags me across the leather seat until I’m sitting cradled in his lap. His thumbs make quick work of the unexpected tears rolling down my cheeks. Once every drop of moisture has been taken care of, he holds me close to his chest.
The wild beat of his heart answers my question, but just in case I’m incapable of deciphering what it means, Marcus says, “Just like Stephen and Richard, nothing will change the outcome of my life either. Some events in life are minor bumps in our travels; others cause huge detours, but no matter which journey your life takes, you always end up where you are supposed to be. This is where we are supposed to be, Cleo. You are supposed to be with me.”
My heart warms, loving that he quoted a portion of a saying he said to me the afternoon we visited his hotel room in New York. That was when he declared he’d been looking for me the past four years. It was in that instant I knew I had fallen in love with him. Madly. Deeply. Wildly.
I pop my head off his chest and peer into his eyes. I want to tell him how he makes me feel. I want to throw down the hand I’ve been holding close to my chest the past two weeks. I want to smack him with straight-up honesty. But since I don’t want to lose him, I don’t do either of those things. Because no matter how beautiful Marcus’s quote was, love is not on his agenda. He has never hidden that from me. So instead of saying the three little words sitting on the tip of my tongue, I cup his jaw with my trembling hands and seal my mouth over his, expressing every emotion coursing through me via a kiss instead of worthless words.
11
Blood gushes into my heart when Marcus pulls into the driveway of my family home. It may not be a fancy mansion surrounded by manicured lawns that have every strand of grass meticulously in place, but this is my home, and it means more to me than any monetary value ever could. My home is full of priceless memories, thankfully more good than bad.
My lazy pace out of Marcus’s car turns frantic when Lexi unexpectedly appears on the front porch, “Cleo!” she shouts, her chattering teeth unmissable as a brisk winter wind whips her hair around her face.
The reason
ing behind her shuddering becomes apparent when I swing open Marcus’s door. Either Florida’s weather spoiled me, or Montclair is going to have a white Christmas. It's below freezing.
As Lexi gallops down the six stairs of our warped porch, I charge up the cracked sidewalk. We crash into each other’s arms halfway down the path, giggling and crying like conjoined twins separated at birth. Lexi’s hug is so brutal, the air leaves my lungs, and my backside makes contact with the concrete. Our unladylike topple onto the ground does nothing to dampen our heart-squeezing reunion. Even seeing Mrs. Ratchet’s curtains ruffling can’t lessen our enthusiasm. We laugh until tears spring into our eyes and our cheeks hurt from smiling so much. Then we laugh some more.
Our hearty chuckles only stop when the quickest flash of a memory filters into my brain. The last time we were so carefree resulted in Lexi having a severe coughing attack. Although her attacks aren’t uncommon, that one held my heart captive the past week. It was one of the most severe ones she’s had since our parents passed.
My lips smack together as my eyes rocket to Lexi. I run my eyes over her face to check for any excessive redness before dropping them to her chest. It's thrusting at a similar rate as mine. My brows furrow as confusion engulfs me.
When my baffled eyes return to Lexi’s face, she waggles her brows and nods. “I swear, I only coughed up half a lung this morning instead of my usual two,” she declares, her voice similar to the one she used last year when she tried to convince me to buy a new car.
“It works that quick?” I ask, certain no drug could be so wondrous.
I use my hand to shelter the sun from my eyes when Marcus stops in front of Lexi and me and says, “Some cases have reported wheelchair-bound CF sufferers are able to ride bikes within two weeks of starting treatment.”
Although his tone is informative, the glimmer in his eyes tells me he didn’t miss mine and Lexi’s immature greeting. They also show he isn’t bothered by it; he actually looks pleased. . . or maybe confused? I can’t say I don’t understand his confusion. I went from a blubbering mess in the plane to gleaming like a cat licking the cream straight out of the carton. My emotions are truly all over the place.
I shift my eyes back to Lexi, seeking her response to Marcus’s admission. It isn’t that I don’t believe Marcus, but Lexi can give practical statistics, not just theoretical ones. She is a walking billboard for the Kalydeco program.
My jaw falls open when Lexi nods, confirming Marcus’s assumptions. “Listen,” she instructs before pulling my head down to her barely thrusting chest.
I still my breathing as I press my ear into her chest. Although her heart is beating wildly, her usually wheezy and panting breaths I’ve become accustomed to hearing the past twenty-one years of her life are barely audible. Don’t get me wrong, her lungs are still crackly, but it sounds more like chalk running down a chalkboard than a bag of chips being torn open.
Excited, I pop my head off Lexi’s chest, smack my hands on each side of her face, then plant a big sloppy kiss right on her lips. Ignoring her disgusted gag, I leap from the ground to do the exact same thing to Marcus. Thankfully, he doesn’t recoil at my loving gesture. In fact, he does the opposite. He draws me to his big body before slipping his tongue into my mouth, not the slightest bit concerned about the handful of teenage spectators we’ve obtained. I’m not sure if they recognize Marcus, or if they are envious of his sports car parked in my driveway. Either way, their curious gawks aren’t strong enough to leash my desires. Pretending we are the only two people in the world, I band my arms around Marcus’s neck and return his kiss with just as much passion as he is bestowing.
His kiss. . . God. A lifetime of kisses would never compare. It's tempting, hot, and toe-curlingly delicious.
By the time Marcus withdraws his sinfully delicious mouth from mine, I’m in a foggy lust haze. I feel like I’m drunk even though I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in days. Lexi giggles at my unsteady footing before curling her arm around my waist to aid me in climbing the front stairs of our porch. After gathering my suitcase from his car, Marcus follows us into our house.
A pungent aroma of spices and charcoal filters into my nose when we enter the foyer. With my brow raised in suspicion, I remove my winter coat and hang it on the coatrack before popping my head into the kitchen. I don’t entirely enter the stinky room. I’m too concerned about what I’m going to find to walk into a battle zone without first scoping the area.
The kitchen looks the same as it usually does, except for a large pot sitting on the stovetop. With bubbles of brown goop dripping down the side, I’m relatively sure it's the source of the horrid smell streaming through my nostrils.
I sling my head back to Lexi. “You cooked?” I ask with my brows arched high.
She bounces on her heels, her expression smug. “Yep. I made us lunch.”
My stomach slips off the radar. It hasn’t even sampled her latest concoction, and it's already protesting against it. “Ah. . . Marcus and I ate on our way here,” I lie.
When Marcus's lips twitch, attempting to negate my claims, I kick him in the shins. When his eyes rocket to mine, I plead with him to follow through with my ploy. A man with an iron stomach would have a hard time consuming any meal Lexi made, let alone a man whose butler serves nothing but five-star cuisine.
While returning Marcus’s narrowed glare, I suggest for him to get his senses checked. If he thinks the putrid smell in the air is appetizing, I’m vastly concerned about him and his senses. I’ve heard musicians can have issues with their hearing over time, but I had no clue it stretched to other sensory elements.
“Yeah, we already ate,” Marcus affirms, mercifully reading my silent pleas.
“Oww!” I protest when Lexi unexpectedly hits me. I’m not talking a little fairy tap I’ve come to expect from my sister; I’m talking a full-on punch with closed fists, one inflicted to cause harm.
“What was that for?” I ask, my words coming out whiny.
Lexi smirks, her composure as smug as the grin on her lips. “It was either punch you or cook you lunch. On Jackson’s recommendation, I tried to go the non-violent route. I told him you wouldn’t fall for it, but I gave it my best shot.” Her eyes swing to the side during the last half of her sentence.
Following her gaze, I spot Jackson leaning on the entranceway wall of the living room. He is wearing a low-hanging pair of jeans, a white V-neck collared shirt, and his feet are bare. Compared to Marcus’s scrumptious suit-covered body, he is very casual. He wears the look well.
“Hey, Jackson,” I greet him, walking over to place a kiss on his cheek. “For future reference, I’d rather the violent approach. Broken bones can heal, but my stomach would never survive Lexi’s lunch,” I whisper into his ear.
Although I’m certain neither Lexi nor Marcus heard what I said, Jackson throwing his head back and laughing gives an indication. Seeing him so carefree fills me with glee. The last time I saw Jackson, he’d just discovered Lexi hadn’t been attending her CF physio appointments. He was truly devastated. I’m glad to see the pain tainting his eyes that day has left.
My neck cranks back to Lexi when she says, “You won’t be smiling when you find out what these two have been up to.” With a stern glare, she darts her index finger between Marcus and Jackson.
Sweat slicks my skin when the quickest flare of concern blazes in Jackson’s eyes. Before I can ask what the cause of his worry is, a third man joins us in the kitchen, making the already cramped space even more confined. He has shoulder-length thin, blond hair pulled back in a messy man bun. His razor-sharp jawline is covered with a cropped beard, and he is wearing a pair of dark slacks and a long-sleeve shirt. His outfit is a cross between Marcus and Jackson’s: borderline smart casual. I’d always wondered what that saying meant. He gives definition to the term. He is handsome, if you like your men a little more rugged.
“Cleo,” the stranger greets me with a nod of his head, seemingly knowing who I am. “Marcus,” he continues, thru
sting his hand out in offering.
Marcus accepts the stranger’s offer, but his eyes never leave mine. His uncordial response has my suspicion growing rapidly. That's very uncharacteristic for him.
The mischievous twinkle in Lexi’s eyes builds and builds for every second I stare at the unnamed stranger in shock. Not noticing my watchful stare, he places a mug in the kitchen sink before helping himself to a bottle of water in the fridge. If I were standing in Marcus’s kitchen, unexpected guests could be warranted, but he is standing in my home, helping himself like he is a close family member. The only thing is, he isn’t a family member. He isn’t even a causal acquaintance. I recall faces; his is not one I recall.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” I ask, no longer capable of harboring my curiosity.
Lexi giggles, happy I reacted precisely how she wanted me to.
“Oh, sorry,” the stranger apologizes, running his hand down his trousers to remove the condensation before offering it in greeting. “I’m Brodie, Jackson’s cousin.”
My eyes frolic between Jackson and Brodie. I don’t see any similarities between them. They have the same color hair, nearly the shame shade of eyes, but they are two very different looking men.
I cross my arms in front of my chest. “What town are you from? Caldier or Algoe? Everyone knows the Collards originated from those two areas.”
When Jackson attempts to speak, I cut him off with a stern finger point. His throat works hard to swallow the rebuttal he was about to serve.
“Let the man speak,” Lexi says, encouraging my interrogation. She stands beside me, her posture as stiff as mine.
After bouncing his eyes between Lexi and me, Brodie flicks them to Marcus standing behind me. Even if he hadn’t sought Marcus’s assistance, I still knew Marcus was there. The bristling of the hairs on my arms gives away his nearness, let alone my excited, shallow breaths.
After swallowing harshly, Brodie returns his eyes to me and mutters, “Algoe.” He shrugs his shoulders like it’s no big deal.