"That was me nudging things along. You're welcome."
"I didn't ask you to?—"
"You didn't have to. The two of you are dancing around each other like it's a Jane Austen novel. Someone needs to light a fire under this situation."
"It's not that simple," I repeat.
"It is if you let it be." Becca sets down her paintbrush and fixes me with a serious look. "Elena, I've watched you date a lot of guys over the years. Good guys, bad guys, boring guys, exciting guys. I have never seen you light up the way you do when you talk about Marco."
"I don't?—"
"You do. Even when you're complaining about him being overprotective or bossy, there's this... softness in your voice.Like you're secretly thrilled that someone cares enough to worry about you."
My throat tightens unexpectedly. "That's not?—"
"When's the last time someone really took care of you, Elena? And I don't mean bought you dinner or picked up the check. I mean really took care of you, worried about your safety, made sure you had everything you needed?"
I think about Marco sleeping on the couch to stay close in case I need anything. The way he automatically moves to the outside of the sidewalk when we walk together. How he always checks that I've eaten before he touches his own food. The relief on his face just now when he saw I was still here.
"It doesn't matter," I say quietly. "It's complicated."
"Life is complicated. That doesn't mean you have to be miserable."
After Becca leaves an hour later, I clean up our supplies and start dinner. Marco is still on the phone in his makeshift office, his voice a low murmur I can't quite make out. I catch fragments—something about locations and timing—but nothing that gives me any real information.
I'm plating the lasagna when he finally emerges, looking even more tense than when he arrived home.
"Honey, dinner's ready," I call in my best sing-song voice, loud enough that whoever he was talking to definitely heard me if they're still on the line.
It's a calculated move, designed to sound domestic and intimate to any business associates who might be listening. I love the way it makes Marco's jaw tick with frustration.
He ends his call and walks to the kitchen, scowl firmly in place.
Great. Grumpy Marco it is.
I hand him a plate and he stomps over to the table and sits down like a petulant child.
I plate my own food and grab napkins, walking over to hand him one. "What would you like to drink?"
"I'll get it," he grits out.
"I'm already up. Just tell me what you want."
Marco stands abruptly, towering over me with barely controlled tension radiating from every line of his body. "I want you to cut the shit, Elena. Don't think I don't know what you're doing. This sweet and innocent act is bullshit."
He stalks to the cabinet and grabs a glass, slamming it shut hard enough to make the dishes rattle. The sound of running water fills the tense silence as he fills his glass from the fridge dispenser.
When he returns to the table, his movements are sharp and controlled. He sits down and stabs his fork into the lasagna, but before he takes a bite, I decide to poke the bear.
"What's wrong?" I ask, injecting just the right amount of innocent concern into my voice. "I thought you'd be happy. I stayed put while you were gone, didn't I? No escape attempts, no sneaking out. I even made dinner."
The look he gives me could freeze fire. Slowly, deliberately, he sets down his fork and reaches across the table to grab my chin, his fingers firm but not painful as he forces me to meet his gaze.
"You're up to something, Elena, and I'm going to find out what it is."
The space between us crackles with electricity, the air growing thick and charged. My heart hammers against my ribs as Marco's thumb brushes across my lower lip. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes, and for a wild moment I think he's going to lean across the table and kiss me senseless.
Yes, please.
