Marco finally looked at me.
“Well, what are you—thirty-three? I suppose you have had a few of them. But you know, you’re notthatold. You could at least pretend to enjoy life a little.”
Marco arched a brow, clearly unamused. “And how do you propose I do that? Cake? Balloons?”
I smirked. “Strippers.”
“You volunteering?”
I leaned forward, pressing my palms flat against his desk. “Come on, Grey. Thirty-three years on this planet and not a single memorable birthday?”
His fingers tapped once against the box before he set it aside. “Not one worth remembering.”
I frowned.
I’d expected him to at least throw mesomething—some deflection, some sarcastic remark,someindication I wasn’t the only one in this room who thought birthdays were supposed to meansomething.
But Marco was Marco.
I let out a slow breath. “No childhood birthdays? No cake? No stupid party hats?”
His eyes found mine again. “No.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised. Marco never talked about where he came from. I didn’t know much about his past,but I guess I knewenough.I knew he’d been raised in the system, bouncing between foster homes until he aged out. I knew whatever affection he was given as a kid had come with conditions. I knew if he wanted something,he took it for himself.
So, no. Of course Marco didn’t have memories of cake or candles or people gathering around just to celebrate the fact he existed.
“Fine. If birthdays don’t matter, humor me anyway. What do you want?”
He raised an eyebrow slowly. “What do I want?”
“Yes, Marco. It’s a birthday tradition. Gifts.Presents.You know, the reason capitalism thrives.”
“Well, your stripper idea wasn’t bad.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, sorry, I didn’t have enough notice to book anyone.”
“That’s a shame,” he said calmly, eyes holding mine. “Though I suppose I might consider accepting the offer if you’re volunteering.”
“Would that make you happy?” I asked.
He put his pen down. “Very.”
I felt a rush of heat crawl up my neck, and suddenly, I was irritated there were still other people in the building. Of course tonight, of all nights, people had decided to work late. Did no one around here respect the sanctity of birthdays and mildly inappropriate office sex?
Because if the office had emptied out in time, I could’ve had Marco all to myself, just like that one night. The night he’d fucked me right here on his desk, my cheek pressed shamelessly against paperwork I hoped wasn’t important, surrounded by walls made entirely of glass.
I’d liked that thrill.
I’d liked him a little too.
“Well, it’s your birthday. Seems selfish to say no.”
Marco’s mouth twitched upward in a small, satisfied smirk. “Generous of you.”
“You have no idea,” I muttered, glancing toward the glass door and silently cursing whoever had decided open-office concepts were a good idea. “But unless you want to traumatize your coworkers, I think we’ll have to postpone that celebration.”
“I could always tell them to leave,” he suggested, almost serious.
