I kinda loved that about him. It was irritatingly endearing, the way he just accepted whatever I threw at him without batting an eyelash.
Eventually, I got bored of my own voice, and my attention wandered back to the vanity. Or, more specifically, the mirror.
Which reminded me . . .
“Okay,” I started, shifting on the bed, tracing random little swirls into the comforter. “I gotta know, what’s your deal with mirrors? You don’t have a single one? That’s not normal, Marco.”
He sighed as if I were asking him to explain quantum physics to a kindergartener, carefully tightening one last screw. “I just don’t need them.”
“You don’t need them?” I repeated skeptically, propping myself up on an elbow. “Marco, everyone needs mirrors. It’s like a basic human right. How do you know your teeth don’t have something gross stuck in them or your hair isn’t doing that weird Marco thing it does sometimes?” I waved my hand vaguely at his head.
He paused, set the screwdriver down, and turned around fully to give me that tired look I’d grown to love way too much—the one that clearly said he was over this particular line of questioning.
I rolled my eyes so hard it honestly hurt. “Fine. Keep your secrets, lawyer.”
Marco stood slowly, dragging a hand through his hair and making it even messier—which, unfairly, only made him look better. He turned toward me, raising an eyebrow at me where I lay sprawled across the bed, shamelessly enjoying the view. “Are you done interrogating me?” he asked, mildly amused.
“Maybe,” I said, rolling onto my back and fixing my gaze on the ceiling. “I reserve the right to circle back later.”
“I’m sure you do.”
He glanced up, catching me staring, and tilted his head slightly. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said way too quickly, probably making it incredibly obvious it wasn’t nothing at all. I shrugged, trying and failing to sound casual. “Just thinking.”
“That’s never good.”
He had a point. Me thinking was rarely a good sign. Especially when I was thinking about him and how he’d just casually built me furniture because I’d complained, and how he’d listened to me babble on about nothing, and how he’d let me invade his personal space without kicking me out.
God, when had my standards become so ... decent?
I was staring at Marco Grey as if he’d personally hung the moon, the stars, and maybe the sun, and I really, really needed to knock it off. Like, yesterday. Before he noticed—or worse, before I did something absolutely tragic, like start blushing, or spontaneously combust from too much emotional intimacy.
I stayed sprawled across the bed watching him sort through the cardboard, way too aware of every stupid detail—the rolled-up sleeves revealing forearms I had no business noticing; the way his hair was still messy from running his fingers through it; the way he moved around as if he knew exactly where everything belonged.
Including me. Even if he’d never admit it.
I sighed, and before I could talk myself out of it, I’d slid off the bed and walked quietly over to him. I stood close enough to touch, but I didn’t. Couldn’t. Instead I picked at a loose thread on my sleeve and tried not to think about the fact I was basically pining over the emotionally numb lawyer.
“Seriously, though,” I started, softer now, the teasing gone from my voice, “you didn’t have to do this. I was just being?—”
“Dramatic?” he finished, raising one eyebrow as if he knew the punchline before I’d even started the joke.
I rolled my eyes and nudged his side gently, just enough to make sure he was real. “Expressive, Marco. I was being expressive.”
He looked down at me, and something changed in his expression. It wasn’t quite a smile—I was pretty sure Marco’sface would break if he actually smiled—but it was softer somehow. Warmer. Almost affectionate.
And suddenly, there was that stupid fluttering in my chest again. Like butterflies, except way more inconvenient, and I didn’t need butterflies right now. Butterflies led to feelings, feelings led to vulnerability, and vulnerability led straight to disaster. I was an expert at disasters, thank you very much, and I knew better than to willingly walk into another one.
But Marco had a way of undoing all my rules just by looking at me. It was annoyingly effective.
“It’s no big deal,” he said quietly, dragging me out of my own head.
“Maybe not to you,” I mumbled, looking down at my hands, “but it is to me.”
Finally, he stepped back toward the door, sliding his hands into his pockets like he was done with whatever heart-to-heart we’d accidentally stumbled into.
“Take your time with the mirror,” he called back lightly, already walking away. Then he paused and looked over his shoulder. “And for the record, your eyeliner always looks fine.”
