He stared at me, weighing up whether murder was worth it. It probably was. He hated when I didn’t read into his rhetorical sarcasm.
“Anything else?”
“Hmm.” I tapped my chin dramatically, dragging it out. “You know those little chocolates they leave on pillows at fancy hotels? Throw in some of those. And maybe a pony. I always wanted one as a kid. I feel like you owe me that much for 6:00 a.m.”
“If I’d known you’d be this high-maintenance, I’d have negotiated better terms.”
I rolled my eyes. “Better terms, or at the very least, save yourself from this marriage.”
“You don’t belong with any other man.”
“No?” I wondered. “You seem certain.”
“I am. You’d chew them up and spit them right out.”
“Does that make you brave or stupid?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you need to learn how to stop turning the questions back onto me.”
“Six o’clock, Valentina,” he reminded me one more time before he disappeared down the hall.
It was clear he didn’t want to give me an answer. I could already guess which one he’d tell me. It was probably stupid. Definitely stupid, considering he knew exactly what kind of chaos he’d willingly signed up for—and he’d still stuck around.
Six in the morning.
If this wasn’t proof Marco hated me, I wasn’t sure what was.
Except ... there’d been French toast. Marco Grey—attorney, made man, resident pain in my ass—had made me breakfast. Sure, he’d burned the edges, scowled at the stove, and glared at me when I offered suggestions, but secretly? Those burnt edges were the best thing I’d tasted in months. He’d even sprung for real maple syrup—the expensive stuff from Vermont.
He didn’t ask if I liked them. He just stood by, pretending not to watch as I drowned them in syrup.
After breakfast, I left to get ready. Ten minutes in, and I heard the knocks. I capped my lipstick and opened the door.
I blinked.
Marco was standing there in a black outfit, blood trailing down his jaw.
“You cut yourself.”
His eyes fell as if he’d forgotten. “Yeah.”
I arched a brow, glancing at what he was holding: a razor and a can of shaving cream.
I looked back up at him. “And?”
He held them up a little, as if that were all the explanation I needed.
“You need my help,” I said, deadpan.
Marco didn’t confirm or deny.
I stared at him for a long second, then I leaned against the doorframe. “You’ve survived this long without me.”
He exhaled, his jaw tightening just slightly. “And I’d like to leave sometime.”
A smirk tugged at my lips, but I didn’t push. Not when he was standing there like that, looking both perfectly composed and just slightly ... off. Like the cut on his jaw was irritating him more than it should.
