Her mouth clamped shut. Crap. Why had she mentioned her therapist?
Across the table, Marcus’s smirk faltered. Not in a teasing way, either. Something raw crossed his features before he wiped it clean.
But she’d seen it. That flicker. Shock. Or guilt. Or a memory that wounded.
“Mr. Uptight sounds like a real jerk,” he said, voice a shade too neutral.
“Ass,” she corrected quickly. “A real ass.” She forced a smile. “Anyway. Thanks to him, I’m stuck here practicing how to smile like I mean it and say things like ‘lovely weather we’re having’ without sounding like I want to punch someone.”
Marcus drummed his fingers against the linen, eyes on her. “You do have a beautiful smile,” he said, his voice quieter now, more personal. Then he laid his hand over hers, warm and steady. “So, not a runaway heiress?”
She snorted softly. “Hardly. I’m Frankie Peterson, editor-in-chief atNaked Runway.”
“Well then.” He raised his glass. “To secrets shared?”
She clinked hers lightly against his. “To secrets…and the people we trust with them.”
When dinner was over, she let her napkin fall to her empty plate, but she didn’t lean back. Didn’t put her armor fully on again. Instead, she stayed close to the edge of the table, meeting his eyes and holding there. “So…what comes next?” The words slipped out softer than she intended, carrying more of her than she meant to give away.
Chapter 13
Marcus tossed a few bills on the table without checking the amount. The money didn’t matter. The only thing that held his attention was the woman across from him. Infuriating. Magnetic. More dangerous to him than she could possibly know. Walking away tonight would be the smarter choice, but smart had stopped factoring into this hours ago.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said, his voice low.
Her gaze caught his, steady. “And do what?”
Heat slid through him at the challenge in that single word. He leaned in just slightly, letting her see he’d heard every layered meaning in it. “Nothing we should.”
They stepped out into the night together, the cool air powerless against the slow, electric burn sparking between them. She moved with that easy, unhurried grace that made it feel like the sidewalk belonged to her. He kept pace without falling behind, refusing to be the man who trailed after Frankie Peterson.
Wanting her wasn’t just reckless. It was betrayal wrapped in temptation.
She wasn’t just any complication. She was the woman who’d torched Lola’s debut during Fashion Week, killing the biggest break of her career before it took its first breath. He hadn’t stayed to see her reaction, but he could picture it. That same stunned, tight-lipped look she’d worn when her prom date bailed and Marcus, at her brother’s request, dropped everything to take her himself. That was the bro code: you looked out for each other’s family.
And yet here he was, walking beside the culprit. Letting her tip a smile his way. Letting himself imagine what it might feel like to kiss her.
What did that say about him? That loyalty wasn’t as deep in his DNA as he thought? Or that she was the kind of temptation that didn’t knock, rather barreled right in without an invitation? DNA be damned.
He opened the Jeep door for her, holding it long enough to catch the whisper of her perfume. A luxury scent that belonged on a red carpet, not in a small-town parking lot.
He slid into the driver’s seat. His hands closed around the wheel as he forced himself to remember who he was supposed to be. Not the man who forgot his reasons. Not the man who lowered his guard because a woman with dangerous edges and soft skin looked at him like he mattered.
“Thanks,” he said, his voice rough. “For trusting me with your secret.”
“You didn’t run screaming,” she replied. “That’s something.”
He meant to leave it at that. He should have. Instead, he turned toward her. “Tonight was fun.”
Her eyes held his. “How fun?”
“Too fun.” He reached for her before he could talk himself out of it, fingertips brushing the curve of her jaw. She didn’t move away.
“Shut up and kiss me,” she murmured.
Then she was against him, fast and hungry, the kiss stripping away every inch of caution he’d built. She made a low sound that landed square in his chest, hollowing out his resolve.
He broke away just enough to rest his forehead against hers, breath unsteady. “This is a bad idea,” he said. “You’re vulnerable. I—”
