“I don’t have my shoes on.”
“Not sure shoes can make all that better,” he said low.“ButI bet if anyone could manage that, it’d be you.”
I tried to remain annoyed; I just couldn’t.
“You’ve messed up the opportunity to see the full show,” Ipointed out.
“Trust me, darling, when I get it, it won’t beunappreciated.”
With his response, I finally took him in.
He was wearing a blue suit, a crisp light-blue shirt, and asilk tie in a blue that was three shades darker than the suit and had amatching pocket square.His dark hair was thick.The cut gave him fullness atthe top without it looking overly styled, short but not buzzed at the sides andback, and unlike that morning, when it was messy and falling over his forehead,it was now swept back from his handsome face.
He lookedGQ.
I looked like Dolly Parton impossibly created a love childwith Peg Bundy (no, Irockedthat look).
But suddenly, my stomach felt like it was sinking.
“Daisy?”
My focus returned to him.
He’d sensed the feeling I had.
How had he done that?
No.No.Marcus Sloan being scarily adept at tuning himselfto me was something I was not going to think about.Not then.Not anytime soon.Maybe not ever.
“Daisy,” he prompted gently.
“We don’t match,” I said quietly.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’reGQ.I’m Peg Bundy.”
He gave one nod, declaring, “Yes, and lose the cigarette,Peg Bundy was gorgeous.”
I stared.
Then I asked, “Are you being serious with me?”
His brows drew together.“Areyoubeing seriousasking that question?”
I nodded my head and felt my hair go with it.
Marcus watched my hair.His lips quirked then he looked atme.
“She was supposed to be funny, she was in a sitcom,” hereminded me.
“Right,” I whispered.
“That didn’t make her any less beautiful.”
“Mm-hmm,” I mumbled, wondering if he was real or if I’dslipped into a coma after that jackass raped me.
Maybe I’d slammed my head against the asphalt.I didn’t feelit happen but then I wouldn’t.I’d have been in a coma.
