“Dinner tonight, my house,” he decreed.His lips curled upslightly.“Since it’s my house, I’m cooking for you, honey.”The lip curl wentaway as his tone grew firm.“And I want you to bring a bag but I’m sleeping inthe guest room and you’re not.”
What could I do?
I’d made a decision.And Marcus knew that decision.
And on the other point, itwashis house.Maybe oneday (I hoped, please God, did I hope) I could horn in and do what a good womanshould do for her man, that being the cooking (and I didn’t think on whatMarcus and his six-pack had in his fridge—I was Southern, I could eat a strawberryif it was on the bottom of a champagne glass and some Brussels sprouts if theywere coated in bacon grease, but that’s about as far as it went).
But right then, I had one choice.
And for once in my life, it was a good choice.
So I again nodded.
“Eat,” he ordered.“I need to get to work.”
I just kept nodding.
He gave me a sweet smile.
And then we both ate.
Chapter Eight
Just a Dream
Daisy
That evening, I sat next to Marcus in the back of hisbig limousine, Ronald driving (again wearing sunglasses, seriously, and nighthad fallen and everything!), Brady sitting next to him in the front, Marcussitting next to me with his fingers fiddling with mine against his thigh.
He was on his phone.
It had been a surprise when Brady, not Marcus, had collectedme at my door, taking my bag and also putting his hand to the small of my backas he escorted me to the car.
When Brady opened the door to let me in, Marcus was on thephone but his gaze was on me.
However, the instant I sat my ass next to him, he mutteredinto his cell, “I need a moment.”
He didn’t wait for whoever he was talking to to give himthat moment.
He put his hand over the bottom half of his phone, leanedinto me, brushed my lips with his, then slanted his head and kissed my neck.
He pulled away and said, “I’m sorry, honey.This isimportant.I’ll try not to let it take too long.”
I’d just had my man’s man collect me from my door, carry mybag, guide me chivalrously to a limousine in the back of which wasmy man.
He could be on the phone for an hour, two.With all that andthe way he greeted me and apologized, I didn’t give a shit.
To communicate this, I smiled at him, nodded, settled my assinto the leather and it was then he took my hand, pulled it to his thigh, andstarted fiddling with my fingers.
We drove from my building that was on the east side ofCherry Creek past Colorado Boulevard, into downtown.
It took Marcus all that time to wind down his phone call andhe only flipped his cell shut when Ronald hit the indicator and made a turninto underground parking.
“Sorry, darling,” Marcus murmured and I turned my head tohim.“How was your day?”
“I watchedGone with the Wind, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,andFried Green Tomatoes,so I’m topped up in Southern diva goodness.”
He grinned.“Does that ever run low?”
