But I noticed the edge to it now. The way his warmth felt performed rather than felt. The way his eyes kept drifting to his phone—even mid-conversation—like the people in front of him were placeholders for something more important.
Owen never looked at his phone when he talked to someone. Owen gave you his full attention every time, like whatever you were saying mattered to him too.
I watched Marcus when I asked for help with the dishes. He said yes immediately, rolled up his sleeves, and stood beside me at the sink. But between plates, his hands kept drifting to his pocket. I caught him texting someone, thumbs moving quickly, a small smile on his face that had nothing to do with me.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Work.” He pocketed the phone. “Sorry. Where were we?”
Work. Maybe. Or maybe not. I didn’t have the energy to push.
I watched his face when I talked about the future—my future. The B&B, the renovations, the plans I’d been making for the baby’s first year.
Marcus smiled. Nodded. Said encouraging things. Something in my chest warmed. He was trying. He was saying the right things.
Then: “I actually reached out to a hospitality management firm last week. A friend of mine runs it. Once the baby comes, they could take over the day-to-day operations so you’re freed up.”
The warmth curdled.
He’d already reached out. Already made calls. Already started planning what to do with my grandmother’s house without asking what I wanted.
“I like doing everything myself,” I said carefully. “That’s kind of the point.”
Marcus’s smile didn’t waver. “Of course. I just mean, with a newborn, you might want options. I’m not saying we have to do anything. I’m just laying groundwork.”
Laying groundwork. For a future he’d already started building without asking where I wanted to live inside it.
I smiled back and said nothing.
But I was paying attention now.
Over dinner that night, Marcus painted a picture of our future.
He’d ordered takeout—his choice—from the new French bistro in Millbrook. Rich sauces and heavy creams that made my pregnancy stomach turn. I’d mentioned just last week thatanything too rich sent me running for the bathroom, but he’d ordered coq au vin and beef bourguignon anyway.
“They had incredible reviews,” he said, spooning sauce over his plate. “Figured we should treat ourselves.”
I pushed a potato through the sauce and let him talk.
“There’s an apartment complex near my office,” he said. “Two bedrooms, great light, walking distance to everything. The schools in that district are excellent.”
“Schools.” I set down my fork. “The baby isn’t even born yet.”
“It’s never too early to plan.” Marcus smiled—that confident smile that used to make me feel safe. Now it just made me feel managed. “And once we’re settled in Denver, you won’t have to worry about the commute. I know how much you hate driving in the city.”
Settled in Denver.
The words landed like stones in my stomach.
“You want me to move to Denver?”
“It makes sense, doesn’t it? My work is there. The apartment I’m looking at is ten minutes from the office. And with the management company handling the B&B—” He waved his fork like it was already decided. “You could come back on weekends. Check in. Make sure everything’s running smoothly.”
Weekends. My grandmother’s house, reduced to weekend visits.
“And a nanny,” he continued, warming to his vision. “At least part-time. So you’re not overwhelmed.”
I stared at him.
