“Yes, thank you,” I say. I’ve only had a sausage sizzle about an hour ago, but I’m too nervous to eat a meal. “Let me pay for these.”
He huffs, gives me an I-can’t-believe-you-just-said-that look, and taps his phone to the card reader. Then he turns and scans the room. Someone has just vacated one of the high tables by the window overlooking the street, and he leads the way there.
We pull up two bar stools and sit on opposite sides of the table, and I place my shopping bag on the stool next to me.
I sip my wine. It’s slightly smoky and nutty, and tastes of citrus fruit rather than the usual tropical fruit. “Mm, lovely,” I say, having another sip. My hand is trembling. There’s something about this guy that makes my heart race.
He also has a mouthful and nods his approval. His gaze is fixed on me. While Caesar’s eyes are chocolate brown, in the evening sunshine Marcus’s are the color of warmed brandy. Not a cheap liquor-store brandy, but a fine, expensive French Cognac, with a distinctive golden glow.
“Your eyes have always looked greeny-blue,” he says. “I used to think they were the same color as the sea. But they’re actually dark blue, like the evening sky.”
I lower my gaze to my glass, flummoxed by his observation. This isn’t a date. So why does it feel like one? Why is he looking at me with such intensity? The way a chocoholic stares at a box of truffles.
“You look beautiful,” he says. “That top suits you.”
It’s just an old pink tunic that I picked because it has a few sequins and makes me feel Christmassy. I’ve matched it with cut-down jeans and some flat sandals. I’m also wearing a pair of dangly reindeer earrings with flashing noses. He glances at them and his lips twitch, but he doesn’t comment.
“All right,” I say. “Out with it. You’re making me nervous.”
That makes him chuckle. “Why? We’re just two old friends catching up. I haven’t seen you in years.”
“We haven’t just bumped into one another. You’ve purposefully come all the way over here to see me, I know you have. So you might as well tell me what’s going on. Did Caesar send you?”
His eyes gleam. “Absolutely not.”
His vehement answer makes my eyebrows rise. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he says, “He told me what you asked him.”
My lips part, but words fail me. Slowly, my face heats. Resentment rises inside me at the thought of Caesar telling people what I’d assumed was a private matter between us.
“Have you come to mock me, then?” I say sharply. “Or warn me off? Accuse me of being a fortune hunter?”
“No.” He has a mouthful of wine. Then he leans forward, his forearms on the table, closing the distance between us. “You asked the wrong brother,” he says softly. “Ask me, instead.”
I stare at him.
The silence stretches out between us. I’m conscious that time is still moving. Glasses clink, chairs scrape, music is playing, people are talking and laughing. The fairy lights are flashing on and off. A waiter walks past us carrying two glasses of mulled wine to a nearby table, and the smell of cinnamon and orange drifts to my nose.
But for me, time has shuddered to a stop. The only thing that exists in the world are Marcus’s cognac eyes, warm, intense, and looking into mine with an indefinable emotion. Hope? Desire? Excitement? All three?
“What?” I say.
He waits for it to sink in.
“Why?” I ask eventually. “Has Caesar said no?”
“I have no idea what his answer will be.”
“You’ve taken pity on me and decided to offer your services?”
“No.”
“Then…”
“I have a counteroffer for you.” His lips curve up a little. “Marry me.”
“It doesn’t make sense, because…” I stop as I realize what he’s said. “Wait. What?”
