“We’ve watched it three times this week already,” Clare scolds. “I was thinking—” She stops as the doorbell rings and raises her eyebrows at me. “Are you expecting visitors?”
My heart hammers. Oh, surely not. He wouldn’t actually come to my house, would he?
Mumbling something, I get up and go to the door. I’m trembling. Even before I open it, I know who it’s going to be.
“Hello,” Marcus says.
“How did you know where I lived?” I demand.
“I checked your FBI file.”
“I have an FBI file?”
He gives me a look that saysReally?“No. I asked Emily.”
“Oh.” Emily is a mutual friend of ours that I met around the same time as Caesar. We catch up for coffee once a month, and she’s mentioned in passing that she’s friends with Marcus on Instagram.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” I say, panicking. “My sister’s here. And her son.”
He looks down at my side. “So I see. Hello. What’s your name?”
“Ben,” says Ben. “Who are you?”
I half expect Marcus to look irritable at finding someone else in the house, but he doesn’t. “I’m Marcus,” he says, “but your aunt calls me Mars, like the planet. Or the chocolate bar. I’m just glad she doesn’t call me Twix.” He winks at Ben.
“Or KitKat,” Ben says, and giggles.
“I’m totally going to call you KitKat now,” I tell Marcus, and he grins. He’s wearing gray jeans today, and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair is damp at the temples again. He was obviously out in the sun yesterday because his skin looks sun-kissed. His cognac-colored eyes are very bright in the afternoon sun.
“I’m making the Playful Puppy Dog,” Ben says. “Out of LEGO. It’s for eight-year-olds and I’m only five but Auntie Wren says I’m smart enough to do it.”
“I love LEGO,” Marcus declares. “That sounds cool. Will you show me?”
Ben nods, and I hastily move aside as Marcus comes into the house. I get a waft of gorgeous expensive aftershave as he passes me. He toes off his shoes, then moves toward me. Before I can object, he slides an arm around my waist and bends to kiss me. His lips brush my cheek before he releases me and, barefoot and beautiful, goes with Ben into the living room.
My stomach flips like a pancake. I close the door behind him and follow them in.
“Hello, I’m Marcus,” he’s saying as I walk in, and I watch him hold out a hand to shake Clare’s.
“I’m Clare,” my sister says. Her gaze slides past him to me. “Oh… now I know why you’ve been so distracted.”
I glare at her, while Marcus stifles a laugh and lowers his large frame onto the carpet to sit beside Ben.
“You have to follow the instructions in the booklet,” Ben explains, showing him. “It tells you what piece you need. Auntie Wren is the Chief Piece Finderer.”
“We felt I needed a title,” I explain, hovering in the doorway. “Can I get you a drink?” I watch Clare lift the bottle. “For God’s sake, don’t drink the wine. Tea? Coffee?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” he says, amused.
“So,” Clare says, “how do you know our Wren?”
I stand there, twisting my hands as they start talking, too anxious to sit. I feel as if Superman has turned up for tea. Marcus doesn’t fit in my hometown, let alone in my tiny house. He’s completely incongruous. Larger than life in oh-so-many ways.
I can only imagine what his apartment is like—it probably has gold taps and butlers and sofas you daren’t sit on in case you crease the cushions. I have two bedrooms and a kitchenette at the end of the living room. My leather sofa is secondhand from the Op Shop and has more creases and cracks than a ninety-year-old fisherman’s face.
For the past forty-eight hours I’ve been going over and over his proposal, trying to make up my mind what my answer should be. It’s been impossible to argue with the fact that having sex is more likely to result in a baby, with fewer complications (and less money) than IVF. But I have to balance that with the emotional risk. I haven’t been able to make a decision. Until now.
I can’t marry him. I’ve reminded myself many times that he’s five years younger than me. My reservations were valid back when he was eighteen, but as I watch him leaning forward to pick up a LEGO piece and see the way the sleeve of his shirt stretches over his biceps, it’s harder to use his age as a deciding factor. He’s very much all man now.
