The soft glow of the afternoon sun hits him at an angle, catching on the cut line of his cheekbone and the scar that slashes through his right eyebrow. The one that should ruin his looks, but, instead, sharpens them into something unlawfully attractive.
His gray eyes flick up for a second, reflecting the light, like storm clouds condensing in the distance.
Someone interrupts my comprehensive stalking sesh.
The brunette.
I completely deleted her from the scene, but she’s now standing in front of him, half blocking my view.
She leans against her car, twirling her hair, giving him the “I’m available” smile. And Marcus—who’s on the verge of being castrated—steps closer, listens, then flashes her that fucking smirk.
He wipes a smear of oil from the back of his neck, and her eyes go wide like she just discovered a new religion.
My stomach twists as if someone reached inside and set a firecracker off.
Ridiculous.
Irrational.
It’s a feeling I shouldn’t have.
I don’t evenlikeMarcus Osborn.
So him flirting with a random shitty sedan owner shouldn’t feel like this.
Whateverthisis.
I definitely shouldn’t feel the need to march across the street, shove her aside, and tell him to stop looking like that.
Smirking like that.
Existinglike that.
She laughs at something he says, and that firecracker lurking in my stomach like a monster detonates again—louder this time, sharp enough that I have to close my eyes briefly.
When I open them again, I’m already striding toward them.
No, I’m not jealous of a random woman over a man I absolutely do not want or care about or even know.
I’m just here to punish him.
And I have to remove any obstacle that’sin my way.
20
MARCUS
The last person I expected to see anywhere near the shop is now storming toward me.
Jenna is saying something, but it doesn’t penetrate my ears, as I’m fully distracted by the menace walking in like he owns the place.
The first thing I notice is that Preston looks good—well, as good as he can, considering he’s visibly tense.
Possibly enraged.
A red blotch creeps up the fair skin of his neck, tinting his ears subtly.
Anger is good.
