Page 21 of Marked

He actually chuckled at that, the sound doing complicated things to my insides. “My treat. Consider it compensation for startling you into ruining your… avant-garde shirt design.”

I should say no. I should definitely say no. But his hand was still on my back, warm and steady and somehow both gentling and possessive at once. And my scar was singing, and my heart was dancing, and my brain was throwing up warning signs that my body was completely ignoring.

What was happening to me?

Chapter 5

The café turned out to be a charming brick building with The Daily Grind written in gold leaf on the windows. Very Pinterest-worthy, very expensive-looking, and very much not the kind of place that welcomed people in coffee-stained t-shirts.

“I’m underdressed,” I whispered, tugging at my ruined shirt.

“You’re with me,” Marcus replied, like that explained everything. Maybe it did, because the moment we walked in, the whole place snapped to attention.

“Mr. Stone!” The barista practically vaulted over the counter. “Your usual table?”

Wait. Stone? My brain tried to connect the dots, but Marcus’ hand was still on my lower back, and apparently that short-circuited my ability to think straight. Pun absolutely intended.

The café was all exposed brick and gleaming wood, with leather armchairs arranged around intimate tables. Marcus guided me to a corner booth that somehow managed to be both cozy and throne-like. The leather was butter-soft, probably made from cows that had daily spa treatments.

I tried to focus on the elegant décor, but my eyes kept drifting to the open kitchen area where a wood-fired pizza ovendominated the scene. The aroma of fresh dough and melting mozzarella wafted over, making my mouth water. A chef was tossing dough in the air with practiced flourishes, the thin crust spinning like a translucent disk before landing perfectly on his fingertips. Another was sliding a pizza into the blazing oven with one of those long wooden paddles, and the smell of basil and roasting garlic was practically torture.

“The usual, Mr. Stone?” A waiter materialized at our table, managing to make his uniform look like haute couture. “And for your… guest?”

Marcus’ smile had an edge. “The full menu for my friend, John. And start us with the house coffee.”

“The full menu?” I raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore how ‘my friend’ made my stomach flip. “I said coffee and maybe a sandwich. Maybe being the operative word.”

“Very good, sir.” John disappeared, only to return moments later with what looked like a leather-bound novel but was apparently the menu.

“You’re hungry.” It wasn’t a question. “And the pizza here is excellent.”

My stomach betrayed me again with an embarrassingly loud growl. “How did you—”

“You keep looking at the pizza station.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, and I flushed, caught in my not-so-subtle pizza watching. “The margherita is particularly good. They import the buffalo mozzarella from Italy.”

Of course they did. Because apparently this café didn’t believe in doing anything halfway.

The coffee arrived in delicate cups. I took a sip and barely suppressed a moan. “Oh my God.”

“Good?” There was something deeply satisfied in his expression.

“This isn’t coffee. This is liquid gold.” I took another sip. “What do they do, massage the beans individually?”

“Something like that.” He watched me over the rim of his cup, those ice-blue eyes warming with amusement. “Now, about lunch—”

“I can order for myself,” I protested, but he was already turning to John, who had materialized again like a very well-dressed ninja.

“We’ll start with the bruschetta,” Marcus said. “Then the margherita pizza, the prosciutto and fig sandwich, and…” He glanced at me. “The tiramisu is exceptional.”

“I couldn’t possibly—” My stomach growled again. Louder.

Marcus’ smile widened. “The tiramisu as well, John.”

“Very good, Mr. Stone.” John whisked away our menus before I could even open mine.

“I can’t let you—” I started.

“You can and you will.” His voice was gentle but firm. It should have annoyed me. Instead, it sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the café’s excellent air-conditioning.

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