Page 22 of Marked

The bruschetta arrived on a rustic wooden board, the colors vibrant enough to make a food photographer weep—ruby tomatoes, emerald basil, golden olive oil catching the light. I tried to eat daintily, I really did, but the first bite made my eyes roll back.

“Oh my God,” I mumbled around a mouthful of perfectly toasted bread and tomatoes. “How is this amazing? It’s literally just bread and tomatoes. This shouldn’t be allowed.”

Marcus watched me with that predatory focus, like I was putting on a private show just for him. His barely touched coffee sat forgotten. “The ingredients are locally sourced. The bread is baked fresh hourly.”

“Of course it is.” I reached for another piece, then hesitated, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry, I’m hogging it all. You probablydidn’t invite me to lunch just to watch me inhale everything like a vacuum cleaner with anxiety issues.”

“Please, continue.” He pushed the plate closer to me, his fingers brushing mine in a touch that seemed accidental but felt deliberate. “I find your enthusiasm… refreshing.”

The way he said ‘refreshing’ made it sound like something else entirely. My scar tingled, a warm pulse that spread through my whole body.

“So,” I said, desperately reaching for normal conversation, “do you often rescue coffee-stained strangers, or am I special?”

His smile had an edge that made my heart stutter. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re avoiding the question.” I pointed my fork at him accusingly. “That’s very CEO of you.”

“CEO?” One perfect eyebrow arched.

“Please. The suit? The way everyone here treats you like royalty? That commanding presence you’ve clearly perfected?” I waved my fork expansively. “You’re definitely some kind of corporate overlord.”

He actually chuckled at that, the sound rich and warm. “Corporate overlord. I’ll have to add that to my business cards.”

“See? You didn’t deny it.” The bruschetta was disappearing at an alarming rate, but I couldn’t seem to stop. “Though you’re surprisingly good at this whole lunch companion thing for an overlord.”

“Am I?” His eyes never left my face, tracking every expression like he was memorizing them.

“Disturbingly so.” I licked a drop of olive oil from my thumb, and his eyes darkened fractionally. “Though the staring is a bit intense. Fair warning, if you’re actually a serial killer, I’m going to be very disappointed.”

“Not a serial killer.” His lips curved. “Just appreciative.”

“Of what? My ability to inhale Italian appetizers?”

“Of you.” The simple honesty in his voice made me flush. “You’re… not what I expected.”

“Story of my life.” I reached for my water glass to hide my confusion. Why did his approval make something warm unfurl in my chest? “I’m basically a professional disappointment.”

“You couldn’t disappoint me if you tried.” There was that tone again, the one that brooked no argument. The one that made me want to agree with anything he said.

Before I could process that disturbing thought, the pizza arrived. Steam rose from the perfectly blistered crust, the smell of fresh basil and melted mozzarella making my mouth water. The chef placed it on a raised stand between us with a flourish.

“I think I’m in love,” I announced, watching cheese stretch as Marcus served me a slice. When had I agreed to let him serve me? And why did it feel so natural?

“With the pizza?” His voice dropped lower, something possessive flickering in his eyes.

“Don’t judge our love. It’s pure.” I took a bite and couldn’t help the moan that escaped. Several heads turned our way. I should have been embarrassed, but honestly? The pizza deserved the sound effects. “Oh my God, what do they put in this? Illegal substances? Magic? The tears of Italian grandmothers?”

Marcus’ eyes had darkened to midnight, his knuckles white around his fork. “You’re very… expressive.”

“Only with food.” I took another bite, closing my eyes in bliss. “Though this barely counts as food. This is art. This is religion. This is—” I opened my eyes to find him staring at me with an intensity that made my breath catch. “You’re doing the serial killer stare again.”

“Not a serial killer,” he reminded me, voice rough. “Just… appreciative.”

“You keep saying that.” I fidgeted under his gaze, torn between wanting to squirm away and wanting to lean closer. “Though I guess if you were a serial killer, you wouldn’t advertise it. ‘Local Business Owner Murders Tourist Over Pizza’ would probably be bad for tourism.”

“You’re not a tourist.” Something flickered in his eyes. “You’re staying.”

It wasn’t a question. It should have been a question. “Temporarily,” I said, but the word felt wrong in my mouth. Like a lie, even though it was true. “Just until I sort out the cottage situation.”

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