Page 27 of Marked

“Several?” I rolled my eyes, trying to ignore how the heated seats were already warming my rain-chilled body. “Of course you do. Let me guess, one for each day of the week? Color-coordinated with your suits?”

His laugh was rich and warm in the intimate space of the car. “The truck is for site visits, the Jeep for terrain surveys. This…” He patted the leather dashboard with an oddly possessive gesture. “This is for intimidating business rivals.”

“And impressing small-town boys who spill coffee on you?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

“That’s just a bonus.” His eyes caught mine, dark and intense enough to make my heart skip. “Though I have to say, you’re the first person I’ve met who’s more impressed by Caleb’s truck than this.”

“Well, yeah. His actually looks like it does something other than scream ‘I make more money than you.’” I ran my hand over the butter-soft leather armrest. “Though I have to admit, these heated seats are making a compelling argument for corporate excess.”

Marcus’ smile was subtle but pleased. “Just wait until you feel the massage function.”

“The what now?” I pulled my hand back like the seat might start getting fresh with me. “No. That’s ridiculous. Cars don’t need massage functions. That’s just… that’s peak rich person nonsense.”

“Says the man who just melted into the heating function.” His voice held warm amusement as he navigated the rain-slicked streets with casual confidence. One hand rested loosely on the gear shift, and I couldn’t stop staring at his fingers. They were elegant but strong, like everything else about him. “Would you like me to turn it on?”

“No!” I said too quickly. “No massage seats. I draw the line at being felt up by a vehicle, no matter how expensive it is.”

“Felt up by a vehicle?” He actually laughed out loud at that, the sound rich enough to make my scar pulse. “That’s a new one.”

“Well, what would you call it? This car probably has more features than my apartment.” I gestured at the complicated-looking control panel. “I bet it even makes coffee.”

“Not coffee, but it does have a mini fridge.”

I stared at him. “You’re joking.”

“Under your armrest.”

I lifted the console and, sure enough, there was a small cooling compartment. “Oh my God. This isn’t a car, it’s a Bond villain’s mobile lair. Do the seats eject? Is there a secret weapon compartment? Should I be checking for a red button labeled Rockets?”

“The rockets are controlled by voice command, actually.”

“See? This is why people think CEOs are supervillains.” But I was laughing, and the strange tension from earlier had shifted into something warmer, more comfortable. Even if my scar was still tingling every time he smiled.

Marcus turned onto Pine Street, the windshield wipers creating a hypnotic rhythm. The rain made everything feel soft and distant, like we were in our own little world. It was… nice. Dangerous, but nice.

“The law office is just ahead,” Marcus said, and was it my imagination or did he sound reluctant?

Morrison & Associates occupied a meticulously restored Victorian on the corner of Pine and Maple, all gingerbread trim and stained glass windows. The wraparound porch hosted a collection of rocking chairs that somehow managed to look both welcoming and intimidating, like they were judging your net worth before allowing you to sit.

“I feel underdressed. Again.” I tugged at my coffee-stained shirt as Marcus guided me up the steps, his hand at my lower back—a gesture that was becoming disturbingly familiar. “Do all your regular haunts require a minimum income bracket?”

“You’re with me,” Marcus said, like that explained everything. Maybe it did, because the moment we stepped through the heavy oak doors, the receptionist practically levitated from her chair.

“Mr. Stone!” She was elegant in that small-town professional way, perfectly coiffed gray hair and a pearl necklace that probably had its own insurance policy. “We weren’t expecting you today.”

“Margaret.” Marcus’ nod was warm but professional. “Is James available? Mr. Chen here needs to discuss some property matters.”

“Of course, of course!” She was already reaching for her phone, but her eyes lingered on me with poorly concealed curiosity. I tried not to squirm under her attention. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

The reception area looked like it had been lifted straight from a law firm drama—dark wood paneling, leather chairs, and what appeared to be original oil paintings. A grandfather clock in the corner ticked away money I didn’t have.

“Wait,” I whispered to Marcus, eyeing a framed newspaper article about Morrison’s Harvard Law graduation. “Don’t we need an appointment? And the fee—” My bank account was already crying at the thought.

“Kai.” The way he said my name, soft but firm, made my protests die in my throat. “Let me handle this.”

Before I could argue that I was perfectly capable of handling my own legal matters—I wasn’t—a distinguished older man appeared in the doorway. He had the kind of face that belonged on currency—silver hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and the confident bearing of someone who’d never worried about overdraft fees in his life.

“Marcus!” His handshake was firm but friendly. “Twice in one week? The board meeting couldn’t have gone that badly.”

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