Page 32 of Pulling Heartstrings

MARCUS

“Is it merely my presence that makes you scowl or that I might try and eat one of your nachos?”

I don’t miss the way Bronte pulls the plate a little closer to her as I drape my coat across the back of the empty seat across from her.

“That’s not a coat rack.”

She narrows her eyes as I grin at her and pull out the empty seat. I don’t break eye contact with her as I make a show of sitting down and leaning back.

“Do you need a menu?” the waitress asks, and Bronte lets out the cutest little growl.

“I’ll have a cherry Coke,” I say to her, but my eyes are still on Bronte.

“Stop copying me,” Bronte hisses, and while she’s distracted, I reach for a nacho. She tries to smack my hand away, but she’s too late.

“Can I get you something to eat or will you be sharing?” the waitress asks, but before I can answer, Bronte kicks me under the table.

“He can get his own food, Kristin,” Bronte says.

“Are you wearing heels?” I raise an eyebrow at Bronte, and I see her cheeks flush a little. “Oh, and I’ll have whatever she likes.”

“Sounds good.” Kristin places my drink in front of me and leaves the two of us alone.

“There are plenty of other places to sit.” Bronte scowls like she’s personally offended by my presence.

“True. But none of them has this view.” I manage to steal a mozzarella stick out of the basket before she can stab me with her fork. “Besides I wanted to talk to you.”

“And you just so happened to find me here tonight?”

“No, I went to your house first.” Her cup pauses right before the straw touches her lips. “I heard you might be in need of a job.”

“What?” She sets her drink down and glares across the table. “How did you know about that? I just found out myself.”

“Come on, teapot. You know we work well together.”

“Teapot?” Kristin asks as she deposits a plate of food between us.

“It’s because—” I start to explain, but Bronte cuts me off.

“Mr. Fancy Suits says when I get all steamed up, I shout.”

I can hear the waitress giggling as she walks away, and somehow that annoys Bronte further. Why is she so damn cute when she’s pissed?

“Are my suits fancy?”

“You know they are. And I’m not working for you.” She grabs a French fry and points it at me. “Again.”

“Name your price.” I lean a little closer, and her eyes widen. “I’ll even toss in a few fancy suits for you to wear.”

“That’s only because you don’t like my sweaters.” She rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the way she bites her bottom lip.

She’s currently wearing a yellow cardigan that has buttons shaped like lemons, and there’s cursive stitching over her heart that says squeeze the day.

“I like them a little too much,” I mumble to myself and then clear my throat. “Fine, I’ll buy you yarn to knit all the sweaters you want.”

She sighs as she pushes the empty plate of fries away from her. “I like working from home.”

“No you don’t.” The accusation makes her look at me again, and maybe that’s why I always poke at her. It feels like the only time she has her eyes on me, and if I’m honest, it’s the only time I feel alive.

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