Page 9 of The Dandelion Princess
I turn, full of resolve. It melts slowly away when Marc emerges from the shadows of the tree-lined avenue wearing a dark Henley, the sleeves pushed up his muscled forearms. He holds a light jacket in his fist, a pair of jeans emphasizes his long legs, and a rigid gold circlet bands one wrist, kissing the base of his thumb.
When he gets closer I will note how his eyes are dark, fringed with lashes that make old women hold his chin and mutter, “Wasted on a man.” I will observe that his lips are full, curving in a gentle but unmistakably sensuous line. I’ve known him so long, I tell myself, that everything about him is old news.
Still, my cheeks flush. My fingertips itch to touch him but I press the sensitivity away, urging myself to have some sense.
He’s leaner than he was last summer, his jawline more pronounced. I notice that, too.
He stops maybe three yards away, looking at me—lips slightly parted, teeth set, eyes intent and appraising. Some profoundly adolescent part of me rips the clinical clipboard out of imaginary hands and scribbles her own observation. Marc looks like a powerful nature spirit, assuming human form to tempt honest maidens with the promise of ruin.
Damn limbic system.
I grip the strap of my bag and summon Smart Ella from the basement where she’s lying bound and gagged. “You didn’t say a word about coming back.”
“You didn’t ask.” His glance flicks down the length of me, making his own observations.
I fidget under his leisurely inspection. “I’m still as short as I’ve ever been.”
He gives a low laugh and I close my eyes, repeating the mantra I use when I’m in Mama’s jewel vault.You can’t afford it.
“Welcome me home,” he commands, holding his arms wide.
I take a breath, and it comes with a painful hitch. This is the reason I had to fall out of love with Marc van Heyden. Every time he throws his arm over my shoulder or kisses my temple, the simple, careless affection feels like turning a screw into my skin. It’s easier to shut away the part of me that wants complicated, grown-up things, because she is forever doomed to be disappointed.
I hop into his arms and he rocks on his feet. The smell of his cologne, a mix of pine and magnolia, drifts between us and I push out of his hold. I want more than he can ever give, and pretending things haven’t changed between us since I was fifteen is safer.
“What did you bring me?” I demand, putting out my palm.
He clicks his tongue. “I wasn’t on vacation. There was a lot going on—”
I pinch his waist. “Cool story,” I reply, my hand still out.
He places a gauzy parcel on my palm. “Someday I won’t bring you anything. What will you do then?”
“I’ll have more room on my bed, for one thing.” Thanks to Marc, I own more than a dozen stuffed raccoons.
“This won’t take up room in your life at all.”
I work the bow free, and a thin gold chain strung with tiny golden racoons falls into my hand. My mouth tucks with a smile. “This is a high-class way to call me a trash panda,” I say, winding the chain around my wrist. It’s way too big. No matter. “I can get it shortened.”
He takes it out of my hands and propels me backward until the edge of the fountain hits me on the back of the legs. I sit abruptly, fighting off a storm of hormones. Residual attraction. I can’t expect it to go away all at once, just because I told it to.
“You will not.” He sinks down on one knee, lifts my shoe to rest against his thigh, and turns his attention to the clasp, warm fingers brushing against the delicate bones of my ankle. He adjusts the chain, lightly tickling my skin, and looks up. “Do you like it?”
My cheeks are on fire and I look away from his steady gaze. “It’s nice.”
He winds a finger through one of my curls, and tugs it—a silent reproof for my apparent lack of enthusiasm. If I was fifteen a few minutes ago, I’m twelve now. By the end of the night, I fear he’ll be feeding me fish crackers from a snack baggie.
“Ready to have some fun?” He puts a hand on my back to lead me through the delicate lacework of metal vines embellishing the front gate, and when I shift, his fingers brush my skin. He pulls away like I’m made of magma.
I grip the strap of my bag. “I have substantive, serious-minded questions about your time in Seong, Marc. I really do.”
“But?” he laughs, leading me down the promenade.
I fist my hand under my chin as though I’m holding a microphone. “Are you dating Lee Jang Mi of BLUSH?” I don’t give him a chance to answer before I fire off a few more questions, mimicking the insane coverage of a man whose only mission in Seong was humanitarian. “Are you prepared to apologize to her fans? What is her skincare routine? When can we expect a fourth studio album? Can you confirm or deny that the lyrics ofThird-Generation Rich Manare about you?”
I tilt my hand under his chin and he captures my fist in a light grip. Ducking his head, he brings it closer to his lips. “Those lyrics would be?”
Marc’s warm breath on my skin sends a wave of heat through my veins. “He looks like a billion/It’s not his billions/No ATM at the minute/All I want is to get it, get it, get it.” I clear my throat. “Those lyrics.”
