by Melissa Blue
“I spent a year here in college. I flirted with the idea of being a horticulturalist then I talked to my grams about it. After that it made more sense to go into social work since I was still a CO at the men's prison.”
“But you still ended up a florist.”
“A few years after I graduated with my BA, but this was my second home for at least a year. I love this place.”
He laced his fingers with hers. Her hand felt smaller, softer in his. He said, “Since you know the way, would you mind giving me a tour?”
Not that she needed encouragement. She took him to all her favorite places, and he listened, asked questions and seemed to enjoy her history lessons and plant facts. And listened even after they picked up their picnic basket and blanket. She'd picked the cherry blossom fields as their final destination.
“I'm talking too much. Sorry.”
He reached out to take the basket from her then dropped it on the blanket's corner, leaving nothing but space for them to sit
Once they were settled, he said, “I now know that there are over fifty types of roses. It wasn't until the 18th century that palm trees—”
She put a hand over his mouth, a flush of heat working up her neck. “You should have told me to shut up.”
Her hand muffled his laugh. She said, “You just let me ramble on for hours.”
He kissed her palm before pulling her closer on the blanket. “I now also know—”
“Oh, God.”
Marcus chuckled. “You're passionate so that works in your favor, lass. I even like the idea of your dream garden. You could probably buy a piece of land for cheap and go from there.”
He had listened to everything she'd said. Like what she said had mattered to him. She brushed her fingers over his mouth and fought the need to kiss him. Kissing him would make the moment more than what it was. “That's a pretty solid idea. My yard isn't big enough and to bring it down to scale would take a small miracle.”
“From what you told me, it sounds doable even for your yard.” He kissed her palm, his expression open and making it hard for her to think. “What are you sitting on? Half an acre of free space?”
Ivy untangled her limbs from his. She had to. “Just about.” She scooted a few more feet to peek into the basket. “Does it make me weird that I love cucumber sandwiches?”
“Ivy, I love your way with words.”
“Only you would make that dirty. Sandwich?”
“'Cause I'm a dobber,” he said with a laugh. “There's cheesecake. I'd rather that first.”
She cut two pieces and handed him one. “I'm curious.”
“Aye?”
“What does dobber mean? You've said it more than once and I've pretended to know what it means.”
“It's akin to a being a dick here in America. I'm a shite also. Though sometimes I can be a jobby. Both of my brothers are bawheeds but I love them anyway.”
“Now you're just showing off.”
He took a bite of the cheesecake. “Showing off is saying Llanfairpwllgwyngyll flawlessly.”
She knew that was a real place in Wales and likely most people from the United Kingdom could say it, but Jesus that was impressive. “Made up words don't count.”
He leaned forward and grasped the collar of her dress. A gentle tug pulled them closer. “For that I'm kissing you.”
Done fighting the need to kiss him, she let him. The vanilla bean cheesecake turned his taste sweet but no less intoxicating when he put his tongue to work. By the time he closed a hand on her nape, she was practically climbing into his lap.
He edged back. “If I'd known hard-to-pronounce words turned you on, I'd have talked dirty to you in French or Czech.”
Why was he pulling out all the stops to impress her if he didn't even want to call this a date? Especially when they both knew he wasn't the man for long-term anyway. He hadn't wanted to give a virgin romance for her first time. He'd rather buy her an expensive gift instead of apologizing. He didn't want his family to meet her. His stance could only be clearer if he took out a billboard: I don't do relationships, lass!
That didn't take into account, every handyman project he finished he'd take a moment to snap a pic and put it on all his social media as “proof” of his career change. A lie. He didn't post them out of pride. Marcus woke up confident and Master of his universe. He didn't live for a social media like or retweet.
It had to be a campaign. One that worked if she went by his pleased expression whenever he checked his phone. A plan that hadn't yet succeeded either. He was still spending most, if not all, of his free time with her. This version of Marcus didn't exist when he worked. The damning proof was the way phone calls took precedence even if his dick was hard as stone.
Dial it back. Don't fall into his orbit. Women fall in and never come back out.
He brushed his mouth along her jawline. “Did I tell you how good you smelled today?” And he sounded smitten. There was just too much wonder and awe in his tone to discount.
Dammit. She asked, “How many languages do you know?”
“Six.”
Fuck. “We should go.”
“Back to bed?”
Could she not touch him? Nope. “Yes.”
“What about the picnic?”
“Later.” She tugged him to his feet. “And, Marcus?”
“Aye?”
She planted a quick kiss on his cheek. “You give good...an agreed upon time between two individuals.”
He stiffened in her embrace. “Do I?”
“Yup,” she said breezily even though she wished he hadn't gone stone still. “There might be perks to that.”
His expression pinched. “You should have told me that before we left. I would have called it a date extravaganza.”
But Ivy was looking at his face. Strain had crinkled the skin around his eyes. She sighed and stepped back from his warmth. “You are a horrible liar, Marcus.”
“With you.” That furrowed his brows more.
She took another step back from him. “Don't say that.”
It meant something that she should see through to his truth, but what was there between them? He mentioned his past in passing. He knew she had a sister and that she'd lived most of her life as a virgin.
She had to ask, “What are we doing, Marcus?”
He tilted his head back, a wince tightening his features. “I hate this question.”
She didn't doubt it and a laugh bubbled up. “Just like you didn't want to call this a date. Why are you against relationships?”
He dropped his gaze to hers and whatever warmth had been in his eyes had vanished. “I'm not good at them.”
Had he ever tried? So far he wasn't half-bad. Did that matter though because he didn't think he was, and that meant they'd never be in a real relationship. They'd go through the motions. He'd take her out, buy her gifts, treat her like she was his and only his. When it came down to committing, really taking that next step, he wouldn't.
How many times had she seen this non-relationship while sitting on the sidelines? How many times had she swallowed advice that the woman in that thorny circumstance should just walk away without giving a backward glance? How easy it was to give that advice when she had never stood neck deep in it.
Ivy wanted a husband, family and a home. She didn't believe all that was outside her reach. There was no question that he believed the opposite for himself.
Marcus cupped her cheek. “I know that look,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
Despite the turmoil rolling in her gut, Ivy smiled. “Do you remember the last time you asked me that?”
She'd asked him about the lack of porn under his bed and his very existence. He returned the smile. “Aye. I'm expecting a question about my mum.”
She hadn't thought about that but now... “And?”
He dropped his hand. “She had freckles.” He swiped his finger across his cheeks and his nose. “Covered in them actually. Never wore a hat either on sunny days. I
like to remember her as a ginger rebel. Had a temper to fit the stereotype too.” His expression turned wistful. “If I tell you about my mum, we'll be here all afternoon.”
This time only a happy emotion crinkled the skin around his eyes. So he'd gotten to a point where he could talk about his mother and stick to the happy memories. Her heart expanded and she didn't want to go home to have sex. She wanted this man who grinned down at her, his chest puffed up with pride—not for himself or his accomplishments, but at the woman he called mother.
No one needed to sit her down, using a grave tone, to tell her this was a bad idea. That was the perk of watching people make mistakes. She knew all the signs of this-is-a-very-fucking-bad decision. Wanting to spend an afternoon with a man who had commitment issues and talk about his deceased mother...yeah. Even the densest person would avoid that emotional trap.
She should have walked forward and pressed her hips into his with a wicked smile. Maybe even whisper into his ear what she wanted him to do with his mouth.
Ivy really, really should have.
“I've noticed the freckles on your back,” she said. “I could probably take my eyeliner pencil, trace a few hundred of them and draw things. I'd start with a Starry Night. Always had a soft spot for that painting.”
Marcus barked out a laugh. “What would you draw after that?”
“Might as well hit all the classics. I think the Mona Lisa would do wonders for your muscles.” She plopped back down onto the blanket. “I want to know everything about your mum and your brothers. And Tristan. He seems...interesting.”
“He was a con man.”
Ivy's gaze whipped up. “What?” she asked, shocked.
He sprawled on the blanket, shifted until his head was in her lap. What better excuse would she ever have to run her fingers through his locks? Hell, to get him to spill his guts about everything?
And I'd get to keep all my secrets.
She said, “The whole Tristan thing needs to be addressed first.”
He wove that tale and she listened. Darkness crept in on the cherry blossoms as the sun set. That or the fact they'd started to eat through the picnic turned them restless. Her hands traced his muscles while his mouth began to wander well below her collarbone. Eventually going home was the only option.
She shouldn't go home with him though. It was stupid. Even a dense person would have put distance between them after he'd spent most of the day telling her about his past, his family—him. Also telling her in no uncertain terms they would never be more than lovers.
But she went home with him. If it was impossible for Marcus to not be soft or romantic with her, it was hopeless for her to steel her heart against him.
The penthouse view at The Lancaster served up the city on a silver tray. California wasn't New York. Sure as fuck wasn't Glasgow, but after taking the budding metropolitan for a spin, he wouldn't complain too much. Lights continued to twinkle in the dark, making the contrast harsh and bright even though it was a little after two in the morning.
Bain Corp. had wanted to take him out for a spin, also, and he'd let them. Still wired, he stalked the wall-to-wall window, his mind refusing to quiet. Edgy and restless couldn't quite describe how he felt. Worse—his mobile rang again. The fifth time in an hour.
He strode to the table that still held the spread of dinner and glared down at the caller ID, knowing who but not why.
Tavin.
Not an ounce of loyalty could sway him to answer. A remembered stirring of love for the man he had called father wouldn't cut it either. Curiosity though...that made him hit the speaker button.
“Aye?” he answered.
“Marcus?” Tavin sounded surprised and hesitant.
“Aye. Are you bleeding?”
Pause. “No.”
“Are you dying?”
Tavin sighed, probably getting the idea this call wouldn't be a good one. “No.”
“Then why the fuck do you keep phoning me?”
“Son, you—”
“What do you want?” his voice was sharp enough to cut through the bullshit.
Son.
His teeth were clamped so tight he had to breathe through his nostrils.
Son.
Like that word meant anything coming from Tavin. Marcus had to shut his eyes against the haze of red at the single word his—that had been tossed at him.
Tavin said, “I can't phone you? Can't check on you. My boys—”
“Where were you for Callan's nuptials?” He hadn't meant to lob the question like a pinless grenade, but “son” and “my boys” were blatant acts of war. Marcus wanted to swallow down the rage, the words that cut sharper than blades sitting unspoken in his throat, but how could he? Just the thought of Tavin could spike Marcus's blood pressure. “When I looked around MacDougal's castle, the only father I saw was Douglass Baird.”
“He's not your father.” Tavin's tone took on an edge.
Right. Tavin's blood flowed in his and his brothers' veins. That made Tavin father. What a fucking joke.
“But you are?” Marcus's laugh was so bitter his throat closed on the sour taste of it. “What do you need? Money? To convince yourself you actually care? You called the wrong son then.”
“Marcus Robert Baird.”
It was universal to snap to attention at that and curtail his tone, but for Tavin to try and use it...The anger inside him burned like acid and threatened to eat him alive. He had to lean against the table to stay upright. Marcus unfurled his fist against the cool wood and breathed. Jumping straight into anger was why every conversation spiraled in the same way. Forgiveness was out, but Marcus could be civil.
“Don't go down that road, and maybe I can be cordial until the end of the conversation.”
“Your mother—”
Marcus slammed his palm against the table. The plates and silverware clattered together. “You don't get to say that to me. Of all things.” He breathed in, out, and then spoke through gritted teeth. “For the last time, what do you want, Tavin?”
The line went silent. “I loved your mother. I want—I've tried to make things right with you and your brothers. I love you all. I'm not perfect, but I love you all.”
“When I caught you fucking the bar maid the day of mum's funeral you told me I'd understand one day. I grew up and waited to love someone so much that I'd lose all reason. That my heart would ache so much I'd turn to anyone to make it hurt less.”
Marcus straightened. He'd never loved someone like that. After thirty plus years he didn't think he ever could love anyone that much. So maybe the rage that choked him was misplaced. Marcus was the one with the hole for a heart.
“I—” Tavin said, likely preparing the excuses.
“Then Callan lost Diana. He drank himself into a stupor for a month straight. Two years he walked around half a man until he found someone else. And do you know what he never did? He never practically fucked someone on Diana's grave. So excuse me if I don't believe you are capable of love.”
Tavin's huff exploded in the following silence. “What I did that day, I can never take back. I've lived with that shame.”
Lived? He'd fucked the guilt away. Marcus stomach twisted. Like father like son. “Words. These are just words. Where were you for Callan's wedding? Fucking someone then too?”
“I missed my flight,” Tavin explained, his voice more of a plea. “When are you going to forgive me?”
“Never. You can consider that your greatest parental achievement. My heart is stone. Still, I'm curious, what did you want?”
Marcus didn't think an answer would come, but this was Tavin. The man got what he needed and didn't care about hurt feelings. Another trait they shared. Marcus could charm with the best of them. Sleep his way through a harem of woman. Left the people who depended on him for greed.
His shoulders lowered, heavy from the ugly truth. The only difference was Marcus didn't have a deceased wife. No one's memory to tarnish. Lucky him.
“Tavin?” he pushed.
“I'm in a bit of trouble. Money trouble.”
“Aye, right.” His bones ached. Why did he feel so cold? He'd known this call wasn't about Tavin growing a conscience. “How much do you need?”
“A few thousand pounds should hold me.”
That cold swept over him at the inarguable proof Tavin hadn't suddenly suffered from a pang of parental concern. He had to shut his eyes against the chill. “William.”
“What?”
“Your grandson's name is William. Just like mum's da. Thought you should know. I'll send the money to your bank.”
He hung up. No need for a reply, much less a thanks. He didn't want it. The words meant nothing.
Marcus scrubbed a hand over his dry mouth and paced away from his phone, his stomach knotting and making him feel sick. He spent his adulthood fixated on an endless goal—be the best. Over and over again he was the top of his class, the best lover a woman could have, the hungriest and most ballsy investment banker and then finally a shark of a CEO. He gutted companies, turned an obscene profit and moved on.
In return he never had to worry about money, but did he have a family to go home to like Callan? A warm woman who loved him like Tristan and Ian? A traveling partner who would one day take his last name like Quinton? No. He could fuck and make money. His legacy wouldn't honor his mother like William's would. He'd be known as ...nothing. Fucking nothing. The next ruthless money-maker would come along and Marcus Robert Baird would be forgotten.
He pulled his tie off and threw it onto the bed. Home was an hour away, less if he used his lead foot. That wouldn't ease the restlessness. He went back to his phone, glared at it for a full minute and then sent a text.
u awake?
He paced some more as he waited for a reply. It came within a minute.
This can't be a booty call. You're not even in town.
He forced himself to sit at the table before hitting the send button to call her.
“It's like two in the morning,” she complained, her voice husky.
