I take a sip of my whiskey, watching him carefully. “You always this protective over your fiancée’s friends?”
He doesn’t flinch. “When they’re as important to Sophie as Lila is? Yes.”
Something sharp twists in my chest.
Marcus isn’t here for threats or bravado. He’s here becausehe cares. Because Lila matters to Sophie, and that means she matters to him. That’s what Lila’s always deserved. Someone who doesn’t leave. I shove the thought aside before it can take root.
For a split second, something tightens in my chest. Protective is one thing, but this? The sheer intensity of it?
However, a flush of something ridiculous creeps in before I shove it down.
Marcus tilts his head slightly, like he’s clocked the moment of hesitation. “Relax, Ashcroft. Sophie is the only woman for me.”
I exhale slowly, forcing a smirk of my own. “Never thought otherwise.”
Marcus doesn’t say anything, just gives me one last, sharp look before draining his drink and stepping back.
I hold his stare, the tension between us taut, charged.
“I’m not here to hurt her,” I say finally, my voice steady. Certain.
Marcus exhales slowly, tilting his head, considering. Then, with an almost imperceptible shift, he leans back slightly, his grip loosening around his glass, but not before I catch the lingering edge in his expression.
“Then maybe you should start proving it.”
`
14
Lila
I haven’t slept.
Not really.
I spent half the night tossing and turning, my brain a relentless loop of irritation, frustration, and the lingering memory of his mouth on mine. My pillow smells like roses and espresso, a cruel combination that reminds me too much of the way Ben Ashcroft upended my entire life with one stupid, reckless kiss.
The other half of the night?
Trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to bake with him.
Rock cakes was a tempting choice, I could adjust the recipe to make it enough to make him choke, but not quite enough to land me in legal trouble. A wreath crossed my mind at some ungodly hour. Fitting, considering I’m essentially walking into my own funeral later tonight. Maybe I should make him arrange one himself, something classy, with “May you rot in hell” spelled out in carnations.
A dark chuckle escapes me as I sip my now-cold coffee. Sleep deprivation is making meunhinged.
I drag a hand through my hair and glance at the clock. 5:47 a.m.
Fantastic.
Another restless night, another day of trying not to lose my mind before my “Evening of Baking and Floral Arrangements” with the man who kissed me senseless and then had the audacity to bid ten thousand pounds for another chance to torture me.
I need fresh air.
Slipping into leggings, a hoodie, and my most battered trainers, I step out of my flat and head toward the park.
The crisp morning air smacks me in the face. I stuff my hands into my pockets, shoulders hunched against the early chill, and start walking.
The park is almost deserted, save for the sadists pounding the pavement like they actually enjoy running at this ungodly hour.
