Page 26 of Marcus

After all, Marcus hadn’t said differently.

And he teased it like a date.

“And you’re good with that?”

Cella grinned. “Lucia, I don’t know what I’m good with anymore. It’s been so long, and I’m not sure I would even know what to do with a guy on a date, or after, for that matter. So, I’m not worried about it.”

Lies.

She worried about it too much.

“Well, what about him?”

“Pardon?”

“Him—Marcus,” her sister clarified.

Cella shrugged. “He’s … charming. Incredibly handsome. Probably too rich for his own good. A little confident, but I assume that comes from being who he is. Responsible, clearly. He was sweet with Tiff, and didn’t seem to mind she was there. He took me by surprise, but I’m not mad about it.”

Lucia lifted a brow.

“What?” she asked.

“I mean, I just meant to ask what he said about this weekend, but if you wanna basically tell me all the reasons you’re attracted to him, go for it.”

Yeah, shit.

Her sister didn’t give her time to reply before she added, “Cella, have fun this weekend … don’t worry about nonsense. After everything, you deserve it, okay?”

Right.

“I’ll try,” she whispered.

Because at this point, it was all she could hope for.

Cella tried not to be nervous as she smoothed her hands down the shimmering, golden fabric of her dress as she headed for the door of her hotel. A light knock echoed again, but she still took a second to breathe and glance in the mirror on the wall that greeted the guests to the room. She took in the way the dress fell against her body, thin straps hugging the delicate line of her shoulders and showing off more skin than she normally would what with the way the fabric dipped at her chest. It gave an ample view of her cleavage and the thin golden bar that hung from a similarly-styled chain from her throat, resting at the valley between her breasts.

Not that it bothered her.

The dress was beautiful.

Sparkling sequins made up the loose-fitting bodice, and the skirt with a good three layers of chiffon swished with every step she took in her gold, strappy, five-inch stilettos. The skirt fell about three inches above her knees, allowing the light to catch the shape of her calves and how great those heels made her legs look.

In the mirror, her reflection stared back. Face painted with makeup to highlight the features of her face she loved the most—lips a stark red, eyes smoked out with kohl and lashes fanned by black mascara. Highlight on her cheekbones, and just a tint of rose on the apples of her cheeks.

Definitely not a date.

That’s what she kept saying.

And yet, she dressed and looked just like it was one.

Before her guest could knock at the door again—he’d already done it twice and was probably wondering what in the hell was taking so long—she pulled the door open, hoping it would settle those beating butterfly wings in her stomach.

It didn’t.

And Cella wasn’t ready.

Not for the sight of Marcus behind the door.