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“It’s stunning.” I glance at the underside of the extended roof, brushing my fingers through one of many wind chimes made from sea glass. “Who knew you were more than just a pretty face?”
My hand stills when I turn a playful smile on him, only to find that enigmatic stare swallowing me whole. Choosing not to counter, he gestures for me with a crooking finger instead. “I believe I owe you a dance.”
The wildlife pulls us into their song, steadily chirping and humming beyond the trees as I place my hand in his. My heart pitter-patters when he strokes the friella in my hair, and at the same time, I spot a flower strikingly similar carved into the wall behind his head.
Beneath the array of Topican flowers are a group of carved initials—MM, LM, PV, and CV. Off to the side, more jagged than the others, his initials appear again.
“Earlier tonight, I could have sworn I saw my sister, Leah,” Marcus whispers, rustling the petals with a forlorn expression. “These were her favorite, and as crazy as it sounds, I think she was speaking to me or something. Guiding me to exactly where I was supposed to be.”
He shakes his head, seemingly fighting to keep his cool or give in to a wave of grief, and all at once, the reference to Leah doesn’t provoke the same sense of interest it had that day in the barn.
The answers I’m after, the reason I’ve been studying him to begin with pale in comparison to the sudden and unremitting need to comfort him.
“The treehouse started as a silly fantasy she concocted one summer,” he says fondly, leading me by the hand into the dimly lit room.
Stale wood and an earthy aroma like that of fresh soil crowd the inside of the treehouse as instantaneous warmth shrouds me. In the front corner sits a small recliner and a tea table stacked with dusty books. Battery-operated lights swoop along the railing of a top bunk and down the side of a wooden ladder. The full bed making up the bottom bunk has the same matching buffalo-plaid blanket as the one laying across the top.
“My uncle helps keep up with repairs it needs from time to time.” Marcus shrugs as my eyes explore. “But I let Pen have ‘creative freedom’ with the décor.”
His displeasure at her feminine touch makes me laugh. “You have to admit, the woman’s got great taste.”
An answering smirk deepens my smile as he mutters, “She’d never let me hear the end of it if I did.”
Absently, he rubs the underside of my wrist before raising it and smoothing my hand over the firm arch of his shoulder. Then, just as tenderly, he guides the other to the sinewy dip of his hip, wordlessly offering me a dance.
Unlike with Ernesto, my feet don’t fumble, but I can’t say the same for my somersaulting heart as I gaze up at the shadows flickering across his face and neck.
Without a doubt, if I’d told the me from two weeks ago that I’d be dancing chest to chest with Marcus Matthews in a treehouse nestled in a sacred forest, she’d ask me what the fuck I was smoking and happily refuel my weakening hatred for the man.
“Leah always had these ridiculously grand dreams,” he says.
My toes curl when his strong hands settle just under my ribcage, his fingertips teasing the outer edges of my spine. “And you were the one conned into making them come true?”
Marcus’s lashes flutter with a gentle laugh. “‘No’ wasn’t exactly part of my vocabulary when it came to my sister.”
I boldly drift my hand up to his neck. He closes his eyes while my finger twirls a short, silky lock at the base of his skull.
“What happened to her?” I ask, not as a journalist, but as one wounded human to another.
His pulse thuds against the tender side of my forearm, and when he opens his eyes, he hesitates long enough to have me squirming. “She died a while ago.”
There’s no elaboration, but the anguish coating those words runs through me like a blistering hot knife. “I’m so sorry.”
I’m forced to swallow the ick forming in my throat. I feel like a fraud, standing here as he bears his pain to me. A liar, who, despite it all, craves this connection more than the will to walk away before someone gets hurt.
“Thank you.” His smile is grim. “Since I’ve been back in Augustine, I see her everywhere. My uncle wants to tear down the barn where some of our best memories were made as kids, and Penelope isn’t fighting him on it.”
He stares out the open door toward the chattering forest, and I take my time appreciating his strong jaw and sharp cheekbones. Recalling the initials carved into the side of the treehouse, and how tirelessly he’s worked on rebuilding the barn, I imagine how hurt he must have been with the idea of losing something so special to him.
“Penelope agreeing to get rid of the barn doesn’t mean she didn’t love Leah. You know that, right?”
His gaze slowly returns to mine. “It feels like betrayal.”
“I know. Grief’s a fickle bitch. But it’s okay for her to not hold on to material objects the same way it’s okay that you do.”
He considers that a moment. “You’re just saying that because she’s managed to woo you with her obnoxious, clingy friendship.”
Genuine laughter tips my head back. “Yeah, I guess she did, didn’t she?”
