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His shoulders tense and I know I’ve struck a nerve.
“Right. Let me guess, you can’t tell me?” And here we are, just like in the treehouse when he told me everything I knew about him was a lie, but refused to elaborate.
I should have listened then. Should have turned around and gone back to the celebration with my heart in my hand, not his.
“I may have projected my brother’s persona at first, but nothing about how I feel for you is a lie.” His voice holds a tremor, and I do my damnedest to keep my feet firmly planted instead of closing the rest of the gap. “I swear to God, sometimes I think all I’m good for is fixing his screw-ups, but that’s not who I am when I’m with you. I don’t have to be the fall guy, the one looking out for everyone else but himself or the fixer.”
“Marcus…” I watch him with wide eyes as he closes another few inches between us, and my traitorous fingers twitch to touch him.
“I understand that I lied to you, and you have every right to be upset about that. But I was protecting the ones I love, and they come first, always. Is that not at least a little bit forgivable?”
Of course it is, I want to shout at him, but he doesn’t get it. To him, I’m finding out that he has an estranged twin, but to me, it’s so much worse than that. Because now I know Marcus was never the asshole I thought him to be, but a truly good, kind, genuine person—and he’s just given me the biggest scandal I could have ever hoped for.
He lifts a hand as if to touch me, but lets it fall when I flinch away.
“Oh, I see.” He backs up one step, then another, with eyes narrowed suspiciously and miles of distance filling the void. “You’re disappointed that I’m not actually famous, is that it? That I’m just some nobody, running my woodworking business out of my house with no fortune or fame to offer you.”
My jaw pops open as I sputter, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
He has it all wrong. But what more can I say without making matters worse for either of us?
Marcus looks me up and down skeptically. “Tell me what you were doing in here, snooping through my things.”
“I needed a bandage,” I say, raising my hand.
His eyes fall to the blood-stained wrap covering it. “The kit’s in the bathroom, and clearly, you’ve already used it. Try again.”
Air. I need it. And I need to get away from him before I start my own confession. Like how I’m being paid to stalk him, or that I’m not a travel blogger but a gossip journalist. And worse, the same journalist who, regrettably, glamorized his sister’s funeral for a boost in ratings.
“I’m not doing this with you.” I step around him and head for the door, but my feet can’t carry me fast enough.
Marcus crosses the room in quick strides, throwing an arm out in front of the doorway to block my exit. “Heather, stop.”
The certitude of our fate dredges up panic, thickening my throat and shrinking the edges of my vision. “Penelope said I should forget about you once I leave Augustine. That I should save us both the misery of trying to make the impossible possible.”
I gaze up at wild eyes, more blue in distress than I’ve ever seen them.
“Don’t listen to Penelope. Listen tome.” Marcus’s body dwarfs mine in the middle of the door frame. His hands fidget like he wants to grab me, and his tone lowers to the softest, most desperate decibel. “I’m fucking crazy about you, woman. Please. I’m asking you not to go.”
This is what we needed. A nice clean break that will allow both me and Marcus to resume our lives exactly as they once were.
All I have to do now is walk away.
Salvaging the last of my resolve, I hike my chin up. “Let me make the decision for us.”
Without another word, I duck beneath his arm and don’t look back.
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
Heather
Ishakily climb the steps up to the loft and start packing my things as quickly as possible. My flight doesn’t leave until tomorrow, but after hours of pacing, attempting to procure an unprocurable story, and damn near pulling my hair out, I’m frantic for any type of distraction.
Rain patters on the tin roof as I sloppily stuff clothes into my suitcase. I grab my things off the dresser in no particular order, but when my fingers brush the delicate red thong I wore that night with Marcus in the treehouse, my eyes squeeze shut and my lips quiver.
“You will not cry,” I say, gripping it tightly before clearing my throat. “You will go downstairs, write until your fingers bleed, and do what has to be done or you’ll be living on the streets.”
Once I head home, and I’m in the safety of my protective bubble, then, and only then, will I allow myself to feel my heart break.
