CHAPTER TWO
1393 Words
POPPY
My eyes fluttered open slowly, the morning light soft and golden through half-drawn curtains.
For a heartbeat, I didn’t move. I just lay there, warm under unfamiliar sheets, breathing in a scent that wasn’t mine, clean, masculine, faintly spiced. Then memory rushed in like a wave.
This was Marcus’s room. His bed.
A helpless smile curved my lips before I could stop it. I pulled the pillow to my chest, hugging it tight, and let out a muffled, giddy squeal that turned my cheeks scarlet. My heart fluttered wildly, like a bird finally freed from a cage it had forgotten was there.
God.
I couldn’t stop replaying it. The way he’d looked at me last night, really looked, and called me beautiful. Not in the careless, polite way people toss compliments around. He’d said it low, steady, like he was stating an undeniable truth. His voice had slid over every raw, jagged edge inside me and smoothed it flat. For the first time in years, the constant noise in my head, too soft, too big, too much, had gone quiet.
And his eyes… dark, intense, holding mine like I was the only thing in the room worth seeing. Like I was rare. Precious.
I pressed my face deeper into the pillow, breathing him in, my stomach flipping with a warmth that felt dangerous and wonderful all at once.
He was so handsome it almost hurt to think about it. Broad shoulders, sharp jaw, that messy dark hair I wanted to run my fingers through. And his body, God, strong and carved and tempting in ways that made heat pool low in my belly just remembering.
I laughed softly to myself, a breathless little sound. Today felt bright. Possible.
“Someone looks happy this morning.”
The deep, husky voice came from inches away.
I screamed, high and startled, and bolted upright, clutching the sheet to my chest like a shield. My pulse thundered in my ears.
Marcus.
He lay beside me, one arm tucked under his pillow, bare back turned toward me. Tattoos traced over muscle and skin, shifting as he breathed. Beautiful, intricate secrets I suddenly wanted to read with my fingertips.
“When—how—why are you here?” The words tumbled out, my face burning hotter than the sun.
He rolled over slowly, eyes heavy-lidded with sleep, but sharp with amusement. His gaze drifted over me, slow, deliberate, appreciative, and a soft smile tugged at his mouth. Not mocking. Just… pleased. He liked what he saw.
“It’s my room, pretty,” he murmured. “And I needed sleep.”
That’s when the full horror hit me.
I was almost naked. Just my underwear. Nothing else.
My breath caught in my throat. Panic surged, hot and familiar. I yanked the blanket higher, curling into myself, arms crossing over my stomach, my thighs, every soft part I’d spent years trying to hide.
He chuckled, low, warm. “Relax. You’re safe.”
But his eyes stayed on me, unashamed, warm. “Not gonna lie, you’re sexy as hell. I had to talk myself down last night.”
The words landed like sparks on dry grass. Sexy. He said it like it was obvious. Like it was a fact.
He rose from the bed in one fluid motion, stretching, and I forgot how to breathe. Every line of him, arms flexing, abs tight, the low slant of his sweatpants- was perfect. Unreal. Like the heroes in the books I read alone at night, only this one was real, and he was looking at me like I belonged here.
My gaze dropped, helpless, lower. Oh my God.
He noticed. Of course he did.
“See something you like, pretty?”
I squeaked, mortified, scrambling for my clothes in a tangle of sheets. “I—I have to go.”
“Your friends came looking,” he said calmly, voice steady as he walked toward the bathroom. “I told them I’d drive you home.”
I nodded, heart still racing, unsure if I was more terrified or thrilled that he knew where I lived.
No one had ever looked at my body the way he did, like it was something to want, not fix. Damian had always sighed, or suggested bigger clothes, or joked with that sharp edge that cut deepest. But Marcus… he looked at me like I was enough.
More than enough.
The drive home was quiet, thick with things I didn’t know how to say. I sat in my purple mini dress from the night before, thighs pressing together, feeling too exposed, too soft. Marcus looked effortlessly perfect, black shirt half-unbuttoned, cream trousers hugging him just right, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh.
“I’m Poppy,” I said suddenly, offering my hand like a complete i***t.
He glanced over, dimples flashing as he took it, a warm, firm grip sending sparks up my arm. “Marcus. Nice to meet you, pretty.”
My stomach flipped so hard I thought I might float.
When he dropped me off, Sharon was on the porch, grinning like she knew everything. Lucas stood beside her, arms crossed, face blank.
I thanked Marcus softly, voice barely above a whisper, and watched him drive away.
Would I ever see him again? After he’d seen all of me, really seen me, flushed and messy and bare… I wasn’t sure I could face him in daylight.
I spent the rest of the day curled in bed, phone in hand, scrolling through his i********: like a lovesick teenager. Five thousand followers. Only following the three people. Every photo was devastating, gym shots that made my breath catch, suits that made him look dangerously powerful, rare smiles that twisted something deep in my chest.
Heat bloomed low and insistent. I bit my lip, thighs pressing together, hand drifting toward my drawer.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text from Damian.
*Hey, fatty. Engagement hangout this weekend. You’re invited, my girl wants you there. Try not to look too desperate. Or too big. Don’t want to laugh while I’m kissing her. Oh, and bring a date. If you can find one.*
The words blurred through tears.
My chest caved in, sharp and sudden, as if someone had punched through it. Every warm, fluttering feeling from the morning turned cold and heavy.
He still knew exactly where to cut.
I curled into a ball, hugging my knees, and cried until my throat burned and my eyes swelled shut.
Later, Sharon held me on the couch, stroking my hair while I sobbed into her lap. Lucas stood in the doorway, silent, jaw tight.
“He’s an asshole,” Sharon whispered, voice fierce.
Lucas snorted. “Then stop crying over him. Or go to the gym and stop dragging us here every time he texts.”
He walked out. Sharon winced.
He wasn’t wrong.
But it still hurt.
Then Sharon’s eyes lit up. “I have an idea.”
She grinned. “Call Marcus. Ask him to be your date.”
I stared at her like she’d suggested jumping off a cliff.
Two days later, I stood outside his club again.
My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears. My palms were damp. My stomach twisted with dread and hope in equal measure.
Sharon had threatened actual murder if I didn’t go in.
He was behind the bar, shirtless, skin golden in the sunlight, muscles shifting as he wiped down the counter. Tattoos flexed with every movement. He looked like a fantasy come to life.
He saw me.
Paused.
A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
“Hey, pretty. Didn’t think I’d see you so soon.”
My legs carried me forward on pure willpower. I sat at the bar, hands trembling in my lap.
“I… need a favor.”
He leaned in, eyes locked on mine, dark, steady, pulling me in.
“Tell me.”
I twisted my fingers until they hurt. My voice came out small, fragile.
“My ex is having an engagement party. I need a date. I want…” I swallowed. “I want you to come with me.”
Silence stretched between us, heavy and thick.
He studied me, really studied me, for a long, breathless moment. Expression unreadable.
Then, quietly:
“No.”
- Writer
