Page 16 of Marcus

What was that?

It took Cella a moment to respond to Marcus, but he took those few seconds to take in all the changes in the woman since the last time he saw her. Of course, that had been a bad day for her, he bet. She’d been young, with a new baby, and burying her husband. There hadn’t been time for conversation, not that he thought for one single second that she would have been interested in it.

It took weeks for him to get the image of her heartbroken face out of his mind after that day four and a half years ago. Of those tears that stained her face, making lines through the makeup that someone had clearly applied to try and hide the fact that the woman wasn’t sleeping. Not that it helped—those dark circles had made her wide eyes appear far bigger than they really were and showcased her soul.

So fucking lost.

Broken.

Lonely.

Yeah, he remembered all of that.

And more.

The woman standing in the entryway now, however, was not the same woman he met all those years ago. Gone were the dark circles, and the pale skin that lost its gleam. She’d traded in the standard black funeral dress for a red number that hugged her curves, stopped just above her knee, with a slit in the skirt that showed off all kinds of leg in those heels of hers.

Things he probably shouldn’t notice.

Like the brightness of her blue eyes. Or the way her eyelashes framed the orbs to make them seem even bigger.

It was impossible not to notice those things. Not to mention, that despite the fact she did look far better than their last encounter, and she didn’t seem as sad on the outside, there was still something there. A shadow, perhaps, that clouded her eyes when she smiled.

As though she were haunted.

He bet she was.

One wouldn’t soon forget burying their husband—the father of their child. He seriously doubted this woman’s life had been an easy road for the last few years, but unless she offered to talk about it, he knew better than to ask.

Rude, and all.

When she smiled, it made the bow-shape of her lips even more prominent and set off her features in the best kind of way. She looked delicate—yes, that was the best word for her. From the line of her shoulders to the peek of her collarbones that her low-cut dress allowed him. Even the way her cheekbones caught the lights up above, and …

Yeah.

He noticed way too much.

Not that it was a bad thing. He wasn’t sure if the woman had moved on after her husband’s death years ago, though. Had she remarried, or was she currently with someone now?

Those things weren’t his business.

And he didn’t intend to ask.

For now.

“I’m not sure that I need you,” Cella said, laughing quietly.

Nervously, he thought.

Even her cheeks pinked, coloring that dusky olive-tone of her smooth skin a sweet color that had this throat tightening in a way he hadn’t experienced in a long while. Not to mention that strange weight that had come to rest in the middle of his chest, determined to keep his breathing short and sharp.

Christ.

What was wrong with him, anyway?

“Wrong choice of words,” he said, shrugging one shoulder. “I meant to say, my father tells me you’re going to need me on and off for the next little while. Redesigning the penthouse, hmm?”

Cella nodded, seemingly happy to take the chance to look away from him so that she could stare around at the space they currently stood in. Tiffany had gone back to playing with the few toys that she found in a box set to the side in the living room. His parents always kept them there for the grandkids, and sometimes, the kids brought more that just seemed to … well, stay.