Page 6 of A Secret Escape

I t’s a crisp October evening, the kind where the golden light lingers just long enough to kiss the tops of the buildings before the air turns brisk and sharp.

I can feel the season in my bones – pumpkin spice lattes, autumn leaves, cosy vibes, and that electric hum of the upcoming holiday season that just makes everything feel a little more possible, a little more romantic.

As I’m getting ready for the evening ahead in our tiny shared bathroom, nerves flutter low in my gut like those pesky butterflies you always hear about.

I know Marcus is going to be there tonight, because it’s his event. A wine tasting paired with an art gallery opening – upscale, polished, full of people who speak in quiet hushed voices about brushstrokes and lighting.

I’d spent way too much time and definitely too much money on finding the right dress for the occasion, settling on a tight black bodycon number that hugs my figure just right, the short skirt showing off my legs, which I accent with black ankle boots and a soft lilac cardigan that softens the whole look from ‘nightclub sexy’ to ‘art gallery chic’.

The gallery turns out to be a converted industrial warehouse with exposed brick walls and polished concrete floors.

The room is divided by strategically placed white partitions displaying vibrant modern artwork, creating intimate pockets within the open space.

Pendant lights hang from the high ceilings, casting warm pools of light onto certain areas while diffusing a soft glow to the rest of the room.

The murmur of conversation mingles with soft jazz playing through hidden speakers.

I adjust the strap of my purse on my shoulder, smoothing down the front of my little black dress.

Across the room, Marcus stands talking to a group of prospective clients, his hands gesturing with animated expression as he explains something that has them all leaning in to catch every word.

I force myself to look away, focusing instead on getting some B-roll footage of the backs of people’s heads admiring the art.

“Have you got some decent shots of the wine being served?” Angela asks, appearing beside me in her standard ‘going out’ outfit of black jeans and a brightly coloured top underneath her black leather jacket.

Today’s colour choice is neon pink, which she’s matched to a pair of heels the same vibrant shade.

Her long braids are pulled back, the soft light catching her cheekbones, making her look like she belongs among the artwork.

“I think so,” I say, swiping back through the clips on my phone. “Just need a few more of people actually drinking it. The client said she wants to emphasise the ‘shared experience’ aspect. Can’t really get ‘shared experience’ if no one is sharing it, can I?”

Carter joins us, looking sharp in charcoal grey slacks and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He hands each of us a glass of the featured wine – a crisp Sauvignon Blanc that the boutique winery we’re representing tonight is known for.

“Come on, let’s take a break,” he says.

I accept the glass, slipping my phone into my purse as I take a small sip .

“Thanks. Have you met the owner? Is she happy with the event so far?”

“She’s over the moon,” he says. “I was over there when the art critic from the Chronicle came over and started peppering her with questions. I’ll tell you what, thank God Marcus was there.

He handled it fucking brilliantly, somehow managing to deflect every question and take the pressure off her.

I mean, she could have handled it, but he was brilliant. ”

“Did you see the way he handled that total dickhead at the Meridian meeting last week?” Angela chimes up.

“He’s always prepared,” Carter adds, pausing as our leisurely steps had drawn us to a large canvas featuring a pair of hands, one reaching out but slightly hesitant, the other gently grasping a pinkish-purple flower, the longing between them almost tangible.

“Apparently, Harrison’s been shadowing him lately, and he was saying that Marcus researches every single objection that could possibly come up and has counter-arguments ready,” Carter says.

My eyes drift across the gallery to where Marcus stands, effortlessly charming the same group of potential clients. The soft lighting catches the angles of his face as he explains something that has his small audience captivated.

His eyes glance in our direction, meeting mine for a fraction of a heartbeat, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he reverts his attention back to his audience.

“He certainly knows how to command a room,” I murmur, not entirely realising I had spoken aloud until I notice the silence from my friends and glance at them, only to catch them exchanging a look that’s far too knowing.

“Interesting,” Carter says, turning around to face me and Angela .

I can feel a rush of heat spreading up my neck. “What?”

“Oh nothing,” Carter says. “Just the way your face turns a vibrant shade of red every time his name is mentioned.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, turning toward a nearby sculpture to hide my face. It’s a twisted metal piece that probably represents something profound, but right now is just a convenient distraction.

“You know, now that I think about it,” Angela adds, her voice teasing and bright, “you did volunteer rather quickly to reorganise the supply closet the other day.”

“It needed to be done!” I protest, turning back to face her. “Have you tried finding a fresh notebook in there? I tried to get a folder out last week and a box fell and nearly killed me!”

“Sure,” she says. “And it had nothing to do with the fact that the supply closet is just a few feet away from his desk?”

I take a larger sip of wine than intended, nearly choking on it. “I just wanted to organise it,” I say.

“Just like you wanted to sit through that entire Teams call about analytics because he was leading it, not taking your eyes off the screen for a second?” Carter asks.

“I was learning!” I insist, feeling my cheeks burning brighter by the second.

“Oh! And remember when you spilled coffee on yourself when he complimented your market analysis for Sunrise Smoothies?” Angela laughs behind her wine glass. “I’ve never seen anyone blush that shade of crimson.”

“The coffee was hot, and it was embarrassing!” I hiss.

“Not as hot as you think Marcus is,” Carter whispers dramatically .

My jaw drops as I give him a playful shove, but why can’t I do anything about this damn smile trying to take control of my face?

“Babe, you practically glow when he walks into a room. Just admit it. You love him,” Angela says.

“I hate you both,” I say, burying my face in my hands as I try not to laugh, which is damn near impossible with the two of them.

“No, you love us!” Angela says.

“And apparently, you love Mr. Andersson too!” Carter chimes.

I burst out laughing, swatting him as hard as I can on the arm. “I don’t… love him,” I hiss, glancing over to make sure he’s not close enough to hear. “I just… appreciate his creative capabilities,” I force myself to say as professionally as I can.

Carter scoffs. “And his laugh.”

“And the way his shirt clings to those arms!” Angela adds, whipping her head round to look at him. “Even I can’t help but admire that!”

“And his voice,” Carter adds. “That gravelly thing he does when he’s mid-pitch. Ugh. Even I’d go gay for that.”

“Stop it, stop it, stop it !” I whine, but the stupid smile has well and truly taken over my face as my skin flushes hotter by the second.

That gravelly voice really does get me all hot and bothered. And the shirt he’s wearing tonight is…

I freeze as I spot Marcus excusing himself from his group and heading in our direction. He rolls his sleeves up casually as he crosses the room, exposing just a bit of his forearms, and holy fucking hell I’m in trouble.

“Not. One. Word,” I warn, shooting daggers with my eyes in my friends’ direction.

“Oh, we don’t need words,” Angela whispers with a giggle. “Your face says it all. ”

I shake my head, taking a sip of my wine as he appears in front of us.

“Evening,” he says, his voice smooth as silk. “Enjoying yourselves?”

Angela brightens. “Oh, absolutely. The wine is gorgeous! And Lila here was just saying how much she appreciates your creative capabilities,” she says, trying not to laugh as I shoot her a death glare that promises retribution.

Marcus raises an eyebrow, that amused smile on his gorgeous mouth, and suddenly, I don’t even care anymore. “Is that right?”

“I… might have said something to that effect,” I say, trying my best to keep my voice as calm as possible while my heart hammers against my ribs.

Carter clears his throat. “We’re going to get another glass, and leave you two to, uh, creatively collaborate,” he says as they run off giggling like fucking schoolchildren.

I am so going to kill them.

“Smooth,” Marcus says dryly, watching them scurry towards the makeshift reception desk turned bar with no subtlety whatsoever.

Once they’re gone though, I swear the volume in the room dips just a little.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he says, his eyes steady on mine.

I try not to melt, but did he just call me beautiful?

“Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself.”

He chuckles, and our eyes meet, a moment’s pause that feels static – charged, just waiting for a spark to ignite it.

But then, of course, reality reappears.

“Marcus,” Stephen’s voice calls out, approaching us from the opposite end of the room. “Sorry, can I borrow you for a minute? One of the investors from Orion has a few questions about the ROI figures you mentioned.”

Marcus gives me an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” he says.

“It’s fine. Go, work your magic,” I say, trying to sound breezy.

He steps back but holds my gaze a second longer. “I’ll try to come find you later,” he says.

“I’ll be here,” I say. “Watching people pretend to understand all this abstract art.”

He smiles, then turns and walks away.

I stand there, smiling to myself like an idiot, until Angela suddenly reappears beside me.

“Oh girl. You’ve got it bad.”

Don’t I fucking know it?