Page 143 of Reckless Hearts

The pain on Seb’s face. I’m causing that.

I hate hurting him. I hate watching the light dim in those blue eyes, knowing I’m the cause. Every time he tries to hide his pain with a science joke or a forced smile, it feels like someone’s taking a scalpel to my insides.

But I have no idea how to stop hurting him.

32

Seb

I count down to my trip to London with equal parts anticipation and anxiety.

Life is pretty crap all around at the moment.

Everyone on the fairy tern team is depressed about the loss of one of our breeding pairs. Worse, there are rumors that a new golf resort will be built in Mangawhai that would put even more pressure on the fairy tern habitat, disrupting the delicate ecosystem we’ve fought so hard to protect. Unfortunately, it appears some people believe the right of rich tourists to chase a white ball around a golf course is more important than the right of a species that has occupied that environment for millions of years to continue to exist.

Things at Rainbow Rascals are downbeat as well, despite the fact we’re winning most of our games.

Tim is so miserable without Jamie, and it seems to infect the whole team. For me, seeing his despair amplifies my own feelings of loneliness.

The only thing that has provided some distraction from my own heartache is trying to be a better brother to Saskia. Since her split with Tom, she’s come over a few times armed withice cream and a determination to watch the trashiest reality TV shows she can find. I’ve never seen this side of my sister before—sprawled on my couch in old sweatpants, her usually perfect hair twisted into a messy bun, demolishing a pint of ice cream while viciously critiquing the fashion choices of reality TV contestants.

“Look at his hair,” she’ll say through a mouthful of chocolate chip. “It looks like he stuck his head in a cotton candy machine and then got electrocuted.”

It feels like we’re kids again, sharing secret jokes, except now we’re bonding over watching attractive idiots try to find love in improbable scenarios. It’s nice to see my usually polished sister let her guard down, even if it took her marriage imploding to get us here.

But despite having something else to occupy my downtime, I still miss Marcus so much. Even more now that it feels like there are so many insurmountable barriers between us. I need to physically see him, touch him, to remind myself why being with him is so right.

Finally, it’s time to board my flight in Auckland and begin the thirty-hour trek to London.

I should really start listingprofessional long-haul passengeron my CV. It’s becoming my most practiced skill.

I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep doing this.

The words circulate like a planet trapped in an unstable orbit, spiraling closer and closer to an inevitable collision. How can I keep doing this for years and years without my heart shattering?

I’m barely human when I stumble out of the arrivals gate, but I manage to find the chauffeur waiting to drive me in a limousine and deliver me to the private elevator that goes up to Marcus’s suite on the top floor of the Ritz.

And there’s Marcus, looking unfairly gorgeous in soft gray sweats, his face breaking into a smile that makes my heart stutter.

“Hey, you,” he says softly.

His arms are around me, and suddenly, the thirty hours of travel and all the subterfuge fade because I’m finally, finally touching him again.

And he’s kissing me like I’m the cure to a disease that’s been plaguing him.

I can’t help but moan into his mouth, my fingers tangling in his hair, anchoring myself to him.

We stumble toward the bedroom, shedding clothes like molting birds. Marcus’s eyes are dark with desire, but there’s something else in his expression—a vulnerability that makes my heart ache. He lays me down on the bed with a gentleness that contrasts sharply with the urgency of his kisses.

“Oh my god, Seb,” he breathes. “I’ve missed you so much.”

I can’t say the words back because missing doesn’t seem like a strong enough term for how I’ve felt being apart from Marcus this time.

I’ve craved him. I’ve felt his absence like a phantom limb, constantly aware of the space where he should be.

His lips trace a path down my neck, across my collarbone, down to my chest. Each kiss feels like a confession.

I arch into him, desperate for more contact. My hands roam his back, feeling the play of muscles beneath his skin. Touching Marcus has always been like touching a work of art come to life, all smooth planes and hard edges. I trace the dip of his spine, marveling at how perfectly he fits against me.