Page 60 of Reckless Hearts

The tropical air hits me like a wall of humidity as I step onto the pool deck where Saskia and her friends have spread out like an invasive species, colonizing every available lounger with designer bags and oversized sun hats.

Then I spot him.

Marcus.

It appears my lungs have momentarily forgotten their purpose of supplying oxygen to my body because I’m struggling to breathe.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

It’s not a good sign when you’ve got to remind your organs of their key biological function.

I’ve been preparing myself for this moment since Saskia and Tom announced their engagement. Knowing Marcus would come to the wedding, that I would be guaranteed to see him again.

But it turns out no amount of preparation or visualization has equipped me for seeing Marcus lounging by the pool, looking like he’s stepped straight out of a magazine shoot.

He’s even more beautiful than he was seven years ago.

I didn’t think it was possible.

Twenty-one-year-old Marcus was a gorgeous specimen of humanity.

Now, he’s like some alien species with a beauty that doesn’t belong in this world.

His eyes are hidden behind his sunglasses, so I can’t tell if he’s seen me yet. Not that I’m expecting him to jump up and greet me. Especially not in front of Saskia.

What are we?

Ex-lovers? Ex-friends?

Does he even remember the details of our time together? Or am I just one in an endless stream of guys who’ve rotated through Marcus Johnson’s bed?

I used to scour Hollywood gossip blogs for any mention of Marcus, but once he started to become famous, I couldn’t handle the continuous paparazzi shots showing Marcus with nameless beautiful men in high-end restaurants. The photos that documented Marcus’s hands possessively placed on the lower back of yet another stunning model or actor at red carpet events.

I pull my eyes away from Marcus and try to focus on my family.

Saskia’s buzzing about the resort and Dad is teasing her, saying he hopes the wedding cake will be big enough to feed all of Saskia’s imaginary childhood friends.

“Dad, I swear, one more word and I’m downgrading you to a beach hut.”

“Sounds perfect. I’ve always wanted to be a castaway,” Dad replies with a grin.

Saskia rolls her eyes. “Come on, let me show you around before I change my mind about inviting you.”

I’m happy to trail after her to escape my internal debate about whether or not I should greet Marcus.

Looks like we’re going with not.

The resort is amazing. A pristine white sand beach is dotted with swaying palm trees, and the gardens are exploding with flowers so vibrant they’d make a rainbow feel drab and colorless.

But all I can think about is Marcus.

Marcus, who never messaged me after he moved to America.

I’d thought constantly about trying to contact him. But what would I say? What claim to Marcus did I really have?

Besides, if he wanted to hear from me, he would have reached out to me first, right? My phone number never changed.

The fact he never bothered probably told me everything I needed to know about how Marcus viewed things between us.