Page 7 of Reckless Hearts

Marcus is cocky and flirty but never cruel.

And there’s an expression on his face I’ve never seen before as he waits for my reply. Something almost haunted.

“Um…okay.” I cross the hallway on shaky legs, fumbling with my doorknob for the first time ever because, of course, I would when I’ve got Marcus watching me.

Luckily, Marcus doesn’t mock my inability to do the basic function of opening a door. Instead, he waits patiently until I finally manage, then follows me wordlessly into my room.

Once inside, he looks at myStar Warsduvet andLord of the Ringsfigurines lining my shelves, and a smirk takes over his face.

Yeah, I didn’t exactly choose my room décor to help me get laid.

“Uh…” Now we’re inside my room, I have no idea what to do. Panic spreads through me. Nothing in my life has prepared me for this moment, to have Marcus inside my room, to have him looking at me like I’m someone he’s potentially interested in.

Although, am I imagining that glint in his eye? Surely Marcus doesn’t actually want me like that? He probably just wants to chill away from the crowd for a few minutes.

My heart pounds as I wait for him to say something.

“Why don’t we have our own dance party here?” Marcus suggests. “You got some sounds?”

“Uh, yeah…”

I open up my Spotify list, but because my hands are trembling, I accidentally hit my running playlist, the one full of upbeat crappy songs that are fun to run to but should never see the light of day otherwise.

The opening lines of “Barbie Girl” fill the room.

Kill me now. Like, literally, right now. I don’t care what form it takes, a sinkhole in a cursed swamp, a portal to the gates of hell, just something that means this moment ends and I never have to relive it.

To his credit, Marcus manages to get his laughter back under control after a minute.

Even his laugh is perfect—infused with his charm that makes me feel like I’m in on the joke rather than the butt of it.

Despite this, I still fight the urge to crawl under my bed and never emerge.

“Awesome tunes,” he says. The grin that lights up his face highlights his dimples and reminds me he’s good-looking beyond belief.

I brutally stab at my phone to bring up a more appropriate playlist. Maroon 5 blasts out from my speakers.

I risk a glance at Marcus, and he’s watching me, all high cheekbones and gorgeousness, still holding on to the bag I saw him leave the kitchen with earlier. Being the sole focus of Marcus’s charm and attention is everything I’ve ever wanted, yet it’s hard to determine whether elation or terror is currently winning the war over my body.

“What’s in your bag?” My question is abrupt because Marcus has always been the place where the few social skills I have go to die.

Marcus blinks down at the bag for a few seconds.

“Stuff for tequila shots,” he says finally. “Do you want to do some?”

“Okay,” I say.

“Have you ever done tequila shots before?” he asks.

I start to lie but then realize I’ll look even stupider when it becomes obvious I don’t know what I’m doing.

“No.”

His lips quirk. “It’s okay. I’ll teach you.”

I watch while he sets out a bottle of tequila, two shot glasses, a container of salt, some limes, a cutting board, and a knife. He places each item on my desk like sacred items for a ritual before he glances up at me.

“It’s a pretty simple concept. Lick. Shoot. Suck.” The words sound dirty in Marcus’s velvety voice.