Page 70 of Reckless Hearts

“It’s probably not the most romantic comment ever made,” I agree.

“Sorry,” he says again.

“Don’t be sorry. I’ve missed your random facts.”

His gaze flies to mine.

The restroom door swings open, and a giggling group of Saskia’s friends squeal in embarrassment when they realize they’re in the men’s room but quickly recover when they recognize me.

“Oh my god, it’s Marcus!”

“I knew I was irresistible, but I didn’t think it extended to drawing women into men’s restrooms,” I drawl.

They laugh far harder than my joke warrants. That’s one thing I’ve noticed about the growth in my celebrity status. The decline in the standards of humor of the random people I meet.

“Can we get a selfie?” one of them asks.

“Sure thing.”

When I’ve finished posing, I realize Seb is gone.

I head back into the reception and find myself at the center of a dance circle, guests eagerly waiting their turn to share a moment with the celebrity in their midst. I laugh and joke, making sure I’m the charming movie star they expect.

But as I pose for selfies between songs, my mind keeps drifting back to Seb’s flushed cheeks and nervous smile in the restroom.

He’s over at one of the tables now, talking to Saskia’s new in-laws, his polite smile not quite reaching his eyes.

But his gaze snares on mine from across the room, and for a moment, the noise and chaos of the reception fades.

And I remember how I felt about Seb, that confusing, tight feeling I’d get in my chest.

I turn away, trying to get back into dancing.

But the atmosphere is changing, the humidity rising, turning the air into a sticky embrace.

A gust of wind sweeps through, strong enough to send napkins fluttering and extinguish a few tiki lanterns.

The sky, once a canvas of stars, is now obscured by rolling clouds. The scent of rain hangs heavy in the air.

The approaching thunderstorm feels inevitable.

The first raindrop on my cheek is startlingly cold. As if on cue, the heavens unleash a torrent, rain sheeting down in silvery curtains. The guests’ hairstyles immediately wilt under the onslaught as people make a mad dash for cover.

I head for a clump of trees, ducking under the branches. The dense canopy offers a surprising amount of protection, but I’m unprepared for the sight of Seb already sheltering there.

Seb’s eyes widen, and for a moment, we just stare at each other.

His chest is heaving from his own dash through the rain, his curls plastered to his forehead. Droplets of water cling to his eyelashes, and his wet shirt sticks to his frame.

There’s a wild, exhilarated look in his eyes. He looks disheveled, caught off guard, and utterly beautiful.

“Seb,” I choke, but I’m not sure he can hear me over the noise of the thunderstorm.

The air between us feels like it’s charged more than any storm.

I move into his space and reach out, my fingers finding the damp cotton of Seb’s shirt. He breathes in sharply, the sound cutting through the white noise of the rain.

“Marcus,” he whispers. He reaches out to brush a raindrop from my cheek.