Page 92 of Reckless Hearts

But I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to see Marcus.

Will it be weird seeing him again? We’ve messaged and talked so much over the past few months, and I feel like IknowMarcus better now. I’ve got more of an idea of who he is beneath the charming facade he projects to the world. I know about his career goals, the way negative reviews can send him into a down mood. I know how he laughs at my bad jokes and sometimes even chimes in with worse ones.

But one part of me is inexplicably nervous about seeing him. It’s the part that still hasn’t gotten past that “Holy shit, this isMarcus Johnson. He’s so far out of my league” feeling I had when I was eighteen years old.

The plane touches down with a jolt.

I emerge from the plane feeling like I’ve been put through a very long spin cycle. My hair is doing its best impression of an electrocuted poodle, and I’m pretty sure my right eye is twitching in Morse code.

I have never felt like less of a romantic match to a Hollywood movie star.

Clutching my backpack strap, I scan the arrivals area. All the Icelandic signs are a confusing mess of consonants, like the person writing them fell asleep on their keyboard.

I can’t see Marcus anywhere.

Just as I’m about to reach for my phone, a woman approaches me. Her eyes scan me from head to toe, and I have the sudden urge to stand straighter and maybe recite the periodic table to prove I’m intelligent life.

“Mr. Kleggs?”

“Yes, I’m him. I mean, that’s me.”

“Hi, I’m Erica, Mr. Johnson’s PA. He sends his apologies, but he’s currently filming a scene, so he asked me to collect you.”

“Oh, right. Okay then.”

Erica bustles me out of the airport and into a Mercedes-Benz S-Class that’s so flash I’m afraid to breathe too heavily in case I somehow devalue it.

Her efficient competency doesn’t settle my nerves about seeing Marcus again. It only reminds me how far apart our worlds are.

After a half-hour drive, where Erica and I make polite conversation about long-haul travel and the Icelandic weather, we pull up to what looks like a small city made of trailers and equipment. People bustle about with determined expressions,clutching walkie-talkies, reminding me of a particularly well-organized ant colony.

I feel woefully underdressed in my black puffer jacket and jeans.

Erica leads me through a labyrinth of equipment and people, all of whom seem to instinctively part ways for her.

We round a corner, and I’m transported to 1800s Iceland. There’s a small cluster of buildings: a main house with walls of stone and wood, smaller outbuildings, and what looks like a primitive barn. Props that look straight out of a historical museum—old fishing nets, weathered barrels, even a rusty plow—litter the ground.

A man with a headset suddenly appears, frantically waving his hands like he’s trying to land a plane.

“Quiet on set!” he hisses, and everyone around us freezes mid-motion.

Suddenly, Marcus is there, and my heart does a somersault. He’s dressed in period costume, his hair wild and windswept.

He’s accompanied by a tall, rangy guy I recognize as Peter Beauford, the Hollywood veteran who’s been in more blockbusters than I’ve had hot dinners. Which, given my student diet, might not be saying much, but still—the guy’s a legend.

“The winter is coming, and with it, death,” Peter intones ominously.

Marcus steps forward, his eyes blazing. “Then we’ll face it together, as we always have.”

The air between them crackles with tension. I’m so caught up in their performance I nearly forget to breathe.

The scene ends, and the set erupts into motion, with half the crew converging on Marcus. People adjust his costume, powder his face, and offer him various drinks and snacks. It’s like watching a Formula One pit crew, but instead of a car, they’re servicing a movie star.

Marcus hasn’t seen me yet. Should I approach him now?

I look around to Erica for guidance, but she’s disappeared.

Instead, a very official-looking woman bears down on me.