Page 16 of Reckless Hearts (Rainbow Redemption #2)

15

Seb

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.

“We’ve booked out the restaurant for dinner, so you guys should freshen up. We’ll aim to meet at the bar for pre-dinner drinks around six,” Saskia says.

“Freshen up? You mean I can’t keep this ‘just survived a long-haul flight’ look? And here I thought I was starting a trend,” Dad says with a grin while Saskia rolls her eyes yet again.

I’m grateful to retreat to my villa.

It’s a haven of luxury, all polished wood and crisp white linens. The floor-to-ceiling window frames the ocean view like a living postcard.

After a quick shower, I forgo my usual science pun T-shirt and instead spend an embarrassing amount of time choosing between two nearly identical blue shirts. I pair the winner with my best chinos and then dither about wearing my contact lenses rather than my glasses. Marcus has never seen me with glasses because my diagnosis of a slight astigmatism didn’t come until my second year of university. My ex-boyfriend dug my look with glasses, but who knows what Marcus thinks?

In the end, I decide to go with the glasses.

I give myself one last once-over in the mirror, running a hand through my hair in a futile attempt to tame it.

Marcus used to laugh about how the one tuft of hair at the back always stuck up no matter what…and now I’m back to thinking about Marcus.

It’s like he’s become my brain’s default screensaver, popping up whenever my thoughts are left idling for more than two-point-five seconds.

My heart rate increases with every step as I walk to the bar.

Now that the sun is setting, the party has migrated from the deck into the bar.

I spot Marcus immediately. He’s standing near the door, looking effortlessly perfect in a lightweight linen shirt. It’s like he’s been airbrushed into reality. He stands out even in this crowd of beautiful people.

I head to the bar on shaky legs and order one of their local beers.

I sip my beer, suddenly fascinated by the label’s intricate design. Anything to avoid making accidental eye contact with Marcus.

“Seb!” Saskia calls out.

I turn around.

Saskia’s dressed in a flowy sundress, her golden hair catching the light. She’s standing next to Marcus, and she waves me over to them.

My feet suddenly feel too big for my body, and I’m acutely conscious of my arms. Have they always swung this awkwardly when I walk?

It’s like I’m in a nature documentary: Watch as the awkward biologist attempts to integrate with the glamorous species.

When I reach them, Saskia slings an affectionate arm around me.

“You remember my brother Seb, right?” she says to Marcus.

I meet Marcus’s gray eyes. His expression gives nothing away.

“Sure. Of course I remember Seb.” Marcus’s voice hasn’t changed. His voice is warm honey, smooth and inviting.

What does he remember about me? Does he remember the way he used to kiss down my neck, the way his fingers used to trace patterns on my skin, how perfectly we fit together when he fucked me?

I resist the urge to ask him those questions.

It now feels like a dream. Something that happened to someone else.

A few months of hooking up with a gorgeous, charming guy.

But they remain the most impactful few months of my life.

Would I ever be able to explain to Marcus how he taught me to chase after what I wanted?

Before we started hooking up, I was such an innocent eighteen-year-old, a kid who’d spent my childhood playing second fiddle to my older sister, someone who let life happen to him. I’d never chased hard after anything.

But I’d never wanted anything as much as I wanted Marcus.

And I’d gotten him and had him for those brief, glorious months.

I’d feared rejection, but the reward had definitely been worth that risk.

And I’d applied that same philosophy to my life since then.

A student fellowship that only fourth-years usually got? I was going to apply as an upstart second-year. The best lecturer in the department who hardly ever took on PhD students? I would ask her if she’d consider being my supervisor anyway. Applying for a post-doc position at a new university when I was competing against all the people who’d done their PhD in the department? It was worth a shot.

I was still the same guy I’d always been, slightly socially awkward, someone who’d choose a night in with a good documentary over a wild party, still prone to spouting random animal facts at inopportune moments.

I just had more courage to put myself out there for the things I really wanted.

After all, I’d obtained the unobtainable once, so who said it wouldn’t happen again?

But I don’t get a chance to say a single word to Marcus now. Saskia’s called away and a guy I vaguely recognize from Saskia’s law school days materializes, slapping Marcus on the back like they’re old war buddies. He launches into a story about a university party they both attended. Marcus focuses his charm on him, not even glancing in my direction.

After standing awkwardly for a minute, I use my parents entering the bar as an excuse to slink away.

Well, I survived it. My first interaction with Marcus in seven years, and I didn’t totally embarrass myself. That’s got to count for something.

When I reach my parents, Mum immediately starts fussing with my collar, lamenting how I never iron my shirts properly. Dad takes a break from perusing the wine list to ask if I’ve considered a haircut recently.

There’s nothing quite like criticism masquerading as parental concern.

Twenty minutes later, it’s time to move to the restaurant. Saskia directs people to their tables with the precision of an air traffic controller.

I find my assigned seat at a table with Mum, Dad, and a smattering of aunts and uncles I haven’t seen since last Christmas.

Marcus is seated at the next table over, which can only be described as the cool kids’ table. Saskia presides over it like a queen holding court with Marcus as her knight.

It’s like going back in time, being back at university again.

I force myself to look away, focusing instead on Aunt Mildred’s detailed account of her recent knee surgery. But even as I nod along, asking appropriate questions about recovery time and physical therapy, I work hard to prevent my eyes from drifting over to Marcus.

When our main courses are delivered by the waitstaff, it quickly becomes apparent I made a strategic error in ordering the crab. Because on my plate are four whole crabs, their beady eyes looking up at me in judgment.

The waiter sets down some implements next to my plate, which I blink at. They look like miniature medieval torture devices. Apparently, I’m supposed to use these to extract the meat.

It’s okay. I can do this. I’ll just approach the whole thing like the scientist I am, experimenting to find out the best process.

I grab the most threatening-looking tool, clamp it over one of the crab’s claws, and squeeze the handles.

There’s a loud crack, and suddenly, a spray of shell shrapnel flies across the table.

A piece ricochets off a wine glass, pings against a fork, and somehow defies the laws of physics to land directly in the cleavage of my mother’s dress.

Mum lets out a shriek. She stands, doing what can only be described as an impromptu flamenco as she desperately tries to fish out the invading crustacean from her bra.

The whole restaurant stares at us.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I say desperately. I half-stand but soon realize there’s no way I’m going to help my mother retrieve crab shell from her cleavage.

And that’s definitely a sentence I never thought would cross my mind.

“Mum, are you okay?” Saskia rises to her feet. Meanwhile, my father is almost doubled over laughing.

My mother fishes around in her cleavage and pulls out a piece of shell the size of a guitar pick. She holds it up triumphantly.

“I’m okay. Your brother just found a creative way to share his meal.” She turns to me. “Next time, just pass the plate, sweetheart.”

Now everyone is staring at me. I slouch in my chair, my cheeks heating past the point of being radioactive. Is it possible to spontaneously evolve chameleon-like camouflage abilities? Could I pass as a particularly lifelike tropical plant?

Because I appear to have a masochistic streak, my eyes seek out the movie star in the room.

The first time I ever saw Marcus, I spilled a box of Froot Loops. It appears I’m continuing my trend of mishandling food around him.

But when I meet Marcus’s gaze, my heart almost stops at the expression on his face. It’s not amusement or secondhand embarrassment. It’s not even the bemused tolerance I’ve grown accustomed to from people witnessing my social blunders.

Instead, the look on his face can only be described with one word.

Affection.

A fizzing begins inside me, like someone’s replaced my blood with carbonated water.

But before I can fully process what I’ve seen, the waiter appears by my side.

“Would you like some assistance with your crab, sir?” he asks.

“I think that might be the safest course of action for everyone,” Dad says with a chortle.

“That would be great, thank you,” I say.

I navigate the remainder of the meal with only part of my mind focused on wrestling with the crabs on my plate. Luckily, my choice of chocolate mousse for dessert doesn’t offer any chances to demonstrate my impressive lack of fine-dining skills.

Before I know it, dessert plates are being whisked away and chairs are scraping back.

Most people drift back toward the bar.

Should I call it a night? My villa is incredibly tempting right now. At least there would be no further chances to embarrass myself there.

But my brain is still replaying the look of affection on Marcus’s face.

What kind of scientist would I be if I didn’t choose to further investigate that phenomenon?

Instead of retreating, I take a deep breath and head into the bar.

From the loud laughter, it appears most of Saskia’s friends consumed quite a lot of wine at dinner. Saskia herself still seems sober. She’s sitting at a table with one of the resort staff, armed with a folder so thick it could probably double as a bulletproof shield.

I approach the bar and order another beer.

I’m midway through calculating how many different species of tropical fish are in the aquarium behind the bar when Marcus appears at my elbow.

The bar’s dim lighting catches on his cheekbones, creating shadows that somehow make him even more striking, if that’s even possible.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I reply.

It feels like a chemical chain reaction has just ignited in my chest, my emotions catalyzing into something volatile and unstoppable.

What do I say to Marcus after seven years?

My brain comes up with a whole lot of suggestions and then rejects every one of them.

Finally, I nod to where Saskia is going over what looks like battle plans with the resort employee.

“It appears wedding preparations are more complex than coordinating a space shuttle launch. Although I guess there is marginally less rocket fuel involved.”

Well, I guess it’s a good idea to remind Marcus how much of a science geek I am straight up. Just in case he’s forgotten.

Marcus props an elbow against the bar, looking at me for a few heartbeats before he speaks.

“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure there’s no rocket fuel at this wedding. Have you seen the cocktail menu? Some of those drinks could probably power a small spacecraft.”

I can’t help laughing, and a small smile slides onto Marcus’s face.

“At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if Saskia wants a spacecraft so she can rearrange the stars for optimal wedding night constellation viewing,” I say.

It’s Marcus’s turn to laugh, and it’s like hearing a favorite song I forgot existed.

He signals the bartender for another cocktail, then turns back and fixes those intense gray eyes on me. I will myself not to flush under Marcus’s stare.

“So, how are you doing?” he asks. “You still studying?”

It deflates me a bit that Marcus hasn’t bothered to ask Saskia about what I’m doing now. But I power through my disappointment to answer Marcus’s question.

“Yep, I’m still studying. I finished my PhD last year, and I’m in my first year of my post-doc at Auckland University.”

“So, you’re now Dr. Kleggs?”

“Yeah, although don’t say that too loudly, or people expect I can do something actually useful, like give them medical advice on their weird rashes or how to deal with ingrown toenails.”

Marcus receives his cocktail and takes a long sip. I try not to focus on how Marcus’s lips wrap around his straw.

Epic fail.

“What are you doing your post-doc on?” those lips ask.

I snap my attention back to the rest of his face. “I’m looking at the impact of climate change on nesting behaviors of the fairy tern.”

Marcus’s eyebrows fold together. “I don’t think I’ve heard of a fairy tern.”

“Not many people have. It’s one of the most endangered seabirds in the world.”

His eyes soften. “You always did want to help save native bird species. You said that would be your life’s mission.”

I freeze like someone has hit the pause button on my body.

“You remember that?” I manage to say finally.

“Of course I remember.” Marcus’s voice is low and intimate, and I suddenly wonder what else he remembers.

My salivary glands appear to be another organ starstruck by Marcus, and I have to swallow hard to get moisture back in my mouth and respond to him.

“Um…yeah. I did my PhD thesis on the albatross and then applied to do my post-doc on the fairy tern, which is how I ended up in Auckland.”

“Are you enjoying the move?”

“Yeah, I guess. The university’s great. And Auckland is pretty cool. I could do without the Aucklanders, but, you know, it’s the price you’ve got to pay.”

He huffs out a small chuckle.

I take a sip of my beer and use the time to summon the courage to turn the questions around on him. I desperately want to keep talking to Marcus, even if we’re only exchanging small talk.

“What about you? How’s Los Angeles?” I ask.

Marcus traces the rim of his glass with his finger, a small furrow appearing between his brows. “It’s…different. It was a big culture shock after Dunedin.”

“I can imagine. Must be quite different from when your biggest excitement was finding out The Bog had two-for-one pizzas.”

He grins. “Yes. Although LA doesn’t have the unique thrill of running to your lecture hall through horizontal rain.”

“Do you enjoy your job?” I ask.

The smile fades from his face. He leans against the bar, his posture relaxed but his eyes intense as they focus on me.

“I don’t think anyone has ever asked me that before,” he says quietly.

“Really?”

“I guess everyone always assumes because so many people want to be actors, it must be the best job in the world.” He stops and takes another sip of his drink before he continues, “I do like acting. Modeling wasn’t so great. The novelty of being treated like a clotheshorse wears off after a while. But I definitely enjoy acting.”

“What do you like about acting?”

He shrugs. “I guess I like the process of slipping into someone else’s skin, working out why they act the way they do.”

I’m suddenly lightheaded. When we were together at uni, I’d occasionally see glimpses of this side of Marcus. So different from the usual charming and cocky Marcus. More introspective, more…vulnerable.

“I saw you in Cupid’s GPS ,” I say. “You were great.”

Great is an understatement. Marcus lit up the screen with a presence that made it impossible to look away, even when he wasn’t speaking.

He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it. “Thanks.”

“And I really liked the remake of Ben Hur .”

Marcus fidgets with his drink, his fingers tracing patterns in the condensation on the glass. “How many of my movies have you watched?”

Is there a way to answer that question honestly without coming across as a stalker ex-lover?

“I’ve watched all of them,” I admit. I duck my head, suddenly fascinated by the coaster on the bar. But I push myself to continue. “You were amazing in every single one. And you’re like a movie-making machine. You just keep churning them out.”

Marcus’s jaw tightens for a moment. He shifts his weight, angling himself away from the crowded bar. “The industry is ruthless. You’ve got to capitalize while you’re hot. You take a six-month break, and you find yourself doing infomercials for hair regrowth products.”

I look at Marcus’s hair. “I’m pretty sure you’d nail those slow-motion hair flips.”

Marcus smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Thanks.”

“But that sounds like lots of pressure.”

“It is an incredibly intense industry. You’ve got to be everywhere, all of the time. Be seen in the right places with the right people. And there’s this constant pressure to be perfect, to never have a bad day or say the wrong thing. If you do anything wrong, social media explodes.”

“Is it that way even after you’ve become famous?”

“Yeah. Especially as I’m trying to move into more serious roles.” Marcus lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “I guess I’m trying to prove to the world that I’m more than a pretty face.”

“You’ve always been so much more than that,” I say softly.

His eyes fly to meet mine. His lips part as if he’s about to say something more, but the intimate bubble we’ve created is suddenly burst by Saskia’s voice.

“Hey, my chief bridesman. Can you come give me your opinions on the placement of the tiki torches?”

Marcus rips his gaze away from mine to look at Saskia. “I didn’t realize ‘Hollywood heartthrob’ and ‘tiki torch technician’ were interchangeable job titles.”

Saskia smirks. “I figured your expertise in smoldering looks would translate well to actual fire management.”

“Well, Vanity Fair did call me sizzling,” Marcus says smoothly.

I watch Marcus slide into his fun Saskia’s best friend persona like he’s putting on a suit. No wonder he took to acting like a duck takes to water.

Which makes me wonder… How much of his life has Marcus spent acting?