Page 28 of Bluffed By the Offense

In a lightning-quick maneuver, Marcus’s hand lands on my elbow, his other arm wraps around my back. Amidst the sounds of clattering plates, splashing water and thunking chairs, Marcus tugs me up and I slam into him, landing upright on my feet, with his arm securing me to his massive, rock-hard chest and abs.

I look up at him, momentarily dazed.

He stares down into my eyes, an equally bewildered expression on his face.

Then, as if snapping out of a dream state, Marcus releases me, steps back, and extends the slightly-crumpled check to the waiter.

I’m well aware that eyes are now on us. All. the. eyes.

“Did you just manhandle me so you could pay the bill?” I ask Marcus in a whisper.

“I wouldn’t call it manhandling,” he says in an equally quiet voice.

His mouth ticks up in the corner, like he’s suppressing an amused grin.

“Is this funny to you, Delaney?” I ask quietly.

He shrugs. Then he produces the bouquet of peonies from where he had been gripping them with the hand behind my back.

“You forgot these,” he says.

I don’t thank him. I should, I know. But the fall, and his grip, and this scene in front of all these witnesses … I’m too flustered.

“I’m going to just …” I point the bouquet toward the door.

Then I look at the waiter. I should offer to help clean up. Or maybe cover dinner for the couple.

Marcus looks at them. “Dinner’s on me. Sorry about the inconvenience.”

They beam up at him. The man practically coos, “Marcus Delaney? Wow. Thanks.”

Marcus catches my eye as I’m turning to leave. “I’ll see you at Porch Light, Cass.”

I don’t answer him because the words on the tip of my tongue are, over my dead body.

Instead, I manage to smile and say, “Goodnight, Marcus.”

“Goodnight, Cass.”

The way he says my name sounds as lovely as it has all night, but the look in his eye is triumphant—like he won a contest by paying the bill.

I just can’t with him.

I’m aware of phones raised in my direction as I carry the bouquet out of Fork and Fiddle, my clothes and hair dripping with water and slightly smeared with splotches of dip. I all but sprint to my car. I call Winona as soon as I’m buckled in.

“Hey! You lasted an hour!” she exclaims.

“Barely,” I fish napkins out of my glove box and start dabbing at the globs of artichoke and cheese.

“Oh, no.”

“Don't ask. Really. Just don't.”

“Cass.”

“I know you had a dream of us getting along and braiding one another’s hair. The good news is we didn’t kill one another.”

“That’s … encouraging.”