Ch12 - Does She Have Feelings For Me

The fundamental problem with being one of the most celebrated and visually recognizable creatives in the fashion industry, Marcus Vane reflects bitterly, is that it becomes a logistical nightmare the moment you attempt to do something as painfully ordinary as buying phone charger from a department store.

He rounds the corner toward the escalators and immediately clocks the situation—three girls, phones already raised. Marcus pivots flawlessly in the opposite direction, only to find another group blocking the corridor. For a fleeting second, he actually evaluates the structural integrity of the ceiling, wondering if it might offer a viable escape route.

Suddenly, a hand closes around his wrist.

He doesn't have time to react before he's through a door—and then standing inside a tiled space that takes him approximately two seconds to correctly identify.

"Luna," his voice is very controlled. "This is the women's restroom."

"The most dangerous place is the safest place." Luna releases his wrist, brushing off her hands and tilting her head. "No one is going to look for you in here."

"No one will look here because I will be arrested here—"

"Keep your voice down," she interrupts, stepping backward into the nearest stall. "Come on. Get in."

"Absolutely not. I am not—"

The main door swings open. Voices filter in.

Marcus steps into the stall.

The space is not designed for two people.

This is self-evident. Luna appears unbothered by the architecture. She leans against the partition wall and watches him with an expression of complete serenity while Marcus stands with his arms folded and his jaw set and approximately six inches of personal space between them, which is six inches less than he would like.

The phantom ache of the crescent-shaped bruises she had clawed into his waist just days ago flares up in his memory, a sharp reminder of exactly how dangerous this woman is.

"You can relax," Luna says.

"I am relaxed."

"Your jaw suggests otherwise."

His jaw tightens further, which is not the rebuttal he intended.

"Luna, I know exactly how your twisted mind works," Marcus whispers harshly. "So whatever agenda you're currently running, you can drop it. I am not going to fall for your two-faced, manipulative act. That pathetic routine might work on Ethan, but I see right through you."

Luna's eyelashes flutter. "I was only trying to help you," she murmurs, her voice dropping into a soft, grieved cadence. She looks genuinely, devastatingly pitiful. "I didn't mean any—ah!"

Her ankle seemingly gives out. With a short, breathless gasp, her body tips forward, falling completely out of her control and crashing directly into his chest.

Operating on pure reflex, Marcus's arm wraps around her waist to break her fall, his other hand immediately clapping tightly over her mouth to muffle her yelp before the fans outside can hear it.

"Honestly," a judgmental voice echoes sharply from the adjacent stall, accompanied by the aggressive sound of a flushing toilet. "Some people have absolutely no respect for public spaces. Doing that in a mall bathroom? Disgusting."

The silence that instantly paralyzes the stall is absolute.

Marcus freezes, hyper-aware of the fact that the stranger thinks they are hooking up.

The scent of Luna's expensive perfume engulfs him, completely overriding the sterile smell of the restroom. Because of the awkward angle of her fall, the back of her head is pressed flush against his chest, right over his violently accelerating heartbeat.

He feels her hand lift, her soft, seemingly boneless fingers tapping gently against the back of the hand currently covering her mouth, silently signaling him to let go. The feather-light friction of her skin against his sends a sudden, bizarre, and entirely unwanted jolt of electricity straight up his arm.

Marcus recoils violently, ripping his hands away as if she had physically burned him, his expression darkening into a stormy scowl.

Once the voices outside finally fade into the corridor, Luna cautiously pushes the stall door open, peering out to check the perimeter.

Because she is leaning forward, the movement pulls the fabric of her tailored, silk slip dress taut against her body, aggressively highlighting the devastating, flawless curve of her hips and the slender line of her waist.

Marcus catches the visual out of the corner of his eye and instantly, violently snaps his gaze toward the ceiling.

He is a professional photographer and creative director, he aggressively reminds himself.

He has spent a decade directing the most beautiful, structurally perfect supermodels in the world. He is simply a human man with functional biology and a baseline appreciation for aesthetics.

Experiencing a momentary, physical reaction to a highly attractive woman pressed against him in a confined space is a completely standard physiological response.

It means absolutely nothing.

"The coast is clear," Luna whispers.

Before he can move, she ducks back into the stall, retrieves a black mask from her designer handbag, and efficiently snaps the elastic bands over his ears. Next comes her oversized sunglasses, which she slides onto the bridge of his nose, her warm fingertips brushing lightly against his cheekbones in the process.

"Passable," she decides, admiring her handiwork. "Follow me."

Marcus doesn't have the leverage to argue.

She navigates the labyrinthine back corridors of the department store, emerging into the subterranean parking garage. She stops beside a dark green sedan and unlocks it with a soft chirp.

"Get in," she commands, sliding into the driver's seat. "Your car will have been photographed by now. They'll be waiting for it."

Marcus slides into the passenger seat, aggressively pulling the door shut.

"Buckle up," Luna advises, flashing him a dangerously sweet, entirely innocent smile. "I forgot my driver today, and my technique is...unconventional."

"What does that mean?"

"Just a general recommendation. I'd wear it extra securely if I were you." She pulls out of the space.

***

Thirty minutes later, the dark green sedan violently swerves onto the gravel shoulder of a completely deserted, unrecognizable suburban highway.

The passenger door is shoved open with explosive force, Marcus is currently hunched over the weeds, violently emptying the contents of his stomach.

"I am so, so sorry," Luna's voice floats over him, dripping with such profound, distressing concern that it would be Oscar-worthy if he didn't currently feel like his internal organs had been put through a commercial blender.

"If you are functionally incapable of driving a vehicle without attempting vehicular manslaughter, you shouldn't be behind a wheel."

"I know, I know, I apologize," she murmurs, looking sufficiently scolded.

"Stop." He takes the water. Rinses. Spits. Considers his life choices. "Where are we?"

Luna looks around. At the empty road. At the fields on either side. At the extremely unhelpful absence of distinguishing landmarks.

"I'm not entirely sure," she says.

"What does your phone say?"

A pause.

Luna bites her bottom lip, her hands twisting nervously in front of her. "I don't have it."

"Excuse me?"

"My phone," she clarifies. "Is why I was at the mall. I was getting a new one. I hadn't gotten it yet when I ran into you."

Marcus stares at her.

"So you have no phone."

"Correct."

"And you don't know where we are."

"Broadly, I think we're—"

"Use mine," he says, already reaching into his jacket.

His jacket pocket is empty.

He checks the other one. Empty. He goes back to the car—checks the seat, the door pocket, the floor. He straightens and stands very still for a moment, processing.

"It must have fallen out," Luna says carefully. "At the mall, maybe, when we—"

"I'm aware of when," he says.

She presses her lips together. "I'm sorry. I really am. I have terrible spatial intuition and I should have—"

"It's fine." It is not fine. "We'll flag someone down."

They stand on the side of the road for approximately four minutes. No cars pass. This is, Marcus thinks, an objectively perfect metaphor for this entire afternoon.

"You could drive," Luna says. "I'll try to navigate from memory."

"I can't drive."

She blinks. "You can't—"

"I don't drive," he corrects sharply. He has no intention of elaborating on the mechanics of it to his sister's worst enemy.

"I know," Luna says.

Marcus freezes. "What did you just say?"

"I know you can't drive," Luna repeats, her voice dropping into a register that is startlingly quiet, almost dangerously gentle. "Because of your color vision deficiency."

The late afternoon light catches the curve of her profile. Her ears have gone pink.

Marcus is quiet for a moment.

His colorblindness is not a matter of public record. Outside of his immediate family and his private assistant, absolutely no one knows.

"How do you know that?" he asks.

She doesn't answer immediately. She picks at a thread on her sleeve. The pink has moved from her ears to her cheekbones, which he observes with the objective detachment of someone who notices things for a living.

"I pay attention," she says finally.

"To me? Specifically?"

Another silence. Longer this time.

When Luna finally turns back to face him, she has expertly reassembled her features into a mask of cool, impenetrable composure.

But Marcus notices. He's a photographer.

She has been paying attention to him.

The realization detonates in the center of his chest, scattering every logical defense he possesses.

He stares at the woman standing in front of him—the ruthless strategist, the alleged homewrecker, the venomous snake currently dismantling his sister's life piece by agonizing piece.

Why would she spend time secretly studying him to uncover a medical secret that even his closest colleagues don't know?

Does she have feelings for me?

Marcus swallows hard, his heart hammering an erratic, entirely inappropriate rhythm against his ribs.

She has a boyfriend, he reminds himself.

The thought is significantly less stabilizing than it should be.