Chapter 9 - Pretending

Sophia

The wine arrives, and I'm grateful for something to do with my hands other than fidget with my napkin like some nervous teenager on her first date.

Which this absolutely is not.

"So," I say, swirling the red wine in my glass with what I hope looks like casual sophistication, "Tell me about the matchmaking business. What drew you to it?"

It's a safe question. Professional. The kind of thing a journalist would ask to understand her subject better.

It's definitely not the kind of question someone asks when they're trying to figure out if the man across from them is a sociopath or just devastatingly attractive.

Marcus considers this while cutting into his steak with the precision of a surgeon.

"I suppose I've always been interested in what makes people tick. The psychology behind attraction, compatibility, the stories we tell ourselves about love."

"Stories we tell ourselves?"

"Everyone has a narrative about what they want in a partner. But what they actually need? That's usually something completely different."

He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. "Most people are attracted to their own damage."

I nearly choke on my salmon. "That's remarkably cynical for someone in the romance business."

"Is it cynical if it's true?"

He sets down his fork and looks at me directly.

"Take you, for instance. You're intelligent, successful, beautiful. You could have anyone. But you're here, paying someone else to find you love, because deep down you don't trust yourself to recognize it when it shows up."

The observation hits way too close to home, and I feel my defensive walls slamming into place. "That's quite an assumption to make about someone you've known for all of two days."

"Am I wrong?"

I want to tell him yes. I want to deflect with sarcasm or change the subject entirely. Instead, I hear myself saying, "What makes you think you know anything about trust?"

"Because I recognize the signs. The way you catalog every exit in a room before you sit down. The way you deflect personal questions with professional ones. The way you agreed to dinner but insisted on picking the restaurant so you'd have some control over the situation."

My heart is beating faster now, and not in the good way.

"You're very observant."

"It's part of the job. But it's also..."

He pauses, and for the first time since I've met him, Marcus looks uncertain.

"It's also because I do the same things."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm sitting here trying to figure out if you're dangerous while simultaneously hoping you're not, because I'm more attracted to you than I've been to anyone in years."

He reaches for his wine glass. "And that terrifies me."

I stare at him across the table, trying to process what he just said.

Because either he's the most skilled manipulator I've ever met, or he just told me the truth in a way that makes my chest feel tight and my carefully constructed walls feel suddenly flimsy.

"That's quite an admission," I manage.

"So was yours."

"I didn't admit anything."

"You didn't deny it either."

His smile is gentle, but there's something predatory about it too.

"You're not the only one who's good at reading people, Sophia."

The way he says my name makes my stomach flip. Like he knows something I haven't told him.

"What do you want from me, Marcus?"

"The truth would be a good start."

I laugh, but it comes out shakier than I intended. "The truth about what?"

"About who you really are. About what you're really doing here. About whether this-" he gestures between us, "Is real or if it's just another performance."

For a moment, I consider telling him everything.

About the Tribune, about my investigation, about the fact that I'm sitting here lying to his face while trying to figure out if he's a criminal or just a man who makes me feel things I'm not prepared to feel.

Instead, I lean back in my chair and give him my best enigmatic smile.

"What makes you think I'm performing?"

"Because I am too."

The admission hangs in the air between us like a challenge. We're both liars, and we both know it, and in a way I can’t quite name, this feels like the most unguarded I’ve been in months.

"So what are we doing here?" I ask quietly.

"I think," Marcus says, his voice dropping to something that feels almost intimate, "We're trying to figure out if two people who are professionally dishonest can find something real together."

My breath catches. "And what if we can't?"

"Then we'll have had excellent wine and decent conversation." He pauses. "But I don't think that's what's going to happen."

"What do you think is going to happen?"

"I think," he says, reaching across the table to brush his fingers against mine, "One of us is going to have to decide if the truth is worth the risk."

The touch is electric, and I have to resist the urge to pull my hand away. Not because I don't want him to touch me, but because I want it too much.

"What if the truth ruins everything?" I whisper.

"What if it saves everything?"

I look down at our hands, his fingers still resting against mine, and realize I'm in serious trouble. Because somewhere between the wine and the conversation and the way he's looking at me like I'm worth figuring out, I've stopped thinking about Marcus Blackwood as a potential criminal.

I've started thinking about him as a man I could fall for.

And that, more than any danger he might pose to my investigation, is what terrifies me most.

"I should go," I say, pulling my hand back.

"Should you?"

"Yes." I signal for the waiter. "This is getting complicated."

"It was already complicated." Marcus doesn't try to stop me as I gather my purse, but his eyes never leave my face.

"The question is whether you're running from the complication or toward it."

I don't answer, because I honestly don't know.

But as I walk away from the table, I can feel him watching me, and part of me wants to turn around and go back.

To sit down and tell him everything and see what happens when a professional liar decides to be honest for once.

The other part of me knows that's exactly how good journalists end up compromised.

The question is, which part of me is stronger?