“Are you going to eat all of that?” Marcus asked later that evening as we watched the news, cuddled up on the couch in his living room.
I smiled as I took another bite of the massive hot fudge sundae I’d concocted just a few minutes earlier. I could hear the note of longing in his voice as I leaned back against him. My back was resting against the front of his body, a position that had become our favorite when we were relaxing together.
“I planned on it,” I teased.
He didn’t answer, but I already knew he was hoping I’d share. I’d already figured out that he didn’t shun sugar and junk food because he didn’t like it. He did it strictly because of his rigid discipline to stay healthy and fit for his travels. It wasn’t that I objected. I understood that my obsession for junk food wasn’t healthy. I simply didn’t care. I ate healthy enough most of the time. A person needed some indulgences.
And lately, Marcus had been more than willing to allow himself some foods that were meant simply for pleasure.
My suspicion was that he could normally avoid it because he didn’t see it, but since I devoured it on a regular basis, he was tempted. His mother, Aileen, was a phenomenal cook and baker, so I was certain he’d indulged plenty as a kid.
He wasn’t nearly as snobby as he attempted to be about eating for pleasure.
Marcus could afford to consume what he wanted. He did one of the most brutal workouts I’d ever seen every morning in his home gym. I’d attempted to keep up with him, but had failed miserably.
According to Aileen, Marcus had loved chocolate when he was young, and I could tell that preference hadn’t gone away. He just hid it well.
I pointed my spoon at the bowl. “This is really good. Are you sure you don’t want me to make you one?”
“Nope. I’m fine,” he answered.
Honestly, I think he liked junk food the best when he was eating mine. Maybe he could rationalize that because he didn’t actually eat his own.
I sighed as I took another bite, the explosion of hot fudge and creamy French vanilla ice cream in my mouth absolutely perfect.
“I’d probably be willing to try a little of yours,” Marcus rumbled, his low voice vibrating against my back as he looked over my shoulder.
I smiled broader, finally hearing him request to eat some of mine, just as I’d predicted. In fact, I’d been waiting for it.
“I’d hate for you to force yourself,” I said in a false concerned tone.
“I wouldn’t be,” he contradicted quickly. “I really don’t mind.”
It was as close as Marcus was going to get to admitting he desperately wanted some of the ice cream masterpiece I’d made for myself. Since I knew he was going to want some, I’d heaped a lot in a very big bowl.
I turned, gathered the perfect bite in a spoon, and then held it up to his mouth.
“What do you think?” I asked after he’d quickly taken it from the utensil I’d offered.
He nodded. “You were right. It’s really good.”
I shared the entire bowl with him, amused that it was the only way I could really get him to eat something he enjoyed.
My body was exhausted from our earlier hike and subsequent passionate encounter outdoors. We’d showered when we’d come in out of the rain, and then had some dinner. Now that we’d slowed things down, I could feel the so-worth-it aches in my body from the volatile way we’d come together.
My fingers were scratched, something that Marcus had fussed over when he’d seen them in the shower. I was pretty sure he’d asked me at least ten times if they hurt.
They didn’t.
And I didn’t regret a single moment of experiencing my first kiss—and so much more—in the rain.
Marcus would never call himself a romantic, and maybe in all the conventional ways he wasn’t. But just the fact that he wanted me to live every experience I never thought I’d have a chance to experience was so touching that it didn’t matter if he was generally pragmatic. It made his thoughtfulness special and sweet to me.
I bent forward and put our empty bowl on the coffee table. I’d take it to the kitchen before I went to bed.
“I have to leave tomorrow,” he said unexpectedly, his voice decidedly unhappy as he wrapped his arms around me again, and I rested back against him.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t known his departure was inevitable, but it still stung…hard. “Where do you have to go?” I asked lightly, trying not to sound like the world was ending because it was time for us to part ways.
“I have to go to the Middle East. I wish I could put it off, but—”
“I understand,” I interrupted, not wanting to make a big deal out of the fact that he was going. Inside, I was brokenhearted, but I’d known who Marcus was when I’d chosen to spend time with him.
I can’t lose it. I’ve always known this would eventually happen.
I guess I’d just hoped for more time, but honestly, it was going to hurt just as much whenever it happened.
“No, you don’t understand, Danica. I wouldn’t leave you right now if I didn’t have to,” he grumbled.
I suddenly connected something that had happened after we showered. “Does this have anything to do with your conversation with Jett?”
He’d spoken with my brother at length in his office before finally handing the phone over to me when I came downstairs.
He let out a masculine sigh. “That’s what’s spurring my urgency, yes.”
“What happened?” I turned around to look at him in concern.
“It seems we’re missing a few virgins,” he explained. “Ruby was locked in a room before the auction with two European females, apparently two women who weren’t exactly willing participants. Ruby was auctioned off as planned, and as you know, she’s safe with your brother in Florida.”
“And the other two women?” I questioned.
“They disappeared. They were never part of the auction. Your brother used his skills to track what happened to them. Ruby heard something about them being shipped to Syria, a gift for a rebel leader.”
I closed my eyes in horror. “Oh, God. If that’s true, they’re in trouble, Marcus.”
“I know. But I’m hoping they’re still over the border in Turkey. Jett found some possible leads.”
“Where did he track them to?”
“The same town you left when you decided to follow the teenagers.”
It was actually more of a village, and over the years I’d come to know a lot of the locals, and they trusted me. There was often press there, and the town housed a lot of refugees. My job as a journalist had been to report information on the refugee crisis and the status of the fighting in Syria. I knew that area in a personal way. The region also had medical staff from around the world volunteering to help treat the people who had fled to the border town to escape the fighting.
“I’ll go with you,” I decided. “I know you have more experience with spying than I do, but I know those locals. I speak Turkish and enough Arabic. I can help you get more information if somebody is hiding them.”
“Not happening,” Marcus answered flatly. “You need more time. You don’t want to go back there right now.”