“And what kind is that?”

“One who’s beautiful. One who’s smart. One who’s kind. One who’s strong. One who doesn’t give a shit what people think about her. One who’d do what she could for anyone who asked no matter if it isn’t convenient or easy. One who knows what having nothing feels like so she knows what matters and to appreciate it when she gets it.”

“And you think that’s me?”

“No. I know it’s you.”

“You’re sure,” I scoffed.

He looked around the kitchen and then back at me, lifting up his hands at his sides, and sounding exasperated when he asked, “What do you think I’m doing here?”

I knew what he was doing there.

Just, for his sake—primarily how much more awesome all that he was telling me made him—no matter how damned stubborn he was being about it, I knew he shouldn’t be.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that in your life,” I said with feeling. “I get it and I’m not thrilled to learn that we got a lot in common with the shit we actually got in common, sugar. But just to say, that woman is not me.”

One second, he was four feet away.

The next second he was in my space, both hands cupping my cheeks, his eyes all I could see.

“I’ve been waiting thirty-five years for you to come into my life, Daisy,” he whispered fiercely.

And again I stopped breathing.

But Marcus didn’t stop talking.

“You can twist it into me wanting to save my sister from the life she had to lead to take care of me. Into me wanting a piece of your ass. Into whatever the fuck you want to try to twist it into. But since I was a kid, I knew what kind of life I intended to lead and that was to be so far away from the life I grew up in with my dad, I wouldn’t even remember how that felt. And I knew I’d do whatever I had to do to get it, without doubts, without indecision, without remorse. And last, baby, I knew the woman I’d have by my side when I got there. So twist it whatever way you want. I’ll find a way to untwist it because something else I know, when I find what I know without a doubt I want, without remorse, I’ll find a way to get it.”

I opened my mouth to speak but froze when his lips brushed mine and stayed there.

“Shut up,” he said even though I didn’t speak a word. “Bacon’s laying in its grease and the eggs aren’t going to make themselves. So pour yourself a goddamned cup of coffee and relax. We’ll have breakfast and then we’ll dance more of this dance later. Right now, I’m hungry.”

Marcus was hungry.

Hearing that, the fight just left me and I whispered, “Okay.”

“Okay,” he whispered back, brushed his lips against mine again, staring into my eyes this close, his blue ones warm and sweet and twinkling.

Then he let me go and went back to the bacon.

* * * *

Marcus made me put a robe on before he took my hand and walked me to the door.

We stood in it like we’d done last Saturday night, except he was a lot closer.

Someone was in the mood to be pushy.

“We’re having dinner tonight,” he announced.

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling.

When I’d rolled them back, his hand was cupping my jaw and his face was even closer.

And his damned eyes were twinkling.

“You are beautiful,” he declared out of the blue. “You’re funny. You’re challenging, and by that I mean stubborn, and even if it can be aggravating, I still like it. I very much like your choice of nightwear. I also like your legs, breasts, hair, and eyes. I’d commit murder to hear your laugh again, and I intend to, not a figure of speech, being real. Last but very much not least, I more than like the fact that when I gave you an out, you didn’t take it, even if it’s maddening you don’t realize what you not taking it means. But even with all of that, darling, you are a serious pain in the ass.”

Well!

“I didn’t take that out because I didn’t want you to think I was judgey,” I retorted (and lied, but I wasn’t going there even in my head).

“You didn’t take that out because you like me,” he fired back, shifting his hand so it slid to curl around the back of my neck as he curved his other arm around me. “You know every step of your life was leading you right here. You’re the woman for me, which means, darling, I’m the man for you. And you didn’t tell me to leave because you know that just the same as me.”

“Now you’re bein’ cocky, which isn’t real attractive, honey bunch.”

Another lie, dammit.

He grinned. “More bullshit. More of a pain in my ass.”

“You could leave,” I suggested.

He didn’t leave.

His hand at my neck moved up to cup my scalp, his head came down, and he kissed me.

Soft, sweet, the tip of his tongue traced the crease of my lips, and just when I was about to open them for him (the thought didn’t even cross my mind to pull away, and I wasn’t going there either), he lifted his head.

I opened eyes I hadn’t even realized I’d closed.

“Now,” he whispered, his grin even more cocky than he’d just been, his gaze roaming my face and doing it with satisfaction so I knew exactly what I was exposing, damn him all to hell, “I’ll leave. Dinner tonight, honey. I’ll be here at seven.”

“And I’ll be in Timbuktu.”

“Book into a five-star, darling. I’ll meet you there and I’ll pay.”