The Billionaire's Playmate ✔

27 | CLOSED BOOK

He's about to turn when I take a step into the kitchen. "What are you doing?"

Marco's hair is disheveled in the best way that I've ever seen hair disheveled. It's sticking up at odd angles and his dark eyes are glittering as usual, but there are shadows under his eyes.

A small smile crosses his lips. "Morning."

I raise my eyebrows at him, expectantly.

He looks around. "I'm making you breakfast."

"Yes, but what are you doing here?"

"I brought you home last night."

That sounds vaguely familiar.

Marco puts the eggs down. "It was past three in the morning and I hadn't slept. I just crashed on your couch and" – he sighs, suddenly seeming to notice the weight in the air – "I'm sorry –"

I hold up my hand. "No, it's fine." I look around the kitchen. "Well, uh, since you've got this, I'm going to go wash the bar smell off of me."

Marco nods.

I turn to go back into my room.

"I hope you don't mind that I used a new toothbrush from your guest bathroom drawer."

Over my shoulder, I tell him, "As long as you didn't use mine" and walk away.

I walk right into my room, shut the door, lock it and I walk into my bathroom.

Leaning against the door, I realize how fast my heart is beating. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. When I open them again, I see the giftset of lotions and bath gels that my Mom got me which is supposedly good for calming with all the lavender that's infused into it.

"Well, there's no time like the present," I tell myself, before picking it up.

Even after three scrubs with that bath gel, I don't feel too calm when I step outside and smell the aroma of freshly made breakfast, complete with eggs, bacon, toast, fruits.

Marco is singing I'm a Believer to himself as he tosses the eggs in the pan.

"You couldn't find any spatulas?" I ask as I walk in.

He turns to me and smiles. "Isa, come on in. Grab a plate."

"Did you just invite me into my own kitchen?"

He waves the pan as he gestures. "I'm the chef. It's my kitchen as long as I have the towel over my shoulder."

I walk over to the island counter that separates us and Marco slides a plate of scrambled eggs over to me. He turns, sets the pan down on the stove and places two slices of perfectly browned toast on to my plate.

I look down at the steaming pile of eggs and then, slowly up at him.

"Why are you cooking me breakfast?"

I can feel my brow furrow.

"I'm trying to tell you that I'm sorry." He pushes a plate of bacon towards me and scratches the back of his head, "I know that it doesn't really help that I'm using all your supplies, but I don't know, I figured it would be better than nothing."

I pick up a rasher of bacon. "What are you sorry for?" I ask, inconsequentially, taking a bite of the bacon.

Marco's eyes fix on my face. He looks like he's trying to find answers on my face; answers to what I'm thinking, what I'm feeling. "For hurting you."

I nod. Then, I gesture to the food that's on the island counter. "And you think breakfast is going to make up for that?"

Marco is chewing on the corner of his lip, looking nervous. "No." He blinks. "But it's a start."