Page 41 of Tied Up in Riches
“What if you have to pee or something?”
I lick my lips, biting back a grin. “Then I guess we’ll hit that level of friendship that happens when girls get drunk and go to the bathroom together really quickly.”
“Except you’re not a girl.”
I shrug. “And we won’t be drunk.”
“Speak for yourself.”
Despite being one, I typically am not a fan of rich people either. But they always have excellent taste in bourbon. “It’ll be okay.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Do you trust me?” I keep my gaze locked on her even though her eyes are focused on where she scratches at her perfectly pink and glossy fingernail again as if she could chip the professional polish.
She nods. “I think so.” Guilt racks through me, thinking maybe I should mention my net worth. It’s never something I tell people–outside of my parents and Dean, it’s never been a conversation. But knowing how Brooke feels about the category she’ll inevitably place me in, I’m concerned holding back this piece of information will be a nail in a tire.
“Convincing.” I chuckle in an attempt to ease the tension.
“I wish Maci were here,” she mumbles.
I try not to take it personally. “I don’t think she’d be able to sell the boyfriend thing.”
A sad chuckle escapes her lips. “No, I know.”
“But she’d know how to make you feel better?”
She nods again.
“What would she do?”
She glances at me, then looks at the comforter, smoothing her hands over it. “When she was in Thailand and distraught trying to figure out who she should be with, there was this night where she was all talked out. She didn’t know what to say or think or do anymore. We were sitting on my couch listening to the birds chirping outside in the night with a soft breeze coming in through an open window. I pulled her head to my lap and just let her cry and lie there. I could feel the moment her resolve set in. I know it’s not what worked, but it helped.”
My head falls against the headboard with the weight of my options. I’m sure as hell not Maci, and Brooke has made it very clear I’m her boss and where the line is drawn in our situation. Although, it’s contradictory to the way she opens up to me. Fuck if I know what that means. “Maybe you just need a good night’s sleep.”
“Yeah, maybe.” She sighs, rolling away from me, giving up on the idea of TV and replacing the remote on the nightstand before she settles in.
Uncomfortable with the tension, I pull my computer from my laptop case next to my bed, deciding to get some work done as Brooke drifts off to sleep without another word.
Chapter eighteen
Brooke
My arm lands hard as I turn in my sleep, waking me. Clearly that was not the mattress. I squint my eyes open. They’re distracted by the hotel clock first. 4:08. I know that’s only one back home, but still. Noticing my hand on Marcus’ thigh, I pull it back into my own bubble before taking him in. His fingers are frozen mid-typing, and his eyes are locked on my movement. God, he’s hot when he’s wearing his black frame glasses. “What are you doing?” I ask groggily, glancing at the screen. Even with the brightness turned down, it glares at me. Even if my eyes could adjust quickly, I’d still have zero idea what he was doing. My guess is coding? Because in my head, I picture coding to look like a bunch of hieroglyphics, and this looks just as unreadable. This man is brilliant. But also, maybe a workaholic.
“Working. Did I wake you?”
I shake my head, curling my hands beneath my face on my pillow and gazing up at the way the dim computer light makes his handsome face glow and hoping it’s not clear that I was having a dream about him. It wasn’t inappropriate or anything–at least it hadn’t gotten there yet. Surely it’s only because I’m sleeping in bed just inches from him. “No. Just restless.” I tug the comforter down, leaving me covered only by the sheet and Marcus’ shirt. God, it smells so good. I take a sneaky deep breath of the fabric, reveling in the way the sandalwood calms me the way you’d expect lavender to.
Marcus glances at the clock, and I use the second to my advantage to scan him. My gaze catches on the script along his bicep, barely below the hem of his T-shirt sleeve. Sisu. “What does that mean?”
He follows my gaze. “It’s Finnish,” he says, closing his laptop, the light in the room disappearing as it clicks. Setting it on the bedside table, he adjusts, scooting down on the bed until his face is close to mine. I can feel him despite my eyes not adjusting to the darkness yet. “It’s a core element of one’s psyche. There’s no direct translation, but in essence, it means, ‘the drive and courage to see a goal through to the end, one step at a time.’”
“So . . . fortitude?” Sometimes I think Marcus is way too smart for me. I only know this word because of my love for One Tree Hill.
“Similar. Fortitude refers to the actual strength of the mind in the face of adversity. Sisu is essentially the spirit of someone who embodies tenacity, and it’s activated when we feel we couldn’t possibly handle any more.”
“Maybe you could elaborate on that a little bit so I understand better.” Part of me thinks I should feel stupid for asking, but I’m so curious, and Marcus has never spoken to me like I’m dumb.