The closer we get to the plane, the more he paces. Marchant. Marchant Radcliffe. I keep blinking at him, because I can’t believe my sexy bathroom guy is him: Marchant Radcliffe—the pimp.
When we’re in stone-throwing range, he lifts his head, and his gaze laps up and down me like he’s claiming me. I feel heat rush into my face, followed by the sting of tears in my eyes, because my ridiculous fairy tale moment has been smashed into a million pieces. He didn’t understand me—back there when I was having my little freak-out. He didn’t care about me. He’s just good at this stuff. He’s good at…well, at womanizing. He’s a professional.
Lizzy grabs my hand, because my feet don’t seem to want to take me to the plane, and we drop back as Hunter strides forward to greet Marchant.
“You okay?” she asks, looking at me with wide, clueless eyes.
I nod—a little too frantically.
She leans her head toward mine. “Something’s going on with March. Hunter’s not sure what it is, but I think he invited Marchant along so they could talk about it. When he called downstairs earlier to that charity hearts tournament they were both supposed to be at, the person in charge told him Marchant wasn’t there—and he should have been.” She shrugs. “I don’t know what his deal is lately.”
I do, and I almost say so. He was kicking some guy’s ass. He was kicking the ass of a guy who had his own team of body guards.
Instead I swallow and try to keep my wandering eyes off Marchant Radcliffe’s deliciously bulky shoulders. We’re less than twenty feet from the plane now, and as we get closer to the fold-out stairs, I can feel my body reacting. I can feel my skin heating up. My heart-rate speeding up. It’s all for Marchant Radcliffe, and it makes me feel like a fool.