Even though Marus’s serious mood worries me, I focus on my little rush of adrenaline. I actually get to see someone’s life change. “Just so I know, are we delivering a wish to group A or group B tonight?”
“A or B?”
“This Rubin guy, is he the kind of person who wished for something meaningful, or did he ask to be the world’s biggest playboy?”
“That remains to be seen. It depends on what he does with his wish,” Marus replies.
We pull in front of a very posh-looking restaurant with columns in front and a long overhang that covers a red carpet leading inside. Valets in red vests and bow ties are lined up, waiting to greet guests and whisk away their fancy cars.
My door opens and a young man extends his hand. “Miss, welcome to the Glass Horse.”
The Glass Horse. Interesting name for a restaurant.
I slide out of the low-to-the-ground sports car, doing my best to keep my legs glued together since I’m not actually wearing panties. Or a bra. I’m pretty much wearing a red scarf with straps.
I step onto the red carpet and watch the valet freak out over Marus’s car. Apparently, he’s never seen one in real life. It’s some Italian thing.
“I’d sell two kidneys to have one of those,” the valet says.
“Here. Keep it.” Marus hands over the keys.
“What?” the guy says.
“It’s yours. I’ll even pay the insurance.”
The young man laughs. “Yeah, I wish. Good one.”
Marus slides a card from his inner jacket pocket and hands it over. “You have the keys. Call this number in the morning, and someone will come by to give you the paperwork. Feel free to leave it parked here overnight until you believe me.”
Marus walks away, heading towards me, his expression completely blank.
“Did you really just give that guy your car?” I ask in a low voice. I have no clue how much it costs, but from the look of the other valets, who are crapping themselves, it must be a hefty sum.
“I don’t need it, and it doesn’t compare to spending time with you or that dress.”
“That’s some pretty smooth talking there, mister. Now tell me why you really gave him that car.”
We walk toward the front door.
He leans into me. “I like to do nice things, remember?” Marus opens the door for me and takes my hand. I suddenly notice that he’s smiling again. His mood is lighter and—
Whoa. Is that it? Does he get some sort of rush giving things away, like a charity junky?
I think I’m onto something. He gets in these dark moods—well, not dark, but almost hangry—and then, after he helps someone, he feels good again. But that doesn’t explain why he was in a bleak mood after we were together in the warehouse.
I slide my hand around his arm to keep from stumbling in my heels while we ascend a short flight of stairs. I’m about to ask Marus about the mood swings, but we’re immediately descended upon by the maître d’.
Marus gives him his name, and we’re shown to a small table by the window.
White linens, candlelight, and soft music play in the background. It’s romantic and quaint and just the sort of place couples go to be alone but seen. Still, all eyes are on Marus. Most of the female eyes anyway. He is stunning to look at, and in his suit, he screams rich and powerful. No one would ever guess that underneath it all is a very complicated, very generous man with a huge past. And secrets, too.
Like a true gentleman, Marus helps me into my chair and sits across from me. I don’t know what’s more thrilling, being here with him or that we get to do this together.
“You look like you’re about to bounce out of your seat,” he says, noticing me fidget.
“This is exciting. I’ve never changed someone’s life before.”
“You so sure about that?” He leans back, casually takes his napkin, and winks at me.
What a charmer. He never misses a beat.
“I suppose the thrill is lost on me,” he adds.
“But you must be getting something from it. Otherwise, why spend so much time and energy?”
He makes a noncommittal gesture with a shrug of the brows.
“So you don’t enjoy this.” I don’t believe him.
“I wouldn’t say that. Not exactly.”
I lean in and whisper, “I saw your face just now when you gave your car away. You were beaming.”
He looks down at the empty plate in front of him. “I get those headaches. I get them a lot.”
How terrible. I lean in across the table so he hears my low voice. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And nothing. There is no medical explanation.”
“I don’t know how you function,” I say.
“I feel a certain amount of relief when I…” His voice fades, and he stares out the window at the taillights of mostly yellow taxis piling up at the stoplight right outside.