“Last week I wasn’t ready.” He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his eyes. “But tonight? Tonight I’m making you a Wiz Khalifa promise.”
Layla wanted to call it what it was—a performance. Marcus was a collector of grand gestures, a magician with words. But the song wrapped around them, slow and syrupy, and for a moment, she let herself believe.
She was writing her own.