Contract Marriage: I Will Never Love You
Chapter 163: Just Broccoli

Chapter 163: Just Broccoli

Rebecca

One week later...

I stare at the package sitting on my kitchen counter like it’s a live grenade. Small. Iconic. Wrapped in the unmistakable robin’s-egg blue with a crisp white ribbon tied in a perfect bow.

A Tiffany’s box.

"What the actual..." I murmur, cautiously sliding it closer.

I haven’t ordered anything. Definitely cannot afford anything from Tiffany’s with my teacher’s salary. And unless Sarah decided to start sending luxury apology gifts for setting me up with people, that only leaves one possible sender.

Marcus.

My heart stutters.

I untie the ribbon slowly, my fingers betraying my cool exterior. The lid comes off with a soft pop, and inside—

I gasp and then laugh out loud.

Inside the box, nestled against the plush white satin, are a pair of earrings.

They are shaped like broccoli.

But not just any broccoli. These are miniature masterpieces. The florets are tiny clusters of brilliant emeralds, rich and glimmering like they were plucked from a fairytale garden. The stalks are made of polished gold, smooth and gleaming, catching the light like something out of a red carpet catalog.

They are ridiculous.

They are exquisite.

They are...me.

I lift one delicately between my fingers, the fine craftsmanship obvious even at a glance. The way the emeralds are set—just imperfect enough to mimic real broccoli. It feels like some absurd inside joke taken to a glamorous extreme.

Of course he would.

Marcus, arrogant, maddening, ridiculously thoughtful Marcus, somehow found a way to turn a throwaway moment into... this.

A custom Tiffany’s set.

Broccoli.

I can’t stop smiling. And for one long, dangerous second, I forget about Kevin. About my carefully drawn boundaries. About the "just for fun" rule.

Damn it, Marcus.

My phone rings and I snatch it off the bed. "What the heck, Marcus?" I say without saying hello.

"You got them, huh?" he asks, laughter in his voice.

"I...I love them," I stammer.

"Beautiful, aren’t they?" Marcus says, his voice smooth with smug satisfaction.

I roll my eyes, but I’m still smiling like an idiot. "They’re are absurd," I say, holding one earring up to the light. "Who makes broccoli earrings out of emeralds and gold?"

"I do," he says simply. "Well, I didn’t make them. Tiffany’s did."

I shake my head, trying not to let my voice soften. "You’re insane."

"Maybe," he says.

"Marcus," I start, then stop. "This is sweet. And it’s...funny. But I can’t accept them."

A beat of silence before he speaks. "Why not?"

"They look expensive. Too expensive," I say.

"They weren’t cheap. But who cares?" he argues.

"I do! You don’t owe me anything," I counter.

"I am merely replacing something you lost," he says.

"The one I lost was two dollars, Marcus!"

He laughs, low and unbothered. "Then think of it as interest. For the emotional damage of you ghosting me."

"I didn’t ghost you," I say, heat rising in my cheeks.

"You kind of did," he says lightly. "After the hot tub... radio silence. You won’t even let me return your broccoli."

"I told you to throw it away. Instead, you custom made even more expensive ones," I retort.

"You are most welcome," he says, smug as ever.

I groan and pinch the bridge of my nose. "Marcus. You can’t just..."

"I can, and I did. So does this earn me a second date, or what?" he asks.

I stop breathing for a moment. "A second date?" I whisper.

"Yes. And before you say something silly like you live too far, I will remind you that I can afford plane tickets," he says.

I should probably say no. I should probably focus on the nice man who doesn’t play emotional chess and who, last week, walked me to my car.

But the thought of Marcus on my doorstep is too much. Maybe he will bring me a bouquet of Broccoli.

"You are a danger to my heart, Marcus," I say.

"And you are a danger to my pride."

I roll my eyes. "Oh, are you so bothered by the fact that you are attracted to me? The woman you think is fat and not attractive?"

There’s a sudden silence on the line.

Not the playful kind.

The kind that feels like the air has gone still.

"Is that...what you think I think?" Marcus finally says, his voice quiet, all the teasing stripped away.

I swallow. Hard. "Well, I mean...yeah."

"I never said that," he interrupts, sharper now. "Not once."

"But you—" I falter. "You said I am not your type. And my boobs are too big and how you like the model types and how I am too fat to be a model."

Marcus exhales slowly. "Well..." he starts. "Your breasts are big, to the point of lewdness.

I gasp. "You are an asshole!"

But he just laughs, low and defiant. "I am, yes. But you are the one who threw yourself on me in a hot tub."

"That was a dare!"

"The dare was to sit on my lap, Rebecca. But later, you chose to ride me like a stolen bicycle."

I sputter, half outraged, half mortified. "You absolute—"

"Don’t say it," he cuts me off, voice suddenly like velvet. "Save your breath." There is a pause, and something in it softens me, even as my hands tighten around the phone instinctively.

"So you hate them?" he says after a second.

"I love them. I am never taking them off," I admit, hating the way my voice sounds almost shy. "They’re a ridiculous flex. And I love that you did it. Even as a joke." I press my fingers to the cool gold stem, tracing the broccoli’s absurd little crown. "But you are not as clever as you think, Marcus. They will not get you laid again."

"Oh, I know," he says, the purr in his voice now unmistakable. "That’s not the point. Or maybe it is."

"Stop being cryptic."

He laughs again, this time so warm it makes my shoulders relax. "You know what I want, Rebecca?"

"Tell me." My voice dares him.

"I want you to send me a picture right now. Just you. And those earrings. Nothing else."

I can’t help it—I choke on laughter but also heat. "You’re dreaming."

He sighs theatrically. "Rebecca. Don’t make me come there and put them on for you. I will fly to your house right this second and fuck you so hard you forget how to count to broccoli."

I have to clamp a hand over my mouth to keep from cackling, even as I feel my thighs tighten. "You’re all talk, Marcus."

There’s a rustle, and I know, with a primitive certainty, he’s standing up and pacing now. He hums. "Humor me."

I look at myself in the mirror, hair wild from the day, face flushed. Ridiculous, glamorous broccoli earrings swinging at my jaw.

"Fine," I whisper and start taking my clothes off.

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