by Anna Zaires
But I’d obviously misread her feelings. She’s nowhere near the same place I am. She thinks we’re still playing around, casually dating, whereas I’m picturing her as the mother of my future children—all three of them. As a kid, I hated being an only child and desperately wished for siblings.
She has three fur babies, so she shouldn’t mind three of the furless variety, right?
In my BE—Before Emma—plan, I was going to wait on the children part until I was sure that my marriage was built on a solid foundation, that my carefully chosen wife and I were compatible over the long term. A few years of marriage seemed like a solid trial run. I figured we could try for our first child shortly after I turned forty, and then we’d have all three in rapid succession, to ensure they’d be close enough in age to be playmates.
It was a good plan, a logical one, and I have no doubt it would’ve worked if I hadn’t met a certain little redhead. The second I laid eyes on Emma, my world went topsy-turvy, my rational brain hijacked by instincts so primitive I might as well move into a cave and start wearing furs.
No wonder I keep forgetting condoms. My subconscious has known all along what I’ve just now realized.
I want Emma and not just for a few weeks or months.
I want her for a lifetime.
I want her for my wife.
It’s a relief to admit that to myself, to face the truth that had been gnawing at the back of my mind from the moment I realized I can’t stay away from Emma for a full week of detox—that I can’t stay away from her, period. All the things I thought I wanted in a life partner—elegance, high class, old-money connections—would’ve been more of what I already had. That perfect trophy wife I’d envisioned would’ve been the human equivalent of my art collection, another symbol of my achievement rather than a person who can give me what I truly need.
Only my Emma can do that—and she’s not on the same page.
“I’m not moving in with you,” she says, glaring up at me. “I told you that a million times already. This is only for—”
“Fine.” It takes all of my self-control to rein in my hurt and anger and release her hands. The knowledge that I love her and she doesn’t share my feelings is like a honey badger on a rampage in my chest, but I can’t force her to love me, can’t bully her into marrying me, no matter how appealing the idea is.
I have to approach this the same way I’d approach any other challenge: with cool logic and intellect. In other words, I have to back the fuck off and let her think she’s winning, retreat an inch now so I can gain a mile down the road.
I soften my voice. “You’re not moving in with me, I understand. I’ll stop asking you—if you do one thing for me.”
“What thing?” she asks suspiciously. Her fiery curls are extra wild from the vigorous sex we just had, her rosebud lips pink and swollen from my kisses, and all I want is to grab her and carry her back to bed, where I can imprint my claim on her all over again.
Maybe come inside her without a condom one more time.
Fuck. My entire body tenses, my cock stiffening with a surge of lust so intense it makes me dizzy. There’s no way I’m waiting until I’m forty to have kids with her. I want them now. Today. Yesterday. The mental image of Emma soft and round with my baby is hotter than any porn I’ve seen—and pregnant women have never been my kink. It’s only her; she makes me regress to this atavistic creature.
Forget wearing furs. I might as well throw back my head and start baying at the moon.
With effort, I wrench my thoughts back to the discussion at hand. “It’s two things, actually,” I say, and the suspicion in her pretty eyes deepens.
“What two things?”
“Let me fulfill my promise to your grandparents and have Wilson take you to and from work tomorrow. He gets an annual salary, so it doesn’t cost me a dime extra.” I probably should’ve led with that last bit, because as soon as I say it, much of the tension on her face fades and she sighs.
“I guess I can live with that. What’s the other thing?”
“I have a dinner with a few of my investors tomorrow, and I’d like you to come. It’s at a restaurant in Midtown, near my office, at seven o’clock. Wilson can bring you directly there after work. Please,” I add, seeing the shock on her face. “I want you there, kitten. I want you at the dinner by my side.”
25
Emma
I’m in a state of panic throughout the entire morning. At my request, Wilson drove me to my apartment before work, so I could pick up a dress for tonight—a long-sleeved, wrap-style piece I found on a department store clearance rack a few years ago. At the time, it looked nice and stylish, the gray material draping over my curves with a subtle flair, but after a dozen encounters with a washing machine, it more closely resembles something out of a cat’s butt.
Still, I grabbed it this morning because it’s the only business-y thing I own. In fact, I was going to wear it to job interviews, back when I still had hopes of getting a position with some big-name publisher. The interviews never materialized, so now I just wear the dress whenever I need to look a little more put-together—like, say, when I’m going out to dinner with half a dozen individuals whose monthly income exceeds what most families earn in a lifetime.
And that’s not an exaggeration. I asked Marcus for their names this morning and looked them up. Let’s just say he won’t be the only person at our table tonight who’s been featured by Forbes.
Dammit. What am I doing? I still can’t believe Marcus got me to agree to this. I must’ve still been out of it after that intense sex session, because instead of panicking right then and there, I’d been equal parts shocked and flattered that he wants to introduce me to his investors.
After all, I’m about as far from being “an asset at social functions” as a girl can get.
But Marcus had been insistent that he wants me there, and I’d given in, partially because of the flattered bit and partially because he promised to stop pressuring me about moving in. Then he started making love to me again, and that eliminated all possibility of thinking. It’s only when I woke up this morning that I realized the dinner means I won’t be able to go home tonight, as it would likely run late and packing up my cats would take at least an hour—longer if I have to chase them around the spacious penthouse.
They really like Marcus’s place, so much so they spent all night running around and exploring. I only saw them briefly this morning, when they jumped into bed with me for a few minutes of obligatory cuddles. Thankfully, Marcus was in the shower by then; I’m not sure how he would’ve felt about furry paws on his pristine white sheets.
He may not think he’s a neat freak, but he totally is. Even his briefs are arranged in perfectly folded squares.
In any case, it’s clear to me now that I’ve been outmaneuvered. Again. Thanks to this dinner, I’m going to end up staying at Marcus’s place two nights in a row, which is what he was after all along. What’s worse is I committed to accompanying him to an event that I’m completely unequipped for, and not just because all he’d packed for me were jeans and sweaters.
I have literally never been to a business dinner, much less one with people this rich and powerful. One of Marcus’s investors manages the California Teachers’ Union pension fund; another is a real estate tycoon; a third is a Russian-born tech billionaire; a fourth is an up-and-coming fitness mogul; and the last two are pretty much invisible online, which likely means they’re some type of secretive old money.
Meanwhile, I’m an introverted bookstore clerk whose most professional outfit is a cat’s butt dress.
Naturally, when I realized all this upon waking up and tried to back out, Marcus offered to buy me whatever I needed to feel comfortable—an offer I immediately declined, claiming I have everything I need. But that pretty much committed me to going—hence me literally breathing into a paper bag during my lunch hour.
“Emma, are you okay?” Mr. Smithson asks, finding me in an armchair at the back of the store,
and I lower the bag to give my boss an overly bright smile.
“Yep. Just testing out a new meditation technique.”
“Oh, I see.” His expression clears as a knowing grin appears on his face. If we were in a comic book, there’d be a thought bubble above his head that says, Millennials. Should’ve known better than to ask.
Satisfied that I’m not about to throw up on the latest row of thrillers, he ambles away, and I resume breathing into the bag, hoping against hope that this calms me down.
It doesn’t. If anything, I feel extra jittery.
Ugh. Why did I agree to this? And why does Marcus want me there, anyway? We’ve just started dating, and I’m nowhere near the type of girlfriend a billionaire would be dying to show off. My table manners are okay—my Southern grandmother made sure of that—but all the rest of it, like small talk and schmoozing, is beyond me.
I can discuss the latest New York Times bestsellers, but that’s about it.
Come to think of it, there’s no way Marcus was going to bring me to this dinner when we stopped by my apartment after the flight. Otherwise, he would’ve packed something fancier than jeans for me. Unless he was planning to buy me clothes? But no, he knows how I feel about stuff like that.
This was definitely an impulse invitation on his part, which makes it all the weirder that he was so insistent I accept. In general, his behavior after dinner yesterday was strange, with that uber-intense sex and the children query and all. He even seemed upset when Geoffrey showed up with the morning-after pill and I took it… as if Marcus himself wasn’t the one who sent him on the errand.
It’s as though something happened, only for the life of me, I can’t think what. Marcus was adamant it wasn’t Mr. Puffs breaking the sculpture. But that’s about the only mishap that occurred after we finished dinner. Unless… was it something at dinner?
Maybe he was upset I’d brought up his father?
“Emma. Earth to Emma.”
“Yes, Mr. Smithson?” Lowering the bag again, I look up at my boss, who must’ve been standing there for a while. And he’s not alone. With him is his blond nephew, the aspiring urban fantasy author I showed around the bookstore a couple of weeks ago.
Pushing all thoughts of Marcus aside, I rise to my feet and smile brightly. “Hi, Ian. How are you? How’s your book coming along?” The last time we spoke, he’d been very excited about it, and I told him about my freelance editing services, in case he decided to go the self-published route.
Never hurts to drum up a little business.
My boss beams at me, and I wince internally, realizing he’s again matchmaking—and misinterpreting what he’s seeing. Though the shy, geeky Ian is what I’ve always thought of as “my type,” my only interest in him is as a potential client.
Not only am I officially dating Marcus now, but from the moment I met my Wall Street titan, I haven’t felt so much as a smidgeon of attraction to another man.
Ian’s fair skin flushes, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he adjusts his glasses. “I’m, um… almost done with the first draft. I think I’ll finish this week.”
“Oh, good for you. Do let me know if you need any editing help once you get to that point.” That’s a little pushier than my typical MO, but I want to make it clear to Mr. Smithson that I’m seeing his nephew purely as a business opportunity.
Unfortunately, my boss is undeterred. With a huge smile, he says to Ian, “Yes, definitely talk to our Emma. She knows good books.”
And winking at me, he ambles away, leaving me alone with his nephew.
The good news is that talking to Ian—or rather, listening to him explain every plot point of his book in yawn-inducing detail—serves as a distraction from my anxiety about the dinner. The bad news is that an hour later, when Ian finally departs, I’m right back to freaking out.
Seriously, why did I agree to this? More importantly, is it too late to back out?
I grab my phone to call Marcus, but then I recall that he’s supposed to be in meetings all day today—something about the start of the month and strategizing for the upcoming Alpha Zone conference. I have no idea what Alpha Zone is, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a werewolf get-together, which is where my shifter-romance-reading brain goes whenever I hear the word “Alpha.”
Given the context, it’s probably some obscure investing term. I should really look it up, if only because it’s good for an editor to know these things.
Either way, I end up calling Kendall instead of Marcus and spilling my entire dilemma to her. “Do you think I should fake an illness, maybe?” I say when I’m done. “It is flu season, and—”
“Don’t you dare!” she interrupts, and I hear a car honking in the background. She must be outside, running one of the million errands her boss always sends her on. “Are you crazy?” she continues when the honking stops. “He’s bringing you to a business dinner. Don’t you know what that means?”
I take a breath. “Well…”
“It means it’s serious, Emma! He’s integrating you into his life, the most important parts of his life.” Two more honks interrupt her words, and I picture her jaywalking across a busy intersection like the fearless New Yorker she is. “A man like him would never ask a casual lay to an investor dinner. This is next-level shit. Even you, Miss Oblivious, have to know that.”
“Well, duh, of course I know that! That’s why I agreed: because I was flattered to be asked. But these people—”
“Are just people,” Kendall says firmly. “Being rich and famous doesn’t make you superhuman, I told you that. They’re just individuals; treat them as such, and you’ll be okay.”
Easy for her to say. With her outgoing personality, she could have a witty exchange with a tree. Whereas I—
“Stop it, Ems.” Another loud honk in the background. “I can hear you thinking, and I don’t like it.”
“My thinking?”
“Your overthinking! Just put on your cat’s butt dress and go with the flow. And next time, let Marcus buy you an outfit like he offered. Now I’ve got to go; I’m getting into the subway. Bye!”
And she hangs up, leaving me no calmer than before.
26
Marcus
The first weekday of the month is always busy for me, as I spend all day catching up with my portfolio managers. I sit down with each one individually and go over his or her team’s P&L for the past month, their past and upcoming trades, and anything else they want to talk about, like hiring new analysts or getting a greater share of the fund’s assets under management. And this being December, it’s also when bonus talk begins, though I’m only giving out the official numbers in January.
In our business, a lot can happen in a month, both good and bad.
As I meet with one person after another, my thoughts keep drifting to Emma. I wonder what she’s doing, how she’s feeling, whether she’s still as panicked as she’d been this morning. Admittedly, it wasn’t nice of me to spring the dinner on her like that, but once the idea popped into my mind, I couldn’t let it go.
I want my kitten at the restaurant with me tonight, and not just because that means I’ll see her hours sooner.
I want her to know it’s not just sex between us.
I want to show her I’m in it for good.
Of course, it would’ve been better if I’d decided this sooner, so I could’ve given Emma more time to prepare, maybe even talked her into letting me buy her something suitable for the event. She claimed she has something at home, but I’ve seen her closet and I very much doubt that’s the case.
Not that I care what she wears; it’s more about her being comfortable. The BE—Before Emma—version of me would’ve been horrified that I’m bringing a girlfriend in cheap, worn-out clothes to an investor dinner, but the AE version doesn’t give a fuck. Emma is more important to me than all of my investors combined, and in any case, at this point in my career, I could show up to this dinner naked, with all three of Emma’s cats sitting on my shoulders, and these people wo
uld still jump through hoops to give me money.
My fund’s returns speak for themselves.
So yes, I don’t need to impress anyone with the woman I’m going to marry, but I suspect Emma will impress them anyway. The longer I’m around her, the more I see that her beauty doesn’t come from the clothes she wears or how she styles her hair; it shines from deep within her, her warm, sweet sensuality as powerful a lure as anything I’ve known. That dimpled smile alone is enough to send heat rushing to my groin, and I know I’m not the only one susceptible to it. When we were in Florida, men of all ages were eyeing her like hungry jackals; it’s only my presence that deterred the fuckers from approaching to ask her out.
I have no idea how she stayed single for so long, I really fucking don’t.
Which reminds me… Holding up a hand to get my telecom PM to stop talking for a second, I lean over my desk and press a button on my intercom.
“Lynette, I need you to come into my office as soon as Henry here is done,” I say when my assistant answers. “I have a special project for you.”
Buying a ring might be premature, but I haven’t gotten where I am by not planning for the future. It’ll take time to make Emma fall in love with me, but as soon as she does, I’ll be ready.
I’m going to marry her, and fast.
27
Emma
Taking a deep breath, I smooth my palms over the dress Geoffrey ironed for me and try to rub away the scuff marks on my high-heeled boots—the newish ones I’d worn on my first real date with Marcus. Inside my dimly lit studio and on New York’s muddy streets, they’d looked fine, nice even, but here, in the middle of Marcus’s bright, gleaming entryway, there’s no hiding what they really are: cheap knockoffs that have seen better days.
Oh, well. At least my gray dress and the beige woolen coat I’m about to put on are blessedly cat-hair free, again courtesy of Geoffrey. I left work a half hour early in case of traffic, but Wilson got me to Manhattan in record time, so I decided to stop by Marcus’s place and make myself as presentable as possible before heading over to the restaurant.
