by Anna Zaires
Not that Emma is like her—at least as far as I can tell from our short acquaintance. My mother was impulsive and selfish, and I see little evidence of those traits in my companion. Nor is Emma an alcoholic. All she had to drink at dinner was water—a choice I heartily approve. I have nothing against moderate social drinking, but I can’t deny that when I see a woman imbibe more than a couple of glasses of wine, I get uncomfortable flashbacks to my vodka-and-vomit-soaked childhood.
To this day, I can’t stand vodka, even of the upscale variety.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out, glancing at the screen.
Fuck.
My inbox is blowing up with urgent messages from Jarrod Lee, my Chief Investment Officer. I must’ve forgotten to check my phone during dinner because there are five emails in a row. An opportunity to invest in high-risk municipal bonds has fallen into our lap, and he needs to know if we should pull the trigger, given our views on interest rates. I swiftly review the bond specs and fire off a reply authorizing the $700 million investment.
Our analysts expect the municipality to have a successful capital raise before the next Fed meeting, which means our investment should double in value before the bond market tanks on the interest rate hike.
I finish with the emails just as the car pulls up to the curb in front of Emma’s apartment. Getting out, I open the door on her side and help her out. Her hand lightly touches mine as she climbs out of the car, and I can’t help closing my fingers around that small palm, then holding it a second too long.
Her startled gaze flies up to mine again, and I feel a tremor pass through her as she pulls her hand away. “Marcus…” Her voice is decidedly unsteady. “I really need to—”
“Of course.” I give her a smile as I walk her to the door, though the newly awakened caveman inside me howls in frustration. “You have to go. I understand.”
She nods, fumbling inside her bag as we stop in front of the door. Extracting her keys, she looks up, adorably flushed. “I do. My cats need to be fed, and I have to get up early for work tomorrow, and—”
“Emma.” I stop her rambling with another deceptively calm smile. “Say no more. I promised not to pressure you, and I won’t.”
Her flush intensifies. “Oh. Well, thank you. I had a great time.”
“Me too. What are you doing tomorrow night?”
She blinks up at me. “Tomorrow?”
“Friday,” I say helpfully. “You know, the day before the weekend?”
“Oh, I—” She stops and bites her lip. “You want to see me tomorrow?”
“I do.” And the day after, and the one after that, I realize to my shock. This dinner was far too short to satisfy my curiosity about Emma and her effect on me. I want to fuck her, yes, but I’m also intrigued by her.
I want to understand what makes her tick, and why that matters to me.
“I guess…” She hesitates, then blurts, “I guess that would be okay.”
“Excellent.” It takes everything I have to conceal my savage satisfaction. “Any specific food preference?”
“I’m not picky about food, but I do have a budget preference,” she says, and I sigh, realizing we’re going to fight that battle all over again.
Now is not the time for it, though, so I just nod and say, “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. Pick you up at seven?”
“Okay.” She smiles up at me. “Seven it is. Thanks again.”
And before I can so much as kiss her cheek, she turns around, opens the door, and disappears inside to a chorus of outraged meows.
17
Emma
“Are you seriously telling me that you have a second date with Marcus Carelli of Carelli Capital Management?” Kendall’s eyes look like they’re about to pop through my phone screen.
“Yes, why? Do you know him?” I angle the phone slightly and look around to make sure the bookstore is still empty. My boss is off having a long lunch, and though it would’ve been smart to use this downtime to edit the short story I’ve been procrastinating on, I couldn’t resist video-calling Kendall about my date instead.
“Do I know Marcus Carelli?” Her voice rises. “Are you shitting me? Are you that oblivious to the world?”
“Um…”
“Never mind.” Her face grows in the phone camera as she leans in. “I should know by now. If it’s not in a book or doesn’t have a tail, it doesn’t exist for you.”
I sigh. My friend is nothing if not a drama queen. “Just tell me already. What do you know about Marcus? Because I’m seeing him again tonight, and—”
“You couldn’t be bothered to google him?”
“I didn’t get a chance. I got home pretty late, had to feed the cats right away and then respond to some editing clients. And today was an extra-early shift with a bunch of morning deliveries, so I’m just now catching my breath.” I also spent some quality time with my vibrator last night, needing to relieve the tension from the date, but Kendall doesn’t need to know that. I suppose I could’ve spent that time stalking Marcus online, but it honestly didn’t occur to me.
I’ve never dated anyone who had anything interesting for me to find.
Kendall rolls her eyes, making sure the camera catches her doing so. “Yeah, okay, whatever. Listen up, Miss Oblivious.” She leans in until her perfectly shaped nose dominates the screen. “Anyone who’s ever glanced at The Wall Street Journal or turned on CNBC—as in, everyone in NYC with the possible exception of you and your cats—knows about Marcus Carelli. He’s one of the biggest movers and shakers on Wall Street. His fund has some insane number of billions under management, and his presentations can make or break a stock. Don’t you remember that thing with the corrupt tire company a couple of years ago, where a prominent hedge fund manager bet the stock would go to zero—and it did? It was all over the news, and they even made a documentary about it on Netflix.”
“Maybe.” I frown because that does ring a bell. “That was Marcus’s fund?”
“Yep. He laid out the case against the company at one of those big-name investment conferences, and the stock dropped like sixty percent that day. The CEO was crying foul all over the news, but the regulators refused to do anything, and a few months later, the company filed for bankruptcy.”
“Wow.” I do recall the story now. It was all over the headlines, to the point that even I couldn’t miss it. The tire company—an old and highly respected industry leader—had been accused by some hedge fund big-shot of everything from manufacturing defects to slave-labor conditions in its factories, and the resulting publicity tanked the company’s stock, hastening its demise.
And that big-shot was Marcus.
The man who called me “kitten” and openly told me he wants to fuck me.
The man I’m going on a date with tonight.
For the second time.
“—has been all over the Forbes list of billionaires,” Kendall continues, and I blink, realizing I briefly tuned her out.
“Billionaires?” My voice sounds choked, but I can’t help it. I knew Marcus was wealthy, of course—everything about him spoke of money—but there’s a huge difference between a run-of-the-mill asset manager and a hedge fund titan who can take down a huge public company with a few PowerPoint slides.
Marcus isn’t just big leagues; he’s the freaking Olympics.
“Yeah, he’s made the list several years in a row,” Kendall says. “I can’t believe you didn’t know. He must’ve taken you someplace nice. He did, right?” Her eyes narrow.
“Yeah, very nice.” I still sound like I swallowed a frog, but I’m proud of the fact that I can speak at all. “It was this little Italian place in Bensonhurst, and—”
“In Brooklyn?” Kendall’s eyebrows pull together. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah, why not?” I sound defensive, but I can’t help it. Kendall is a total snob when it comes to the boroughs. Never mind that some areas of Brooklyn are now cooler and more expensive than certain parts of Manhattan; she
still thinks it’s the boonies.
She sighs and shakes her head. “You’re hopeless. Just please tell me you didn’t try to drag him to that pizza dump by your house.”
I can feel my face turning red.
“You did? Oh my God, Emma!”
“I didn’t know, okay?” I snap, feeling uncharacteristically embarrassed. “Obviously, I wouldn’t have invited him there if I’d known. But we didn’t end up going there—we went to a place he suggested—so it’s all good.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Tell me you at least let him pay.”
I stare at her, unblinking.
“Emma!”
“What?” My jaw tenses. “You know how I feel about mooching.”
“It’s not mooching—it’s tradition for a man to pay when he invites a woman out—and he probably made more than your monthly salary in the time it took you to open your wallet.”
I do a quick calculation in my head. She’s not far off.
“I don’t care how much he makes,” I say. “That’s not what it’s about for me.”
Kendall’s expression softens. “I know, Ems. But letting a guy pay for dinner is not even in the same ballpark as—”
“I know. I’m not an idiot. I just can’t—” I stop and take a breath, then glance up at the clock. “Look, I should go. My boss will be returning from lunch soon.”
“Okay, but you have to tell me how it goes tonight, okay? Promise you’ll call me as soon as you’re home.”
“Will do—unless it’s late.”
Her eyes widen. “Are you planning to—”
“No! I mean, I don’t know. I mean—oh, never mind. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
And I hang up before Kendall can give me the third degree about that.
As I sort and organize the romance novels in the back of the store, I can’t help but think about what I didn’t want to discuss with Kendall.
Am I planning to do it?
I know what Marcus wants, what he’s after.
Sex. Me and him, sweaty bodies entangled—just like the mental images I masturbated to last night.
The question is, am I going to do it? Am I going to sleep with him, knowing it’s most likely a one-time deal?
Even if there was no perfect Emmeline in the picture, a handsome, wealthy man like Marcus is bound to be inundated with women. Gorgeous, tall, slim-hipped women whose hair wouldn’t dream of frizzing up—and who’d let him pay for their meal without a qualm.
Would he call them “kitten” too, in that rough velvet voice of his, or is that pet name reserved solely for me? How did he come up with it, anyway? Is it because I like cats? As with that proposition, I should probably feel insulted, but the way Marcus said it, the way he looked at me…
“Emma? Can you come here, please?”
I stop in the middle of shelving a new shifter romance and yell out, “Coming, Mr. Smithson,” then hurry to the front, where my boss is ringing up a customer.
“Can you please recommend a new urban fantasy series to Mrs. Wilkins?” he says, nodding toward the customer—an old woman so tiny Mr. Puffs could carry her away. “She likes mind readers and such.”
“Oh, no problem,” I say, beaming at the woman. “I know just the thing.”
And pushing aside all thoughts of my dilemma, I focus on my job.
18
Marcus
As Friday afternoon wears on, I find myself watching the clock, to the point that I’m counting the minutes during the weekly fund performance review with my portfolio managers. It’s nearly five p.m., which means that in two short hours, I will see Emma again.
I can’t fucking wait.
“—and so I think this will make a great pitch for your Alpha Zone presentation next month,” my telecom PM says, bringing my attention back to the meeting. “If you want, I’ll have my analyst email you his research.”
I have no idea which stock he’s talking about, having zoned out like a schoolboy daydreaming about his crush, but there’s no way I’m admitting that in front of everyone. “Yes, have him email it to me,” I say coolly. “I’ll take a look at it over the weekend.”
Alpha Zone is an association of the most influential players on Wall Street, and the December conference is its bedrock. There, we each pitch our best idea—whether it be a currency play, a private equity investment, or something as boring as going long a particular stock—and the best-performing investment is awarded a prize at the following year’s event. The prize itself is nothing major—a trip to Bora Bora or some such—but the boost to one’s reputation is priceless.
The telecom PM’s proposal better be something good.
Jarrod, my Chief Investment Officer, gives me a weird look—he’s not used to me being less than 110-percent engaged—and I force myself to concentrate for the rest of the meeting, digging into the fund’s major positions as thoroughly as I always do. Though the healthcare team had a big trade go against them yesterday, the fund overall is up another half a percent this week, putting us at nearly ninety-three billion in assets under management.
If this winning streak keeps up, we’ll breach a hundred billion in no time.
Normally, the thought would fill me with great anticipation, but the only thing I’m anticipating right now is picking up Emma in two hours. I can already picture how this date will unfold: I’ll ring her doorbell, and she’ll jump out, all adorably flushed as she escapes her cats. I’ll clasp her hand in mine, pulling her to me for a carefully controlled kiss—our first—and then we’ll step into my car. There, we’ll make out as Wilson drives us to my favorite Greek restaurant in the East Village—one that happens to be reasonably priced, as per her request.
By the time we get to the restaurant, food will be the last thing on both of our minds, and as soon as the meal is over, I’ll take her to my Tribeca penthouse and fuck her senseless.
We’ll spend the weekend in bed, and by Monday, I’ll have her out of my system.
I’ll be rid of this unhealthy craving for good.
19
Emma
I turn off the water and pull open the shower curtain to find the bathroom floor looking like it’s been snowed on. Some bits of paper are so small they float in the air as I step out, hollering, “Puffs!” at the top of my lungs.
That damn cat. He must’ve sensed that I’m about to leave him and his siblings alone for the second evening in a row, so he shredded the entire roll of toilet paper while I was in the shower.
Swearing, I hop around on one foot, trying to get sticky pieces of damp toilet paper off my other foot with a towel. It takes forever to do that, not to mention clean up the bathroom, and the doorbell rings as I’m frantically applying my mascara.
Crap. I’m still in my underwear.
“One sec!” I yell as I rush across the room to grab my clothes from the closet. Mr. Puffs hisses at me from the top shelf, and Cottonball lets out a plaintive meow, batting my leg with his paw so I’ll cuddle him in front of the TV, as is our custom on Friday nights.
“Sorry, not tonight, buddy. I have a date.” I bend down to scratch his head apologetically when Mr. Puffs jumps down from the top shelf—right onto my shoulders.
“Ahh!” I pitch forward with a startled cry, pushed off balance by fifteen pounds of feline slamming into me from an almost-six-foot height. Queen Elizabeth jumps off the bed and runs over, meowing in obvious concern as I land on all fours, and at the same time, the doorbell rings again, followed by a deep voice calling my name.
It’s Marcus, and he sounds worried.
Mr. Puffs is still on my shoulders, somehow balancing without sinking his claws into my skin, and I throw him off as I get up, yelling, “Coming!”
Except I trip over Cottonball and go flying with a panicked cry.
I land on my stomach, the impact knocking all breath out of my lungs. Wheezing, I flop over onto my back and hear Marcus’s deep voice shouting, “Emma, are you all right?” right before something slams into my door
, causing it to rattle on its hinges.
Holy cow. Did he just try to break it down?
Another hard slam, and the door hinges creak, nearly giving way.
I want to yell that I’m all right, but I can’t gather enough air. All I can manage is a pathetic wheeze that I’m okay, and with all three cats meowing loudly around me, even I can’t hear what I’m saying.
Rolling over onto my stomach, I push up to all fours, so I can crawl over and stop him, when the next kick or body slam or whatever knocks the door completely off its hinges.
It flies in, like during a SWAT raid in an action movie, and behind it stands Marcus, dressed in a suit and another pricy-looking unbuttoned coat. His blue eyes narrow in on me with unmistakable concern, and he rushes over, crouching next to me as Queen Elizabeth and Cottonball zoom under the bed. Only Mr. Puffs remains by my side, arching his back and hissing at the intruder before also dashing away to hide under the bed.
“Are you okay? What happened?” Marcus demands, gripping my arms to steady me as I attempt to rise to my feet. With his help, I succeed, though my left knee complains loudly—I must’ve banged it on the floor.
“I’m okay. I’m fine,” I croak as he begins to pat me down, looking for injuries. His big hands are hot on my bare skin, and with a wave of mortification, I realize that I never got a chance to put on clothes.
I’m standing in front of him in nothing but my blue lacy bra and panties—which, granted, is my nicest set, but still.
“What happened?” he demands again as I back away, cheeks flaming as I wrap my arms around my stomach—which is quite a bit softer than I’d like. He’s undoubtedly used to fitness bunnies with rock-hard abs and—
Wait a minute. Why am I thinking about my lack of abs when he broke down my door?
“I tripped, okay? I tripped.” I still sound winded, but I’m not sure how much of that is from the fall versus the way he’s staring at me—with a worry that’s gradually transforming into something else.
