by Anna Zaires
Oh, crap.
I should’ve realized how this could look.
“Hi. Good morning.” I sound breathless—and probably guilty as sin. “So sorry, but my clothes, they weren’t there. I swear, I wasn’t trying to snoop. It’s just that I was looking for my clothes and—”
“It’s okay.” He steps in, a slow, wicked smile curving his lips. “You can snoop all you want. As for the clothes, I gave them to Geoffrey to be laundered. They should be ready in about an hour.”
“Oh.” That someone would wash my clothes hadn’t even entered my mind. “Okay, thanks.”
So much for my plan to make a quick escape this morning.
“Do you have someplace to be?” he inquires, cocking his head, and my cheeks warm as I realize he’s dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a soft-looking T-shirt—the first time I’m seeing him in something other than his business attire.
Or naked.
Because I’ve definitely seen him naked.
Stop thinking about sex, Emma. And stop blushing. “My cats will be upset if I don’t come home soon,” I say, my face burning despite the admonitions. “And I’m supposed to Skype with my grandparents at 11:30. Speaking of which, do you know what time it is?”
He grins. “Last I checked, it was 11:23.”
“What?”
“What can I say? You didn’t get that much sleep last night.”
Because he kept waking me up by sliding into me, or going down on me, or sucking on my—oh God, here I go again.
“Right, okay.” With effort, I focus on something other than the way the soft material of the T-shirt hugs his defined pecs. “Where’s my purse? I need to text my grandparents to reschedule.”
“Why? You can Skype here. My internet is really fast, and I’ll give you privacy.”
I blink. “Here? As in, your bedroom?”
“Or library or guest room—wherever you prefer. You might not want to do it downstairs, though. Geoffrey is cooking up a storm for brunch, and the smells will drive you crazy.”
He’s driving me crazy. Doesn’t he realize that if I Skype my grandparents from some place other than my apartment, I’ll have to explain where I am?
“No, that’s okay, thanks. I’ll just—”
“Why not?” He folds his powerful arms across his chest, drawing my attention to the flexing muscles. “Food won’t be ready for another half hour, anyway. Geoffrey started cooking late, as I wasn’t sure when you’d wake up.”
I tear my eyes away from those impressive biceps. “You don’t understand. My grandparents are nosy—really nosy—and I don’t want to lie to them and claim I’m in some fancy hotel.”
“Why would you lie to them?”
I stare at him, dumbfounded. “Well, I’m not going to tell them that we… you know.”
“Why not? Are they old-fashioned? Do they expect you to wait until marriage?”
“No, they’re actually pretty liberal, but they’re my grandparents.” How dense is he? “If I tell them about you, they’ll think it’s a big deal and ask a million questions and want to meet you and stuff.” There, spelled out in detail. Now run for the hills, as any sane man would.
He uncrosses his arms, not looking the least bit concerned. “That’s fine. I’m happy to meet them.”
“Y-you are?” Is there something wrong with my hearing? Because I’m pretty sure Marcus just told me that he wants to meet my family.
“Yeah, why not? Feel free to introduce me when you talk to them. I’ll be in my office, catching up on work. Oh, and the Wi-Fi password is bond$carelli19.”
And with that, he walks out of the room—or rather, his ginormous closet.
36
Emma
I don’t call my grandparents.
Not at 11:30, at least. It takes me several minutes to find my purse in Marcus’s huge bedroom—it was sneakily hanging on the back of the door—and when I finally fish out my phone, it’s already 11:37 a.m. and I have a worried text from Grandma.
I’m normally never late when it comes to our biweekly Skype sessions.
Ugh. Now I can’t not explain. If I just text back to reschedule, she’ll think something is seriously wrong.
Phone in hand, I look around. The bedroom is as gorgeous as the rest of the penthouse, and there’s a nook with a sleek lounge chair where I can Skype. But I really don’t feel comfortable talking to my grandparents next to the bed where Marcus fucked my brains out. Repeatedly. It’s bad enough I’ll be sitting in a borrowed robe.
Library it is, then.
I rush over there and plop my butt into one of the chairs by the fireplace. Then I get my phone on the Wi-Fi, send the videocall request, and wait.
“Emma, sweetheart!” Grandma’s rounded face fills the small screen, with Gramps’s ear next to her. “What happened? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, I just woke up late. I’m so sorry. How are you guys doing?”
“Oh, we’re great. Already prepping for Thursday,” Grandma says, beaming as Gramps moves fully into the camera view. With a start, I realize she’s talking about Thanksgiving—which means I’m flying out to Florida this Wednesday, having bought the plane tickets on a mad sale last year.
“Your grandmother’s already gotten the turkey,” Gramps says as proudly as if it were his achievement. “And she found a new stuffing recipe online.” He peers at me, his nose growing as he leans closer to the camera. “Wait a minute. You’re not at home.”
“Um, no.” Crap, I’m so not ready for this. If I’d remembered that Thanksgiving—complete with endless opportunities for interrogation—is this coming week, I definitely wouldn’t have done the call here. “I’m at a… friend’s place.”
Grandma blinks. “Really? Which friend? Kendall or Janie?” She leans closer to the camera as well. “That fireplace looks nice. And are all of those bookshelves?”
“Yep.” Sighing, I turn my phone around and move it in a slow semicircle, letting them see the whole room—because they would’ve badgered me into doing it anyway. “Lots of books here.”
“Your friend must really like to read,” Gramps says, impressed. “Is that how you met, through your work?”
“So it’s not Kendall or Janie,” Grandma says, stating the obvious.
I turn the phone back to face me. “No, it’s someone else.” Dammit, why did I let Marcus prod me into this? Short of outright lying, anything I say will make this thing between us sound way more serious than it is. Not that I know what level of seriousness we’re at, anyway. It’s not a one-night stand, as we’d been on a couple of dates prior to hooking up. A weekend fling, maybe? Casual dating?
It’s certainly not the start of a real relationship—not with him dead set on marrying someone like Emmeline.
My grandparents are staring at me expectantly, and I know I need to tell them something. Sighing, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s no one you know—just a guy I met a couple of weeks ago, okay?”
If this were a movie, the soundtrack would’ve come to a screeching halt. As is, the silence is deafening, both of them staring at me slack-jawed.
Finally, my grandfather speaks. “A guy?” He sounds incredulous. “As in, a boyfriend?”
I wince. “We’re not quite there, Gramps, but yes, someone I’m dating.” I hope I don’t have to explain the nuances of modern dating to him, because I’m not sure I understand them myself—especially in light of Marcus’s bizarre willingness to meet my grandparents.
I could’ve sworn casual hookups and family don’t mix.
“Is that a robe you’re wearing?” Grandma asks, peering at my shoulders. “It looks like a robe.”
Crap. I was hoping they wouldn’t notice. “My clothes are in the laundry,” I explain, then realize I just made it sound like Marcus and I are living together. “That is, the clothes I was wearing last night—I don’t keep anything else here. Marcus decided to wash them before I woke up, hence the robe.”
That’s probably TMI—in general, all of thi
s is TMI—but my grandparents clearly don’t mind. Gramps is grinning, and Grandma looks positively gleeful as she asks, “Marcus? Is that his name?” At my nod, she presses, “How did you two meet?”
“Oh, just through a… you know, a dating app.” Or more precisely, through a mix-up related to a dating app, but that’s too long of a story.
“Really?” Grandma leans in. “We didn’t know you were doing online dating.”
“Yeah, I didn’t mention it because it wasn’t a big deal. Janie talked me into creating a profile a few months back, but I’ve only logged on a couple of times.”
“Which was clearly enough to meet Marcus and end up at his place. In a robe,” Gramps states, his bushy eyebrows twitching with excitement.
I blow out an exasperated breath, wishing for once that my grandparents could be all stodgy and conservative, like most others of their generation. Instead, at nearly eighty years of age, they’re as open-minded as any millennial, having embraced the changing mores of the times along with the technology of email, social media, texting, and Skype.
I don’t want Gramps to brandish a shotgun or anything, but still, a little bit of Catholic disapproval wouldn’t hurt.
“We’re just getting to know one another, Gramps. This probably won’t go anywhere,” I say, but I can tell my warning is falling on deaf ears. My dating life—or lack thereof since college—has been a source of concern for my grandparents, to the point that I was tactfully told during my last Thanksgiving visit that it was perfectly fine to embrace my needs and inclinations, no matter what they might be.
Translation: they thought I might be gay and in the closet.
“So how old is he?” Grandma asks, launching into her patented interrogation mode. “Where is he from? What does he do? How many siblings does he have, and when can we meet him?”
I open my mouth to start answering, but then I change my mind. “You know what, Grandma?” I say sweetly. “Why don’t you meet Marcus right now? He can tell you everything himself.”
And getting up, I carry the phone to my host’s office.
37
Marcus
“I’m thirty-five, an only child, originally from Staten Island, and I run a hedge fund,” I say smoothly, propping Emma’s phone on my desk while she stands in front of me with an evil little smirk on her rosebud lips. She’s clearly expecting me to be discomfited by her grandmother’s barrage of questions.
Too bad for her I’ve honed my skills through dozens of interviews on live TV.
“Really? What kind of hedge fund?” There’s a look of keen interest on Ted Walsh’s aged face. “I follow CNBC, you know.”
I smile at him. “We focus on alpha generation under all market conditions, so it’s a mix of everything, from commodities to long-short equity to quant strategies. Lately, we’ve also been dabbling in some illiquid investments, including real estate and private equity.”
“And how long have you two been dating?” Mary Walsh asks, her gray eyes as bright and clear as her granddaughter’s. It’s obvious all the finance lingo has gone right over her head, and she couldn’t care less about my fund’s strategies. “Emma said you met through a dating app?”
I glance over the screen at Emma. She shrugs awkwardly, so I reply, “You could say that.” I guess she didn’t feel like telling her grandparents the whole messy story. “As to how long we’ve been together, our first date was earlier this month.”
Mary launches into her next set of questions, and I answer with calm patience. Yes, I’ve lived in New York City all my life except when I was away at school. Where did I go? Cornell for undergrad (finance major) and Wharton for MBA. No, I don’t have any family I’m close to, as my parents passed away when I was young. Yes, I own my apartment, and a few other properties as well. No, I have no plans to move out of New York to save on taxes.
For some reason, the interrogation doesn’t bother me—nor does the fact that with this call, we’ve just leapfrogged over months of typical relationship development. Offering to meet Emma’s grandparents had been an impulse on my part, but one I can’t bring myself to regret. Last night didn’t scratch my Emma itch—if anything, it made it stronger—and my fascination with her is growing by the minute. I want to know everything about her, to crawl into her mind and see the world from the inside of her pretty head.
At the very least, I want to meet everyone important to her, so I can figure out how to become one of those people.
Finally, Emma’s grandparents seem satisfied that I’m neither a bum nor a serial killer, and we’re already saying our goodbyes, with Emma standing next to me, when Mary says, “You’re not flying in with our Emma this coming week, are you, Marcus? Because if you are, I’ll be sure to make some extra food.”
Before I can say a word, Emma is already shaking her head. “Of course not, Grandma. I told you, we’ve just met, and besides, Marcus’s work is crazy busy. Right?” Her eyes cut to me. “You have an insane week at the fund, don’t you?”
“Yes.” My voice doesn’t sound entirely like my own. “Yes, I do. A killer workload all week long.”
“We understand.” Mary smiles gently. “But if you do manage to get free, you’re always welcome at our Thanksgiving table, Marcus. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“Likewise,” I say, and give the phone to Emma to disconnect the call.
I had no intention of going to Florida this week—even I know that’s too big of a step so soon—but for some reason, the knowledge that Emma doesn’t want me there stings worse than a Portuguese man-of-war.
38
Emma
Marcus is unusually quiet, almost brooding, as he leads me downstairs for brunch. Is he upset with me for allowing the grilling? Because he pretty much asked for it—insisted on it, really. Still, I feel a little bad that I let my grandparents put him through the wringer.
I should’ve shielded him from the worst of it, like I’d always done with Jim, my college boyfriend.
Oh, well, too late now. And Marcus had held his own the way Jim could never have. He’d spoken to my grandparents respectfully but as an equal, answering their questions without the slightest hint of nervousness or uncertainty. At the same time, he hadn’t boasted about his accomplishments, all of his answers factual but revealing little of the extent of his power and wealth. Of course, Gramps and Grandma had been impressed anyway—and why wouldn’t they be?
It’s not his billions that make Marcus Carelli formidable; it’s the steely, indomitable core of the man himself. A few minutes in his company is all it takes to know that he’s a force of nature, someone you’d never want to cross.
“You okay?” I ask softly as we approach the dining area with Marcus still not saying a word. The rich, savory aromas emanating from the kitchen are making my stomach growl, but I’m too concerned about his strange mood to think about food. “I’m sorry about my grandparents. They’re just—”
“Protective of you.” He smiles, and though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, the strange tension between us fades. “They seem like lovely people. Your grandfather reminds me a bit of Mr. Bond.”
I beam at him. “Yes, they’re great. And Gramps actually was a teacher. He taught English and Social Studies for almost forty years before retiring.”
Marcus’s smile warms. “Really? What about your grandmother?”
“She was a nurse, a really skilled one. I almost never went to the doctor when I was living with them. Grandma can handle anything short of major surgery.”
“Mr. Carelli?” A thin man with ramrod-straight posture steps into our path as we approach the table. With a noticeable British accent, he announces, “Your food is ready.”
“Excellent, thank you.” Marcus glances at me. “Emma, this is Geoffrey, my butler. Geoffrey, this is Emma, my… guest.”
I manage a smile despite the sudden acceleration of my pulse. I caught that moment of hesitation before Marcus said “guest,” the split second of indecision that must be as rare for him as a lo
bster dinner is for me. Had he been about to say something else?
My date?
My friend, maybe?
There’s no way he was going to say “my girlfriend.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Geoffrey says, inclining his head. “Now, please, have a seat. I will bring out the food.”
He hurries away, and Marcus leads me to the table—which is set with two straw mats topped with square white plates, sleek modern glasses, and gleaming utensils next to white cloth napkins. In the middle is a carafe of water infused with lemon, mint, and cucumber, and next to it is what looks like fresh-squeezed orange juice, along with a pitcher of dark green liquid.
Marcus pulls out a chair for me, and I sit down, once again feeling overwhelmed. Not only does this brunch seem fancier than at any restaurant, but I’m still wearing a robe. Not that having my own clothes would’ve helped; I’m pretty sure a single fork here costs more than my entire outfit.
The worst part is that I can’t pay for my portion of this meal—unless I offer to cover half of one morning’s worth of Geoffrey’s salary, along with the cost of the ingredients. And even I know that’s ridiculous. My best bet is to reciprocate by making Marcus a meal at my place one of these days, but after seeing the way he lives, the idea of asking him over to my tiny studio makes me cringe.
I might as well ask Queen Elizabeth—the monarch, not my cat—to have dinner in a closet.
“Water, orange juice, or green juice?” Marcus asks, and I force a smile to my lips.
“Green juice, please.” There’s no need for him to know I’ve never tried the overpriced health elixir before—or that all of this is making me feel like a fish out of water.
Marcus pours the green liquid into my glass, and I take a sip. It’s surprisingly good, tart and refreshing instead of bitter. I can taste the Granny Smith apple underneath the grassy flavor of the greens, and I down the rest of the glass in a few long gulps.
