by Zaires, Anna
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.
I don’t want to embarrass Marcus in front of his investors—at least any more than I’m bound to embarrass him just by being who I am.
The scuff marks on the boots are showing no signs of disappearing, so I give up and straighten, about to leave, when a big white furball streaks toward me and jumps straight into my arms.
“Puffs!” Instinctively, I catch the cat against my chest, which means my gray dress—which was already pilled and rather sad-looking despite the ironing—is now also covered with white hair.
“Ms. Walsh, are you all right?” Geoffrey appears in front of me as if by magic, though it’s more likely he was chasing Mr. Puffs. The cat undoubtedly got into some mischief and, being smart and sneaky, decided to seek refuge with me. “Here, let me take Puffy from you.”
Puffy? Suppressing a hysterical giggle, I hand over the cat—who gives me a betrayed look that promises much retribution later—and walk over to the hallway mirror.
It’s even worse than I thought. The white hair is all over my chest, arms, and even the top portion of the dress’s skirt, probably as a result of the cat’s long, fluffy tail.
“Here, let me help you.” Deftly, the butler lowers Mr. Puffs to the floor, whips out a sticky roller from his pocket, and goes to town on all the hair clinging to my dress.
Three minutes later, the dress again looks its best—which is not saying much. But you have to work with what you’ve got, so I thank Geoffrey, throw on my coat, and hurry out to the car before any more of my cats decide to share their fur with me.
* * *
The ride to Midtown from Marcus’s place in Tribeca takes about twenty minutes, and the entire time, I’m doing breathing exercises to try to calm myself. I hate feeling so anxious and insecure; it reminds me of when I was an awkward teen trying to adjust to my changing body and hair that never wanted to behave. It also reminds me of how I felt before my first real date with Marcus. Thankfully, I’m no longer insecure around him—there’s nothing like a man sexing you up three times a day to assure a woman of her attractiveness—but I’m still acutely cognizant that I’m not what Marcus originally wanted.
Geoffrey could iron and de-hair my clothes from now ’till eternity, and I still wouldn’t be able to hold a candle to someone like Emmeline.
To my relief, the breathing exercises help, and by the time we pull up to a fancy hotel on Park Avenue, I’m calm enough to make my way through the gilded lobby toward the restaurant in the back without stumbling over my feet. I’m about five minutes early, but everybody’s already seated at the round table in the semi-private nook the hostess leads me to. Two bottles of wine, red and white, are sitting in the middle of the table, and everyone’s glasses are already filled. Only one empty chair remains, and it’s next to Marcus, whose gaze goes to me as soon as I walk in.
“There you are,” he says, standing up to greet me, and as he clasps my hands in a strong, warm grasp and bends to brush a kiss over my cheek, I feel more of my nervousness ebbing away.
“Would you like something to drink, ma’am?” the waiter asks as I sit down in the chair Marcus pulls out for me. “Perhaps some wine? Mr. Carelli has ordered an excellent Cabernet Sauvignon and Pinot Grigio for the table, but we also have a wide selection of—”
“The Pinot Grigio is perfect, thank you.” I normally drink only water, but a little wine might be just the thing today. Now that I’m seated and everyone’s staring at me, my heartbeat is speeding up again.
God, I hope I don’t have a piece of broccoli stuck in my teeth—or some cat hair somewhere.
“Everyone, this is Emma Walsh,” Marcus announces, surveying our dinner companions like a monarch would his subjects, and then he goes around the table introducing each person—or rather, each man, as I’m the only woman present.
To my left is Ashton Vancroft, the fitness empire mogul whom Marcus introduces as “a good friend from business school.” Unlike everyone else at the table, he’s dressed casually, in jeans and a cream-colored cashmere sweater that fits his muscled torso like a glove. His sun-streaked hair is on the longish side, down past his ears, and to my slightly awed eyes, he looks like a cross between Brad Pitt in Troy and Chris Hemsworth in Thor. Shaking my hand, he grins, flashing dazzling white teeth, and says in a smooth, deep voice that makes me think of melted caramel, “Pleasure to meet you, Emma.”
Before I can recover from the potency of that charm attack, the introductions continue. On the other side of Ashton is Robert “Bob” Johnson, a stiff-looking older guy who manages the Teachers’ Union pension fund. To Bob’s left are Jack and James Gyles, two round-faced brothers in their mid-forties whom Marcus introduces as his “long-time investors.” They’re the ones who have no online presence, meaning they’re old money or something even sketchier. Next to them is Grigori Moskov, the tech billionaire, and immediately to Marcus’s right is Weston Long, the real estate tycoon. Both are tall, athletically built men around Marcus’s age, and though they don’t resemble him physically, they project a similar kind of power and self-assurance.
It’s the I-could-buy-a-small-country-with-spare-change look, and they have it in spades.
Smiling as brightly as I can, I nod and repeat all the names as Marcus says them, so I can better remember them. It helps that he told me who these people are ahead of time, and I did a Google search on them. I’m a highly visual learner, which means it’s easier for me to retain information I’ve seen written down—or written out in my phone’s search bar.
Finally, the introductions are made, and as the men resume their conversations from earlier, I gratefully shift my focus to the menu lying in front of me. Unfortunately, it’s all in French, or at least half the words are, because I have no idea what most of the dishes are. Well, I do know what escargot is, and I intend to avoid it.
I’ve never tried snails before, and I’d rather do it when my stomach isn’t so unsettled.
Also, there are no prices next to any of the items on the menu. Is that normal? Does that mean this is something like an all-inclusive buffet, or are the prices so high they left them off so as not to spoil people’s appetites?
A big, warm hand covers my knee under the table, and I look up to find Marcus watching me. Leaning in, he asks softly, “How are you, kitten? Did you have any trouble getting here?”
My cheeks grow warm, though I doubt anyone heard Marcus’s endearment. “No, no trouble,” I murmur, acutely cognizant of all the curious eyes covertly watching us. I half-expected Marcus to ignore me after the introductions—after all, he’s here to schmooze with his investors—but that’s not what seems to be happening.
Though he didn’t introduce me as his girlfriend, the possessive way he’s leaning over me proclaims it as loudly as if he’d pinned a label to my chest.
“So, Emma, you’re visiting us from Boston, right?” a smooth male voice says from my left, and I turn to face Ashton.
“Boston? No, I’m afraid not.” Where did he get that from?
“Oh.” He frowns. “I could’ve sworn—”
“You’re thinking of someone else,” Marcus says, his tone hardening. “Emma is from Brooklyn, born and raised.”
Ashton’s face clears. “Never mind then. I thought for a moment—but yes, the last name is different too. So you’re a native New Yorker, Emma?”
I force myself to smile and nod. “Yes, indeed. How about yourself?” To my relief, my voice comes out normal and steady, unaffected by the sudden tightness in my chest.
There’s only one reason why Marcus’s friend would think I’m someone else.
He’s got me confused with Emmeline—which means Marcus spoke to him about her, but didn’t
mention me.
“I actually am from Boston, or at least my family is,” Ashton says, giving me another one of his dazzling smiles. Only this time, I don’t feel even the tiniest bit dazzled, the tightness in my chest transforming into a stabbing ache. I don’t want my mind going down that path, but I can’t help it. It’s impossible to ignore the implications of Ashton’s mistake.
At some point in the not-too-distant past, Marcus had been serious enough about Emmeline to talk about her to his friend, to tell him her full name and where she lived.
Does that mean he lied to me? Had there been more than that one dinner date between him and Emmeline? Was he seeing her even as he was pursuing me? Is that why Ashton knows so much about her but nothing about me?
Could he be seeing her still?
“Excuse me,” I say tightly, pushing back my chair as I stand up. “I’ll be right back.”
And before anyone can stop me, I run to the bathroom in the back.
28
Marcus
Fuck. Only my investors’ presence at the table keeps me from running after Emma—and rearranging Ashton’s model-perfect features with my fist.
I’m a total fucking idiot, and so is he. I completely forgot I mentioned Emmeline to him when we hung out at the bar that time, and now Emma is thinking God knows what.
I want to go after her and explain that Ashton only knows about Emmeline because he’s the one who introduced me to the matchmaker, but if I get up now, it will look like we’re embroiled in some kind of domestic drama—that or stealing away for a covert bathroom fuck. Either way, my shy kitten would feel embarrassed, and that’s the last thing I want.
My best bet is to let her calm down and return to the table, and then explain the whole thing later. Hopefully, she won’t hold this stupidity against me. Ashton wasn’t even supposed to be at this dinner originally. He’s not an investor with my fund—at least not yet. But he emailed me over the weekend, wanting to meet up to discuss how to deal with all the cash his rapidly growing business is bringing in, and I decided to invite him to this event.
He may not want the money, but he’s got it, so he might as well invest with me.
“Sorry, man,” he says in a low voice when Emma disappears behind a column and the others at the table politely resume their conversations. “The whole Emma-Emmeline thing totally threw me. It was Emmeline my aunt’s matchmaker friend set you up with, right? I didn’t misremember her name?”
I force my tightly clenched hand to uncurl. “No, you didn’t. And it’s my bad. I should’ve filled you in.” And I would’ve, if I’d remembered. But my mind has been so occupied with all things Emma lately, it’s a wonder I didn’t forget about this dinner altogether. “We’ll talk more about it later,” I continue, my voice low and even. I don’t need everyone here in my business. “For now, forget about Emmeline and never mention her again.”
“You got it.” Amusement glimmers in Ashton’s blue-gray eyes as he picks up his wine glass. “I take it things are going well with you and the new Emma?”
Fucker. “She’s the only Emma, and yes, I’m going to marry her.”
He freezes, the wineglass halfway to his face. “You’re joking, right?”
“Do I look like I’m fucking joking?”
“Did I hear something about marriage?” James cuts in from across the table, his beady eyes gleaming with poorly concealed excitement as he leans forward. “Carelli, are congratulations in order here? Was The Herald right for once? Jack and I were skeptical when we saw that article, but she’s the mystery redhead, isn’t she?”
Fuck. This is much too soon for this. I haven’t even convinced Emma to move in with me, much less gotten her to reciprocate my feelings, and the Gyles brothers are notorious gossips, for all that they’re as private about their own dealings as can be.
James Gyles must have the hearing of a hunting dog because there’s no way he should’ve overheard my private conversation with Ashton.
“I haven’t proposed yet, so keep it on the down low,” I warn, even though it’s futile. By tomorrow, everyone in our social circle will know about my upcoming nuptials, and short of murdering some very prominent individuals, there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
At my words, all conversations at the table come to a halt, and Jack Gyles claps his hands, looking just as excited as his brother. “A secret proposal, how fun! Where are you planning to do it? Not Disney World, I’m sure.”
I clench my molars. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“So you’re not joking.” Ashton finally recovers enough to put down his glass. “You’re getting hitched. To the new Emma.”
I glare at him, fighting a renewed urge to slug him. “Yes. To the one and only Emma.”
“That’s wonderful news. Congratulations, Marcus,” Bob Johnson says, as polite and reserved as always.
“Yes, congratulations,” Weston and Grigori echo, though there’s a definite cynical edge to Weston’s smile.
Sure enough, a moment later, the real estate mogul leans toward me and says quietly, “Do let me know if you need a good attorney. I know someone who specializes in ironclad prenuptial agreements.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.” With Emma, I’d have to go to court to force her to take some of my money in a divorce—not that there will ever be a divorce.
There’s no way I’m letting my kitten go once we’re married.
“To the beautiful young couple,” James says, lifting his wineglass with a Cheshire cat smile. “May your union prove long and fruitful.”
“Yes, to Carelli and his bride,” his brother jumps in, lifting his own glass, and everyone at the table—even Ashton, who’s still looking at me like I lost my mind—follows his example, congratulating me on my upcoming marriage with a toast.
29
Emma
Do not jump to conclusions. Do not jump to conclusions.
I repeat the words like a mantra as I wash my hands and dry them on the cloth-like paper towel provided in the luxurious restaurant bathroom. Despite the bit of blush I applied to my cheeks at Marcus’s place, my face looks much too pale in the mirror, my freckles starkly visible. As determined as I am not to jump to conclusions, I can’t ignore the fact that the conclusions aren’t good.
Men are dogs, Kendall told me before my second date with Marcus, and I know she spoke from experience. Unlike me, she’s dated all sorts of guys, rich and poor, handsome and plain. And she’s been cheated on, more than once. Whereas I’ve only had two boyfriends before Marcus, and both of them had been too nerdy and socially awkward to so much as think about running around on me.
They’d been safe, if only because no other girl wanted them.
Marcus, on the other hand, is catnip for the female population. I know it, I see it in the covetous gazes that follow him each time we’re out in public. His looks, that aura of power he projects—he wouldn’t even need to smile at a woman for her panties to drop like an elevator with severed cables. And that’s without her knowing he’s a billionaire.
No wonder that newspaper called him “one of New York’s most eligible bachelors.” He’s far, far out of my league, and I can’t let myself forget that, no matter how much time we spend together and how into me he seems.
So the question is: has he been seeing Emmeline? Am I just his side piece, someone he’s entertaining himself with until he decides it’s time to marry the real deal?
I don’t want to believe that of Marcus, but what other explanation is there? Why else would he mention Emmeline to his friend? True, I’ve told Kendall about every date I’ve gone on, but it’s different for men, especially alpha types like Marcus. I can’t see him calling up his buddy to spill the beans after some random going-nowhere date, or even mentioning such a date in passing.
If he talked about a woman, it’s because she meant something.
It’s because it was more than a single dinner date.
So yes, this is the conclusion I have to jump to, the
only logical deduction to make. But if I’m just a temporary fuck, why bring me to this dinner and introduce me to all of these important people? To his friend, who knows about Emmeline?
More importantly, why try so hard to get me to move in?
I take a calming breath, then another. Maybe there is a logical explanation for Ashton’s blunder. At the very least, I owe Marcus a chance to provide one. The man I’ve fallen in love with may be ambitious and ruthless, but he’s no cheater. Maybe he saw Emmeline a couple of times after I sent him away after the broken-door incident, or maybe—
“Emma? Oh my God, is that you?”
Startled, I turn away from the mirror and come face to face with Janie, my other best friend from college. I haven’t seen her in months, not since she started dating her boyfriend, Landon. She found him on the same dating app that led to my fateful meeting with Marcus—the app she made me join.
“It is you!” Beaming, Janie envelops me in a perfumed hug that I eagerly return before stepping back to study her. She looks different from before, sleeker and harder, like she lost weight. And that’s not the only change.
“You dyed your hair,” I exclaim, marveling at the pin-straight, platinum-blond locks that replaced the dirty blond waves that had been her signature style since middle school. Miss Natural, Kendall dubbed Janie in college, as our friend religiously avoided chemicals, fragrances, and dyes, always letting her hair air-dry and wearing only a touch of homemade mascara on her lashes. Now, though, she looks like she stepped out of some glossy magazine, with a full layer of foundation on her pretty face and her lips covered in blood-red lipstick.
“Oh, yeah.” She self-consciously touches her perfectly styled shoulder-length bob with red-tipped fingers. Even her manicure is glossy and on point. “Landon likes it like this.”
