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It doesn’t make sense for a man like that to spend his limited free time returning a phone to a stranger—not unless he had some other agenda. Only I can’t think of what that agenda might’ve been. Unless… Could he have been hoping I’d reward him financially?
Crap. I didn’t think about it, but I should’ve probably offered him some money for his trouble.
For a moment, I feel awful, but then I remember his suit and coat—not to mention his Italian leather shoes—and my guilt fades. I doubt Marcus needs my twenty bucks, certainly not enough to go out of his way to get them. So why did he come? My phone doesn’t require a password to unlock, so he could’ve just emailed me from my own email, and I would’ve picked up the device from wherever Marcus told me to meet him.
Hell, he could’ve had one of his analysts—say, the one he was planning to task with researching the odds of our meeting—return the phone on his behalf.
The only other explanation that occurs to me is so ridiculous that I dismiss it right away. There’s no way he’s interested in me in that way. I’m not particularly insecure about my looks—I got over that in college—but I am realistic. I know I’m nowhere near Marcus’s league. He undoubtedly has gorgeous women falling all over themselves for the privilege of decorating his arm; he wouldn’t need to go after a short, frizzy-haired redhead with too-wide hips. Besides, wasn’t he meeting someone? This Emmeline that he mistook me for? With a fancy name like that, I bet her hips are in perfect proportion to her body, and her hair magically behaves at all times.
Okay, maybe that last bit is complete conjecture, but still, I’m almost certain I’m not Marcus’s type.
So why did he come tonight? The question torments me as I toss and turn, trying to get comfortable enough to fall asleep. It’s only when Mr. Puffs lies down on top of my head, pinning me in place, that I’m able to drift off.
My dreams that night are filled with big, hard-faced burglars in capes… and sex.
Lots and lots of steamy, dirty sex.
10
Marcus
“You want me to do what?” Lynette gapes at me, her round tortoise-shell glasses sliding down her long nose.
“I want you to send flowers and some cat food to the address I emailed you,” I repeat, frowning at my assistant. “Is that a problem?”
“No, of course not.” Lynette quickly regroups, her professional mask falling into place. “Do you have a preference when it comes to the type of flowers and the brand of the, um… cat food?”
“Roses—pink and white,” I say. “At least a dozen of each. No, make that two dozen of each. As far as cat food, I don’t know. What do cats like?”
“Depends on the cat, I think,” Lynette says, sounding more like her efficient self. “Some owners feed their cats only wet canned food; others do a mix of wet and dry. Do you happen to know about the cat in question?”
“Cats, plural,” I correct. “And no, I don’t. Why don’t you do this? Get a variety of cat food brands, both wet and dry, and send them with the flowers. I’ll email you the note to add.”
“Okay, I’m on it.” Lynette turns her attention to her monitor, her long fingers flying over her keyboard. I have no doubt she’s going to send the best cat food and the freshest flowers money can buy. Lynette knows my predilection for high-quality products.
I like the best in all things, and I don’t accept compromises.
Speaking of the best… I glance at my watch. No, it’s still too early for Emmeline’s flight to have landed. Pulling out my phone, I set a reminder to call her later this afternoon and head toward my office.
I have five meetings and two dozen research reports to get through before lunch, but all I can think about is Emma.
Fuck. I’ll have to make sure I have my redheaded dessert this week, so I can forget her and move on with my life.
11
Emma
“Here you go, Mr. Roberts,” I say, handing the wizened old man a stack of paperbacks. “You’ll enjoy these, I’m sure.”
“Oh, I have no doubt.” He beams at me, showing two missing teeth in the front. “I love this series. So glad you recommended this author to me. I’ve loved all her books so far.”
I grin back at him. “I’m happy to hear that. She’s my favorite science fiction writer.”
“Mine too now,” he says, and we share a moment—that perfect moment of connection with someone who appreciates the same books you do. It’s moments like these that keep me working at Smithson Books despite low pay and no chance of advancement. Well, moments like these and my love of physical books. Just being in this little bookstore, surrounded by shelves of paperbacks and hardbacks, lifts my mood. I like ebooks too, but there’s nothing quite like the smell and feel of printed paper.
