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I’m still in my office, and I have a million and one things to do before I can leave tonight, but all I can focus on is Emma and the lack of response to my text. Instead of working, I’ve spent the past ten minutes staring at my phone—ten minutes that, at my current hourly rate of earnings, equate to several thousand dollars.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, three dots appear.
Emma is typing something.
I find myself holding my breath like some teenager with a crush, so I force myself to look at my computer screen instead of at the phone. It’s useless, though. The spreadsheets dance in front of my eyes, the numbers refusing to make sense.
This is fucking insane.
Earlier today, I called Emmeline to thank her for the dinner and inquire about her flight, and I didn’t feel even a fraction of this bizarre excitement. Our conversation was calm and polite, and when I hung up the phone, I was more convinced than ever that Emmeline is exactly the kind of woman I’ve been looking for: beautiful, intelligent, steady, and well-mannered. She wouldn’t scream, curse, or throw a fit when something didn’t go her way; she wouldn’t stumble home drunk with two equally drunk assholes in tow; and she certainly wouldn’t fuck said assholes in front of her five-year-old son.
My mood darkens at that childhood recollection, and I glance back at the phone, where the three dots are still going strong. What is Emma doing for so long? Writing a text message essay?
The very fact of my impatience adds to my frustration. Over the decade and a half of running my fund, I’ve developed nerves of steel. I’ve had to—because as the fund’s assets under management have grown, so has the amount of capital we risk on each trade. Just in the past five years, our biggest positions have gone from several million dollars to just over a billion. If I hadn’t taught myself patience—if I hadn’t learned to stop watching every tick of the market and focus on what needs to be done—I would’ve stressed myself into an early heart attack.
So if I can put a billion-dollar trade out of my mind, why can’t I tear my eyes away from those three fucking dots?
Come on, I will the screen. Just spit it out already. If I could reach through the phone and shake the little redhead, I would do so, because this is ridiculous. How long does it take to type out a yes or a no? Preferably a yes, but even a rejection would be better than this endless waiting. I wouldn’t accept it, of course, but it would give me something to go on, a starting point for the rest of my slake-hunger-for-Emma campaign. I would be able to strategize and come up with the next move—
The three dots disappear and are replaced by text.
Thank you for the flowers and the food. My cats are very pleased :). How about Papa Mario’s Pizza at 7 p.m. for our ethics discussion?
My first reaction—relief—transforms into confusion as I look up the suggested restaurant. A quick search reveals a dingy website and Yelp reviews talking about a “hole in the wall with the cheapest pizza in Brooklyn.” It’s about two blocks from Emma’s apartment, but as far as I can tell, that’s the only thing the place has going for it.
Why the fuck does Emma want to go there?
I drum my fingers on the table, thinking, then text: If you’re in the mood for Italian, I know an excellent family restaurant in Bensonhurst. They have the best pizza in the five boroughs, and it’s not far from where you live. Pick you up at 6:45?
The three dots appear almost instantly this time, followed by: What is the place called?
I frown at the phone. In my experience, when I offer to take a woman out, she lets me pick the place and doesn’t question my suggestions, especially when that particular suggestion happens to be the same type of food she seems to be in the mood for.
Emma is either a control freak or really particular about her pizza.
My frown deepening, I text back the name of the place and wait.
Three minutes later, I get the response: Okay. I’ll be ready.
The surge of satisfaction is as intense as when I made my first million. Grinning savagely, I put away the phone and turn my attention back to my computer screen, where the numbers are finally making sense again.
The first big battle of the Emma campaign is won, and I can’t wait for the rest of the war.
13
Emma
When I tell Kendall about my upcoming date, she all but chokes on her coffee. “You what?”
“I’m meeting a hedge fund manager for dinner tonight,” I say, pouring a liberal amount of milk into my own cup of java. “So you see, I’m a cat lady no more.”
