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Tonight, I want to look pretty for him.
Stop being pathetic, Emma. Just stop it.
Even as I tell myself this, I know it’s useless. The jittery high that prevented me from sleeping last night is nowhere near abating, the mixture of excitement and nervous anticipation making me unable to sit still for longer than a minute. I have to proofread a short story for a client, but whenever I sit down and try to focus on it, the words dance on the page, and all I see are his cool blue eyes staring back at me.
Great, just freaking great. This is why I should’ve said no. Maybe Kendall is right, and I tend to go for safe guys, but that’s how I like it. This unsettled, insecure feeling—this desperate desire to please a man—is not something I enjoy. In college, when all my friends were going crazy for jocks and bad boys, I dated nice, quiet guys—like Jim, my last serious boyfriend. With him, I never had to worry about dressing up; he liked me as much in my dorky pajamas and house slippers as in skirts and high heels. In fact, he often couldn’t tell the difference between the two; to him, a girl was a girl, regardless of what she was wearing. We ended up breaking up because he became too clingy, demanding my time and energy to an exhausting degree, but until then, dating him had been like being with one of my friends: easy and comfortable.
Staring at myself in the mirror, I see a pink flush on my cheeks and fever-bright gleam in my gray eyes. This dinner with Marcus is not going to be easy and comfortable, I know that much.
It also won’t be cheap. The restaurant Marcus chose is at the upper limit of my budget, so I’ll be skimping on groceries for the rest of the week. I should’ve insisted on going to Papa Mario’s, but I was afraid Marcus would hate it, so I caved—something I wouldn’t have done with Jim or any other guy I’ve dated.
For a moment, I wonder if it’s too late to back out, but then I chide myself for being a coward. I can survive one dinner with a man who makes me feel like this. If what Kendall says is true, it should actually be good for me, get me out of my comfort zone and all. Besides, it’s not like anything long-term would come from it. Whatever Marcus’s reasons are for asking me out, I’m sure he’ll realize right away that we have very little in common, and it’ll end there.
I can do one date with Mr. Hedge Fund.
In fact, I’m looking forward to it.
14
Marcus
I’m on Emma’s doorstep at 6:45 p.m. sharp despite the usual rush-hour traffic. My regular driver, Wilson, is excellent like that. Through some uncanny combination of driving apps and instinct, he always manages to get me places on time—a virtual impossibility in New York City.
Taking a breath to steady myself, I ring the doorbell. Anticipation curls through me as I hear a loud meow, followed by light, rapid footsteps.
“Stop it, Puffs.” Emma’s irritated voice is muffled by the door. “Come on, you evil creature. Shoo!”
A second later, the door swings open, and I see her standing there, flushed and a little disheveled. Instantly, heat surges through me, centering low in my groin as images of how she’d look after I fuck her slide through my mind.
Focus, Marcus. Deep breath.
It’s obvious she’s made an attempt to tame her red curls, but one stubborn one is already sticking out sideways, and her well-worn beige coat is askew and covered with white cat hair—the source of which must be the three cats in the hallway behind her. One is calmly licking its paw, the other one is swishing its tail, and the third one—a giant one—is giving me what I can only interpret as a glare. In the next moment, the giant cat streaks toward me, and Emma bends down to catch him.
“Hi,” she says breathlessly, straightening with the wriggling cat held tightly against her chest. “Sorry about that. Mr. Puffs gets jealous when men come over.”
“Really?” My voice is tight. To my shock, I understand exactly how the white fluffy creature feels, because the thought of men coming over to Emma’s apartment makes me want to strangle someone. Swallowing down the irrational surge of jealousy, I force my tone to lighten. “Possessive, is he?”
“Oh, yeah. Big time.” She blows at another messy curl to get it out of her eyes. “Hold on, let me grab my bag.” Straining to hold the cat with one arm, she reaches for the brown purse I saw her with before, and I help her by grabbing it off the hook by the door.
“Thanks,” she says, bending down again to lower the cat to the floor. He tries to rush at me again, but Emma expertly blocks him with her legs, snatches the bag out of my hand, and says, “Let’s go.”
