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“No! I mean, I don’t know. I mean—oh, never mind. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
And I hang up before Kendall can give me the third degree about that.
* * *
As I sort and organize the romance novels in the back of the store, I can’t help but think about what I didn’t want to discuss with Kendall.
Am I planning to do it?
I know what Marcus wants, what he’s after.
Sex. Me and him, sweaty bodies entangled—just like the mental images I masturbated to last night.
The question is, am I going to do it? Am I going to sleep with him, knowing it’s most likely a one-time deal?
Even if there was no perfect Emmeline in the picture, a handsome, wealthy man like Marcus is bound to be inundated with women. Gorgeous, tall, slim-hipped women whose hair wouldn’t dream of frizzing up—and who’d let him pay for their meal without a qualm.
Would he call them “kitten” too, in that rough velvet voice of his, or is that pet name reserved solely for me? How did he come up with it, anyway? Is it because I like cats? As with that proposition, I should probably feel insulted, but the way Marcus said it, the way he looked at me…
“Emma? Can you come here, please?”
I stop in the middle of shelving a new shifter romance and yell out, “Coming, Mr. Smithson,” then hurry to the front, where my boss is ringing up a customer.
“Can you please recommend a new urban fantasy series to Mrs. Wilkins?” he says, nodding toward the customer—an old woman so tiny Mr. Puffs could carry her away. “She likes mind readers and such.”
“Oh, no problem,” I say, beaming at the woman. “I know just the thing.”
And pushing aside all thoughts of my dilemma, I focus on my job.
18
Marcus
As Friday afternoon wears on, I find myself watching the clock, to the point that I’m counting the minutes during the weekly fund performance review with my portfolio managers. It’s nearly five p.m., which means that in two short hours, I will see Emma again.
I can’t fucking wait.
“—and so I think this will make a great pitch for your Alpha Zone presentation next month,” my telecom PM says, bringing my attention back to the meeting. “If you want, I’ll have my analyst email you his research.”
I have no idea which stock he’s talking about, having zoned out like a schoolboy daydreaming about his crush, but there’s no way I’m admitting that in front of everyone. “Yes, have him email it to me,” I say coolly. “I’ll take a look at it over the weekend.”
Alpha Zone is an association of the most influential players on Wall Street, and the December conference is its bedrock. There, we each pitch our best idea—whether it be a currency play, a private equity investment, or something as boring as going long a particular stock—and the best-performing investment is awarded a prize at the following year’s event. The prize itself is nothing major—a trip to Bora Bora or some such—but the boost to one’s reputation is priceless.
The telecom PM’s proposal better be something good.
Jarrod, my Chief Investment Officer, gives me a weird look—he’s not used to me being less than 110-percent engaged—and I force myself to concentrate for the rest of the meeting, digging into the fund’s major positions as thoroughly as I always do. Though the healthcare team had a big trade go against them yesterday, the fund overall is up another half a percent this week, putting us at nearly ninety-three billion in assets under management.
If this winning streak keeps up, we’ll breach a hundred billion in no time.
Normally, the thought would fill me with great anticipation, but the only thing I’m anticipating right now is picking up Emma in two hours. I can already picture how this date will unfold: I’ll ring her doorbell, and she’ll jump out, all adorably flushed as she escapes her cats. I’ll clasp her hand in mine, pulling her to me for a carefully controlled kiss—our first—and then we’ll step into my car. There, we’ll make out as Wilson drives us to my favorite Greek restaurant in the East Village—one that happens to be reasonably priced, as per her request.
By the time we get to the restaurant, food will be the last thing on both of our minds, and as soon as the meal is over, I’ll take her to my Tribeca penthouse and fuck her senseless.
We’ll spend the weekend in bed, and by Monday, I’ll have her out of my system.
I’ll be rid of this unhealthy craving for good.
19
Emma
I turn off the water and pull open the shower curtain to find the bathroom floor looking like it’s been snowed on. Some bits of paper are so small they float in the air as I step out, hollering, “Puffs!” at the top of my lungs.
