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All three set up a loud purr, and I again battle a surge of jealousy that she’s touching them, not me.
Fuck.
I may need to consult a shrink. This can’t be healthy.
I’m about to ask her another question when I hear a knocking on the doorframe, and a spicy, savory aroma fills the apartment.
It’s Wilson with our food.
I walk over to take the bags from him, and as I’m thanking him, Emma approaches.
“Here you go,” she says brightly, stuffing what looks like a twenty into Wilson’s hand. “That should cover my portion.”
And ignoring the stunned look on my driver’s face, she returns to join her cats on the bed.
21
Emma
Marcus is looking at me like he’s never seen a woman devour a gyro before—and maybe he hasn’t. I bet all the supermodel types he dates survive on kale juice and broccoli. Then again, he’s been eyeing me like this ever since I paid for my portion, so maybe it has something to do with that.
His driver certainly looked shocked when I gave him the twenty.
Of course, it’s also possible that he’s not used to seeing a woman eating on her bed, surrounded by cats who have no compunction about stealing pieces of meat straight out of her gyro. I try to shove them away from my plate, but it’s useless.
There are three of them, and the gyro has too many points of access.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sit here?” he asks again from his seat at my desk, and I shake my head, my mouth too full to respond verbally. The desk is where I always eat, and other than the kitchen counter, it’s the only table-like surface in my apartment. If I sat there, in the only chair I own, he’d have to stand or eat on my bed, and in the latter case, the cats would attack his food—not a good situation.
I already feel bad I’m subjecting him to the cramped mess that is my apartment.
“They’d be all over you,” I explain after I swallow. “They really like gyros.”
“Who wouldn’t? These are great,” he says and takes another big bite of the juicy pita in his hand.
I brighten a little. “Aren’t they?” I was worried he’d feel this kind of food is beneath him—the hole-in-the-wall place we ordered from is just one step above a street cart—but he appears to be genuinely enjoying himself. In general, he seems much more comfortable in my apartment than I figured a billionaire would be—though his big, broad-shouldered frame looks rather ridiculous stuffed into my tiny IKEA chair.
“Yep, good choice,” he says, chowing down on his gyro, and I give him a big smile.
Maybe this date isn’t a total disaster after all.
He’s done with his food in record time. Getting up, he takes his plate into the kitchen, and then I hear the sink turn on.
Is he actually washing it?
Before I can marvel at the phenomenon—my ex-boyfriend didn’t know such a thing as dish soap existed—there’s another knock by the entrance.
The repair guys have arrived.
There are two of them. One looks like Santa Claus’s younger brother, complete with rosy cheeks and a nearly white beard, while the other is a good-looking Latino guy about my age. He has an infectious grin on his face, and I smile back as I get up and place my half-eaten gyro on the desk.
“Hi there,” I say, walking over to greet them. “I’m Emma. Thanks so much for coming out so quickly.”
I stick my hand out, and the young guy grabs it eagerly, giving it a vigorous shake. “Juan,” he says, his grin widening. “Nice to meet you, Emma.”
“And I’m Rodney,” the Santa Claus sibling says, shaking my hand next. “This the door we need to fix?” He glances at the door on the floor, then studies the frame, where I notice sizable cracks near where the hinges were attached.
God, how strong is Marcus that he was able to do this much damage?
“That’s the one,” I say, trying not to wince as I picture the damage to my bank account from this repair bill. “Do you have any idea how much this will cost?”
“Oh, um…” Juan glances at Rodney in confusion.
“Nothing,” Marcus says, coming out of the kitchen. His voice is hard, utterly uncompromising—as is his expression when he looks at me. “It will cost you absolutely nothing, as I’m the one who broke it.”
“But you did it to save me—because you thought I was in trouble,” I argue, but Marcus is not listening.
“You will send the bill to me,” he orders, giving Rodney a piercing stare, and the man swiftly bobs his head.
“Yes, of course, Mr. Carelli.”
Ugh. I’m tempted to fight further, but I don’t have even a hundred dollars to spare right now, and I suspect their bill will run higher than that. It would be highly embarrassing if I insisted on taking care of the payment and then had to beg for an extension. Besides, Marcus does have a point: it was his savior complex that got us into this mess.
