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“So what?” Kendall jumps off her stool and glares at me, hands propped on her hips. “You want to get into his pants, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“No buts! He’s rich, he’s hot, he wants you, and you want him. And”—she leans in until her nose is almost touching my own—“he was totally upfront with you about this Emmeline thing. They’re not married or even dating yet, so who cares that he may date her one day?”
Ugh. I squeeze my eyes shut and wish I were home with my cats. I don’t know what I expected when I showed up at Kendall’s apartment with the croissants and coffee from the street cart downstairs, but getting yelled at for not sleeping with Marcus wasn’t on the list.
It’s bad enough I spent all night second-guessing my decision and feeling like crap each time I recalled the expression on Marcus’s face when I told him to leave. For a second, he’d looked almost hurt, but then his gaze had hardened, his face turning into a stony mask. Without a word, he turned and walked away, and it was all I could do to remain in place instead of running after him.
Instead of begging him to come back and finish what we started.
“Emma, listen to me,” Kendall continues, and I reluctantly open my eyes as she climbs back onto her bar stool. “Marcus clearly likes you. So what if you don’t fit his requirements for a wife? That doesn’t mean you can’t have fun with him. You’ve been having sex dreams about the man, for chrissakes. And just think about it: Marcus Carelli. Do you know what kind of doors would be open to you if you were on his arm? The places he could take you, the people you could meet?” When I stare at her blankly, she rolls her eyes and says pointedly, “That publishing industry job you’ve wanted forever? He could hook you up in a moment. Hell, his fund could probably buy any publisher you want with spare change.”
I wince. “Kendall—”
She holds up a hand. “I know, I know. You’re determined to stand on your own two feet, and that’s admirable. But guess what, Ems? The ground under your feet can be a green lawn or a swamp, and we don’t get to choose which—unless we’re very lucky and fate hands us a way to cross over. And you, my darling, just got handed the equivalent of the Golden Gate Bridge. Marcus Carelli can lead you to the greenest pastures imaginable; all you have to do is say yes.”
* * *
On the subway ride home, I do my best to forget Kendall’s words, but the bitter taste in my mouth lingers. I’ve told her about my childhood more than once, but she still doesn’t get it, not really. To her, Marcus’s billionaire status is a plus, whereas to me, it’s a huge minus. His money and connections are the last thing I want, and that fact alone would’ve doomed any relationship we might’ve started.
Not that he even wants a relationship with me. I’m pretty sure it would’ve been a one- or two-night deal, at most. And while I had entertained the idea, when it came down to it—when he didn’t deny that he might ultimately marry Emmeline—I couldn’t go through with it, no matter how much my body begged me to.
I was too overwhelmed by how he made me feel—and downright terrified of what it would be like when he inevitably walked out of my life.
So it’s for the best that I made it happen yesterday, before I got in any deeper. It really is. So what if I felt so shitty after rejecting him that I couldn’t sleep? It was too much for me—he was too much for me—and it’s good to know one’s limitations.
Or at least that’s what I’ve been telling myself from the moment Marcus walked out, closing the repaired door behind him. Without his presence, my studio immediately felt colder, emptier… less vital somehow.
No, that’s not true. I refuse to go there. However volcanic our attraction, we’re otherwise completely incompatible. I made the right choice, no matter what Kendall or anyone else thinks.
All I need to do is make myself believe that.
24
Marcus
I spend the rest of Friday evening trying to convince myself that what happened was for the best, that I’m glad Emma pulled the plug on this insanity before it went any further. Granted, it would’ve been nice to fuck her and relieve the tension that’s taken hold of me from the moment I laid eyes on her, but ultimately, this couldn’t have gone anywhere.
Emmeline—or another woman like her—is what I need, and Emma would’ve just been a distraction. Had already been a distraction, in fact, messing with my focus at work and elsewhere.
In spite of that perfectly rational reasoning, I barely sleep Friday night, feeling tense and restless despite two cold showers and an encounter with my fist. Each time I close my eyes, I see Emma in her lacy underwear, and my body burns with the need to have her, to feel her soft curves under my palms and taste the sweetness of her lips.
