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Somehow, as I was talking to the cat, my finger slipped and pressed “send.”
26
Marcus
My phone pings at 2:49 a.m. on Thursday, waking me up less than two hours after I got home from work. Cursing, I pick it up—and see that it’s a text message.
From Emma.
I’m instantly awake, my entire body buzzing with adrenaline as I jackknife to a sitting position and swipe across the screen.
Hey…
That’s all the message says.
I throw off my blanket and turn on the light. I can see the three dots dancing on the screen, telling me that Emma is about to send a second message.
Hey… do you want to come over?
Hey… I’ve missed you.
Hey… so I realize I’ve made a mistake.
Hey… what are you doing tonight?
The possibilities are endless, and I’m fucking dying to see what she’s going to say.
The three dots disappear, as if she’s stopped typing and deleted her message. Five seconds later, they reappear.
I stare at the phone, my heart pounding with predatory anticipation. I can’t wait for her to admit that she wants me, that she’s changed her mind about sending me away. I have an important investor meeting first thing in the morning, but if she wants me to come over right now, I’m there.
If I could, I’d teleport myself to Brooklyn, so I could turn up on her doorstep as soon as I receive that text.
She’s taking her sweet time composing it, so I get up, unable to sit still. Clutching the phone, I head to the bathroom to get ready in case this is, as I’m hoping, a booty call.
I’m almost done shaving when the phone finally pings with a new text. Setting down the razor, I swipe across the screen with one semi-dry finger.
Sorry, sent to the wrong person.
I reread the words in disbelief—and growing fury.
What the fuck?
She was texting someone else at three a.m.?
Fighting the urge to smash the phone against the marble countertop, I roughly wipe away the remnants of the shaving cream and throw the towel in the sink. Theoretically, this someone could be a friend or a relative, but practically, the chances of that are nil.
There’s only one person you text at this hour, and it’s someone you’re fucking—or thinking about fucking.
And that someone isn’t me.
White-hot fury sears through me as I picture the guy—probably some asshole fresh out of Peace Corps who owns a million cats. He wouldn’t have a fucking clue how to please a woman, yet he’d get to be in Emma’s bed because he’s an animal lover and fucking “nice.”
Well, I am not nice—and I have never given up on something I truly want. Over the past twelve days, I’ve done my best to forget her, to convince myself to move on, but every night, I’ve dreamed of her, and every morning, I’ve woken up hard and frustrated, unable to focus until I’ve relieved myself with my fist. Whether I like it or not, this new obsession of mine is not going away, and it’s time I’ve accepted it.
Grimly, I open my email and compose a message to the private investigator I use to keep tabs on C-level executives at the companies we’re heavily invested in. He operates just this side of the law and can sniff out a scandal years before any gossip rag gets a clue. I’ve never had him investigate a woman I’m interested in before, but there’s always a first time.
Stalker move or not, I have to know whom Emma might be seeing—because I’m done playing by the rules.
One way or another, the little redhead will be mine.
27
Emma
The flowers arrive Thursday afternoon, just as my boss is telling me all about his new diet. The vase is so big that the delivery guy strains to lift it onto the counter, and when he finally succeeds, the enormous bouquet of pink, yellow, and red tulips nearly blocks the register.
“Is it your birthday today?” Mr. Smithson asks, eyeing the flowers in confusion as I hunt for a card in the forest of stems and leaves. “I could’ve sworn it was in September.”
“Um… it’s definitely in September.” My face turns bright red as I find the card and read the one-word message. My boss is still looking at me quizzically, so I lie, “This is just something from my grandparents. I love tulips, and they do this once in a while, to let me know they’re thinking of me.”
“Oh.” Mr. Smithson blinks. “Okay, well, enjoy.”
He ambles away to restock the thrillers, and I exhale, my hand shaking with a mixture of trepidation and excitement as I lift the card and reread the message.
It’s just one simple word.
Hey.
* * *
I’m almost calm by the time I get home from work, having convinced myself that the bouquet was Marcus’s payback for my dumb texts last night. It was definitely a cowardly move on my part to claim that I’d sent that “hey” to the wrong person, but I panicked and didn’t know what else to do.
