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I haven’t processed what that means yet, but I can no longer deny it.
My obsession with Emma Walsh isn’t purely sexual anymore.
“You stalked me on social media?” She sounds appalled.
I make a mental note never to mention the investigator in front of her. “Of course. Isn’t that what it’s for? Why else do you put your life out there for everyone to see?”
“It’s for my friends to see, not strangers.” She bites her lip. “This is bad. I’m going to have to review my privacy settings.”
“That’s a good idea in general,” I say, and I mean it. Though it wouldn’t keep her safe from me, run-of-the-mill stalkers—or nosy reporters who might come sniffing around her as a result of our relationship—won’t be able to access her profile as easily.
She looks out the window, still chewing on her bottom lip, then turns back to look at me again. “Is that how you knew about the scarf? Through my social media? Because I don’t remember mentioning that online, ever.”
I give her a placid smile. “You might want to check the privacy settings on your Amazon wish list.”
She groans and covers her face with her palms. “God, you are a stalker.”
You have no idea. I’ve known this about myself—that I’m more ruthless, more determined than most—but until I met her, all my energy had been directed at my career. To succeed, I’ve done things others might’ve balked at, and I have zero regrets. I’ve always been this way, driven and remorseless, and if not for my second-grade teacher, Mr. Bond, encouraging my aptitude for math, I might’ve chosen to build my fortune in the criminal underworld instead of Wall Street.
It would’ve been a more logical route to wealth for a kid like me.
Either way, I want Emma the way I once wanted my first billion: with a single-minded intensity that lets nothing stand in my way. I’m glad she texted me when she did, giving me this opening—because I wouldn’t have been able to stay away from her much longer.
“What can I say? I’m a man who goes after what he wants,” I say lightly, as if it’s all a joke. But from the look Emma gives me when she lowers her hands, I know she’s taking my words at face value.
Smart girl.
“Why me?” she demands bluntly. “Why don’t you go after this Emmeline? Isn’t she like your dream woman?”
“Not at the moment.” I haven’t spared Emmeline a single thought in the past two days—nor in the past week, come to think of it. We still have our date on the calendar for when she’ll be in New York on her business trip, but I can’t work up so much as a smidgeon of enthusiasm at the thought.
If anything, the idea of going out to dinner with Emmeline feels like an unpleasant obligation.
“So you haven’t seen her since the first night we met?” Emma asks, her gray eyes trained intently on my face, and I shake my head.
“No. I haven’t.” And I won’t, I realize with a peculiar tightness in my chest—not as long as this obsession with Emma continues. Not only do I not have the slightest inclination to do so, but it wouldn’t be fair to either of the women.
Emma and I might’ve just started dating, but I’d destroy any man who comes near her—which means that for the duration of whatever this is between us, I can’t see anyone else either.
A hypocrite is one thing I’m not.
Emma’s tense expression eases, but then her eyes narrow. “What about other women? Has your matchmaker set you up with anyone else?”
If I were Ashton or most other guys I know, I might’ve balked at the question—because it sounds a lot like a demand for exclusivity, a serious step so early on in the relationship. But given what I’ve just decided, I answer calmly, “No. There’s no one else.”
“Oh.” She stares at me. “Okay, then.”
“What about you?” I ask, though I already know the answer. “Are you seeing the guy you meant to text the other night?”
An adorable flush covers her freckled cheeks. “Um, no. That is… I might’ve fibbed about that.”
“Did you?” I knew this, of course—her dating status was the first thing my investigator checked on—but I’m enjoying her discomfort too much to let it go. “You mean, you meant to text me at three in the morning?”
She glares at me. “It was a mistake, all right? I was talking to my cat, and my finger pressed ‘send’ accidentally. I didn’t mean to do it.”
“I see.” I reach over and pick up her hand. Toying with her delicate fingers, I ask, “Did your cat choose my number and type out that ‘hey?’”
More delicious color floods her face, and her hand curls into a tiny fist in my grip. “Maybe. I’m not sure what happened. Just let it be, okay?”
