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“Wait, what? From where? Start from the beginning,” Kendall demands, and I grit my teeth, throwing Marcus a fuming look over my shoulder.
He’s already stopped laughing, but he’s still grinning, the bastard.
“I can’t really talk right now,” I tell Kendall, looking away lest I smack him with the phone. “I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Wait! Just tell me if you two have hooked up.”
“Kendall—”
“Just a yes or no, quickly.”
“Yes, okay? It’s a yes.” I hang up and turn to meet Marcus’s amused—and not the least bit apologetic—gaze.
My temper boils over. “You had no right to do that. That is my phone and my friend and—”
“You’re right.” He catches the hand I’m waving around—the one still clutching the phone. Bringing it to his lips, he kisses the knuckles reverently. “I shouldn’t have done it, kitten. I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, you’re very cute when you’re angry. I’ve thought so from our very first meeting.”
“Oh, we’re doing clichés now, are we? What’s next? You knew I was the one from the moment you laid eyes on me?” To my relief, I still sound pissed, rather than all gooey and melty, like my insides. The traitors have turned to mush at the tender gesture and the bullshit compliment.
“No,” Marcus says, all traces of amusement gone. “I didn’t.”
Ouch. I blink and try to smile, as if all meltiness didn’t disappear in an instant, my stomach shriveling into a hard ball instead. Obviously, I’m not the one for him—that would be Emmeline or someone like her—but did he have to be so blunt about it? I was using that as an example of a cliché, not fishing for a proposal.
Still, something about my reaction must’ve given me away because Marcus’s face darkens, his hand tightening around mine. “Emma, what I meant was—”
“Just don’t do it again.” I somehow manage to sound playful, the smile actually appearing on my lips. “This is my phone”—I yank my hand out of his hold—“and you don’t get to just grab it and look at my messages, no matter how many clichéd compliments you give me afterward.”
“What about non-clichéd ones?” he asks huskily, the glimmer of amusement returning to his gaze. I must be a better actress than I thought. “Can I grab it then?”
“No,” I say with exaggerated firmness, as if talking to a child or a dog. “My phone is off limits.” I make a show of stuffing it into my purse and zipping it up for emphasis.
He sticks out his lower lip in a pout, just like a disappointed toddler would, and I can’t help laughing for real, even as some of the melting feeling returns, along with the lingering hurt from his words.
Because in that pout, as comical as he meant it to be, I see the vulnerable little boy he had been once, and I can’t help wishing for the impossible.
Can’t help wanting this—us—to be real.
41
Marcus
I glare at the cat on the bed, and he responds with a contemptuous look, the tip of his tail swishing back and forth in a silent threat.
“That’s right,” my eyes tell him. “I fucked her all night long, and I will do it again and again. You better get used to it. She’s mine now.”
“I will destroy you,” the slitted green gaze replies. “You’re going to die a slow and painful death under my paws, just like a mouse. Not that I’ve ever seen a real mouse, but still. If I ever get my paws on one, it’s fucked—and so are you.”
“Puffs, get off the clean laundry,” Emma says, reappearing from the bathroom, and I watch with grim satisfaction as she shoos the furry creature off the clothes she’s folding on the bed—a task I’m helping her with.
She was surprised when I offered, but she shouldn’t have been.
There’s no way I would pass up a chance to get my hands on her panties.
Speaking of which, she needs new ones. Along with new clothes in general. Almost everything she owns is worn out or of poor quality. My hands practically itch to pick up my phone and place an order at Saks, but I resist the urge. She won’t accept clothes from me yet, and I have bigger battles to fight.
Like getting her to come back to my place tonight.
“Here, I got this,” she says, grabbing a stack of folded T-shirts from me. She hurries over to the closet and stuffs the clothes inside, then comes back to grab a pile of socks. I let her put away all the folded things while I sort her bras, and before long, we’re done with all the laundry.
“Wow, that was quick,” Emma says, looking around like she expects a stray sock to jump out at her. “I can’t believe we got it done so fast. When I do it alone, it takes me hours.”
