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It’s already midnight, but I can’t sleep, my bed again uncomfortably cold and empty. And lumpy. Why have I never noticed before how lumpy my mattress is? It’s nothing like the plush memory-foam expanse of Marcus’s king-sized bed. That had been so comfortable, so soft and warm, especially with his big, powerful body wrapped around me—
No. Stop. I squeeze my eyes shut to keep out the memories, but they flood in anyway, adding to the hollow pain in my chest. I miss him. I really, truly miss him. We’d only spent two nights together, but it had felt more like a month, like a dozen dates crammed into one life-altering, amazing weekend. I keep picturing his eyes, his smile, his laugh… the quiet amazement on his face when I put Cottonball on his lap. He’d handled the cat as carefully as a newborn baby, his big hands extraordinarily gentle on his fur. Watching him, I’d felt my heart swell and break a little, a fissure opening to let him in.
God, why had he done this to me? Why go after me so hard, make me think there could be something real between us, only to dump me so cruelly?
I expected it, of course, told myself it was bound to happen, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. If anything, I feel extra stupid. I shouldn’t have agreed to see him when he sent me those gifts.
No, scratch that. I shouldn’t have agreed to go out with him in the first place. All along, I’d known I was playing with fire, and I did it anyway.
I let him leave a third-degree burn on my heart.
The storm outside now seems more like a hurricane, the wind roaring and the snow piling up by my only window to block out what little light from the street lamps was seeping in. And as I stare into the darkness, my eyes burning with unshed tears, I make myself a promise.
I’m never going to date a man out of my league again.
50
Marcus
The storm is still raging outside when my alarm goes off at 5:30 a.m., so I send an email directing everyone at the fund to work from home, and then I get up to do the same. Geoffrey has the day off, but he prepped today’s meals in advance, and it takes mere minutes to warm the quiche he made and down it with a cup of coffee before heading into my home office.
As I answer emails and go over research reports, my thoughts turn to Emma again. They said on the news some areas of Queens and Brooklyn have lost power. Could that have happened in her neighborhood? In general, how is she faring in her basement studio? Something like a foot of snow has already fallen, enough to block that just-above-the-ground window in her apartment.
Could she be stuck there in the dark, without electricity and heat?
No, that’s ridiculous. She’s in Brooklyn, not some shack in the mountains, and it’s an early winter storm, not Armageddon. I’m sure she’s fine. She’s most likely asleep, enjoying an impromptu day off like most of the city. Or if she’s awake, she might be packing for her flight to Florida tonight. Speaking of which…
I pull out my phone and check her flight status, like I’ve been doing every couple of hours since the storm hit.
Still not cancelled.
Fuck.
I’m not planning to see her this week, so I don’t know why that bothers me, but it does. Maybe it’s because I don’t want her to fly in this weather. The snow is supposed to stop by noon, but ice on the planes’ wings might be a problem for a while. Not that the airlines will fly if they don’t think it’s safe, but still.
I don’t want her getting on that plane.
I really fucking don’t.
Realizing I’m obsessing over her again, I force my attention back to my computer screen and succeed at focusing for another couple of hours. Then I check on her flight again.
Still on. Not even so much as a delay.
Cursing, I get up and head into my home gym. I almost wish her flight number hadn’t been in the investigator’s report. If I didn’t know it, I wouldn’t be checking the airline app with the frequency of a schoolgirl refreshing her Instagram feed. Hopefully, a good, hard workout will clear my mind. With the insane workload of the past couple of days, I’ve been squeezing in quick runs before breakfast, but I haven’t lifted weights since Saturday morning, when Emma lay sleeping in my bed.
Fuck, I’m thinking about her again.
With effort, I concentrate on my gym routine, pushing myself to the limit with each set. By the time I’m done, I’m drenched with sweat, my muscles shaking from exhaustion. But I’m still restless, my fingers twitching with the urge to reach for my phone and check on her flight.
