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If all goes well, by this time next week, she’ll be safely ensconced in my lair, and I’ll have exactly what I want.
Emma always within reach.
51
Emma
My phone rings as I’m on the floor, wrestling with the zipper of the suitcase. Thinking it’s my grandparents, I grab the phone from the bed without looking and hit “Accept”—only to freeze in disbelief, staring at the name on the screen.
It’s Marcus.
He’s calling me.
Right now.
“Emma?” His voice is rich and deep, audible even without the loudspeaker being on. “Emma, kitten, can you hear me?”
Jumping to my feet, I end the call. My finger hits the red button on the screen without my conscious decision.
Then, blood drumming in my temples, I stare at the phone in my hand.
Did I hallucinate this, or did it really happen?
The phone rings again, Marcus’s name appearing on the screen.
I hit “Decline” again, my heart hammering so fast I can hardly think.
What does he want?
Why call me now, after disappearing for days?
I cried last night. At three a.m., when I still couldn’t sleep, I cried because it hurt so much, knowing I’d never hear that voice again. And here he is, calling me “kitten” as if nothing happened.
Unless… unless something did happen.
Ice crystals form in my veins, my stomach twisting with an awful fear as it occurs to me that lack of interest is not the only reason someone might disappear.
What if Marcus was in an accident?
What if he’s in the hospital, hurt so badly that he couldn’t text or talk?
I’m already pressing the button to call him back when his name pops up for the third time.
“Marcus?” I sound semi-hysterical, but I can’t help it. The thought of him injured, his big, strong body broken and covered by blood… “Marcus, are you okay?”
“Me?” To my relief, he seems startled. “Yes, of course. I’m working from home today, and there were no downed power lines in Manhattan. How about you? Do you have power and heat?”
For a moment, I have no idea what he’s talking about, but then I recall the storm.
Is he for real right now?
I cried over him last night, and we’re talking about the fucking weather?
“So you’re not hurt?” I clarify, my voice tight. “You weren’t in the hospital or jail or otherwise unavoidably detained?”
“No, of course not.” There’s now a wary note in his tone. “But I did have an insane few days at work. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. Speaking of which—”
“Did you fix it?” I interrupt. “The bad trade, I mean?”
He audibly inhales. “Yes, mostly. Listen, Emma, I’m sorry I—”
“Okay, I’m happy for you. Goodbye.” I hang up before my voice can break. I’m shaking from a surfeit of adrenaline, my intense relief that he’s all right combining with hurt and growing fury. I wasn’t angry at him before—only at myself, for being foolish enough to play with fire—but I am now.
It’s one thing to barrel into my life, toy with my emotions, and disappear, another to blithely expect a repeat of the same.
The phone rings again, and I send it to voicemail with a jerky swipe across the screen. My pulse is racing so fast that I’m dizzy, my breathing fast and ragged as I throw the phone on the bed and start to pace.
Why did he call? Why now?
Why reappear just when I’ve become convinced he never would?
Not that it matters.
Whatever his reasons are, I just can’t do this. Maybe other women can handle their lovers blowing hot and cold, but I can’t. I’m not cut out for these games. Kendall was right: Marcus is not like the harmless boys I’ve dated. I’ve only known him for a short time, and he’s already turned me inside out. I’ve never cried over either of my two boyfriends—nor, come to think of it, any other man.
And that’s the crux of it, I realize with a twisting pain.
Marcus isn’t like any other man I’ve known. With my exes, I’d been able to keep a certain distance, to give a portion of myself while holding back the rest. Not with him, though. In just a couple of dates and one mindfuck of a weekend, he’d decimated all of my defenses, bulldozing straight into my heart.
Even knowing that what we had was temporary, I fell for him—and I fell hard.
The realization is like a wrecking ball into my stomach.
I’m in love with him.
With Marcus.
That’s why it’s hurting so much.
Shaken, I sit down on the bed, letting Cottonball climb into my lap as I stare blankly at my phone.
I’m in love with Marcus. Not the handsome billionaire who gave me more orgasms than I can count, but the man who talked with naked gratitude about his second-grade teacher and answered my grandparents’ questions with calm patience and respect.
The man who told me that I’m nothing like my mother before sharing about his own painful past.
