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She’s a strikingly attractive woman, yet as I observe the graceful way she holds her fork, it suddenly dawns on me that I’m not attracted to her. I like the way she looks, but it’s the same kind of appreciation I might have for a visually pleasing piece of art or sculpture—a purely intellectual pleasure that’s the complete opposite of my visceral reaction to the redhead.
No. Stop. Before my mind can travel further down that path, I force all thoughts of Emma away. Emmeline is the woman I’ve always wanted, and I can’t fuck it up by following the urgings of my suddenly unruly cock.
For a while, I succeed in focusing solely on Emmeline. She’s a good conversationalist, and as we eat, we exchange amusing stories about school and work. I tell her about the trader in my fund who wears orange sneakers as a good-luck charm, and she tells me about her sister’s penchant for dating long-haired hipster boys. Midway through the meal, I have to excuse myself to take an important call from work, and she doesn’t bat an eye at that. Nor does she look the least bit put off when I have to fire off a few urgent emails upon returning to the table. It’s obvious she understands the demands of a high-pressure job like mine. Still, I apologize, and she laughs it off, explaining that her father, a high-powered corporate attorney, hadn’t gotten through a single dinner during her childhood without a work emergency of some kind. We chat about her family for a while—they’re all as successful as she is—and then we return to more serious topics, like the political climate and what it means for the global economy. It’s when we’re in the middle of discussing the new mayor—whom Emmeline knows personally—that she glances at the corner of the booth and says, “Oh, look. Someone forgot a phone here.”
My pulse leaps with inexplicable excitement. “A phone?”
Emmeline nods and holds up a smartphone in a battered pink case. “I found it in the corner of the seat. Here, let me go give it to our waiter…” She moves to slide out of her seat, but before she can get up, I reach over and snatch the phone from her hand.
“No need.” I fight to keep my voice even as I pocket the device. “I know who this belongs to. There was a woman sitting here before us; it must’ve fallen out of her bag. I’ll make sure it gets back to her.”
“You will?” A frown creases Emmeline’s smooth brow. She’s confused by my behavior, and she’s not the only one.
“I’ll have my assistant take care of it,” I lie. “She’s good at stuff like that.” That last part is true—Lynette is highly resourceful—but there’s no way I’m getting her involved.
I want to return this phone personally. No, I need to return it. The urge is practically a compulsion. I have to see the redhead again—if only so I can confirm that my insane attraction to her was a fluke, and she’s not nearly as appealing as my dick remembers.
“Okay, if you’re sure…” Emmeline is still looking at me like I lost my mind, so I give her my most engaging smile and shift the conversation back to the mayor. My pulse is hammering with anticipation at the thought of tracking down Emma, but I’m not about to fuck things up with Emmeline.
Once I return this phone, Emma will be off my mind, and I’ll be able to focus on what I really want: a wife who’ll be as big of an achievement as the billions in my bank account.
5
Emma
Asshole. Jerk. Sleazeball liar. Fuming, I stomp down the street, barely cognizant of the pedestrians getting out of my way. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so mad. My blood is all but boiling in my veins.
How dare he write to me with a fake profile and then act like I’m a disappointment? Okay, so maybe I did put up my more flattering pictures on the dating app, but what woman doesn’t? It’s not like I used someone else’s photos or even particularly old photos. The two pictures I uploaded were taken less than a year ago, when I was actually a few pounds heavier than I am now. So if anything, I look better now—or skinnier, at least. In any case, I don’t see how he could’ve been disappointed by my physique—I’d even put my height and weight in the profile. And the cat thing? What the hell was that about? Why would he claim to love cats and then act like I’d confessed to having the plague?
In general, why would a man like that—good-looking and obviously successful—want to mess with a random girl from a dating app?
I’m so angry I make it to the subway and onto the train on autopilot. It’s not until I’m a couple of stops away from my station that my temper cools enough for me to go over what happened without choking with fury.
