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“Um… morning.” Trying not to blush, I pull the blanket up over my breasts. “What time is it?”
A lazy smile curves his lips as his gaze returns to my face. “Almost ten.”
“Oh, shit.” I was going to help Grandma with breakfast and all the Thanksgiving preparations, but judging by the delicious smells that woke me up, it’s too late.
Knowing Grandma, she’s been at it since the crack of dawn.
“We did go to sleep late,” Marcus points out. Sitting up, he throws the blanket aside to reveal a long, thick, mouthwatering erection. Morning wood, I hope—else the man is seriously obsessed with sex.
Gloriously unconcerned with his nakedness, he gets up and stretches, every muscle in his tall, hard body flexing with the motion, then heads to the bathroom with a casual, “I’ll be right back.”
I swallow my drool and jump out of bed also. Beelining for the closet, I grab a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, along with underwear, and hurriedly get dressed.
I have a feeling that if I’m still naked by the time he returns, we’re not emerging from this bedroom until noon.
While I wait for Marcus to come out, I pick up my phone to check my email. To my surprise, there’s a voicemail from my best friend, Kendall—and a whole array of texts from her.
Concerned, I go for the texts first.
The first is a link to an article in The New York Herald, followed by: OMG, Ems, is that you with Mr. Wall Street on Page Seven???
Then: It is totally you! Holy crap, I’m friends with a celebrity!
They’re calling you a “mystery redhead,” did you see that? And fuck, that kiss looks hot. He’s holding you like he wants to do you right then and there. No wonder you were mum on the orgasm situation. He gives you lots, doesn’t he? I can tell.
Wait a minute. That was at JFK? Why were you at the airport together?
Is he in Florida with you???
You sneaky little bitch! He’s meeting your grandparents already, isn’t he? Why didn’t you tell me???
The next two texts are pictures of prom-like dresses, followed by: I plan to wear one of these as your maid of honor. Just FYI. And absolutely no Mickey ears. I refuse.
Equal parts horrified and confused, I click on the article link in the first text. Sure enough, there’s a picture of Marcus kissing me at my gate last evening. The headline reads: Is One of New York’s Most Eligible Getting Hitched at Disney World?
What the hell?
Heart pounding, I skim over the actual text:
Hedge fund billionaire Marcus Carelli was spotted last night at JFK, locking lips with a mystery redhead. The notoriously private head of $92 billion Carelli Capital Management is not known for engaging in PDA, leading bystanders to speculate that the relationship might be serious. According to our sources, the young woman was standing in the Economy Class line for a flight to Orlando, home of Mickey Mouse, when Carelli pulled her aside for an intense-seeming discussion culminating in a passionate make-out session (see photo above). The woman then boarded her flight, leaving Carelli at the gate. But the story doesn’t end there, as according to a flight plan filed some fifteen minutes later, Carelli’s private jet flew to Orlando that very evening.
Is one of New York’s wealthiest bachelors about to get hitched at Disney World to a girlfriend who flies Economy Class?
A real-life Cinderella story may be in the works.
Cinderella story? Disney World? Get hitched?
What are they smoking?
My gaze returns to the second sentence, and I reread it incredulously.
Yep, I didn’t imagine it. They said “$92 billion.” Kendall told me Marcus’s fund has some insane amount of money under management, but that’s like the GDP of a small country. Or a medium-sized country, maybe?
Fuck, I should’ve paid attention in my one and only Econ class in college.
I’m still hyperventilating when Marcus emerges from the bathroom. His sharp-eyed gaze lands on me, and he swiftly crosses the room to stand in front of me. “What’s wrong?” he demands, clasping my shoulders. “Did something happen?”
He’s still naked, which is bad for my already-shaky equilibrium, so I wordlessly hand the phone to him and rush into the bathroom. Closing the door behind me, I lean against it and try to convince my lungs that there’s plenty of air to go around—and my brain that this article is nothing to freak out about.
Oh, who am I kidding?
They have a picture of me making out with Marcus.
A picture and an article on Page Seven.
Like I’m a Kardashian or something.
Oh, and Marcus apparently manages almost a hundred billion dollars and is considered one of New York’s most eligible bachelors.
If that’s not a reason to freak out, I don’t know what is.
Somehow, I manage to get myself over to the sink and go through my usual morning routine of brushing my teeth, washing my face, and so on. It calms me just enough so I’m not on the verge of a panic attack. As the last step, I slather on a thick layer of sunblock—Florida sun is murder on a redhead’s complexion—and decide I’m as ready to face the world as I’ll ever be.
