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And by “world,” I mean Marcus—who, thankfully, is dressed in a pair of jeans and a polo shirt when I come out. He’s sitting on the bed—which is now fully made, I note with the part of my brain that’s started keeping track of his neat freak tendencies—and typing on his phone. Hearing me, he looks up, slips the phone into his pocket, and rises to his feet.
“Sorry about that,” he says before I can get a word out. “My PR team should’ve been on top of it. Or rather, I should’ve been. They could’ve squashed this if I’d let them know I saw a couple of phones pointed at us yesterday.”
“They—you did?” All my calm goes out the window. “Is this a thing that happens a lot? I mean, the picture and the article and—”
“No, because my team is on top of it. Usually.”
“Uh-huh, okay. And you need a PR team because…?”
He sighs. “Because, unfortunately, the media is not always content to focus solely on my fund and our investments. I’m fairly high-profile in the business world, and every once in a while, some desperate-for-eyeballs reporter tries to make me into a figure that might be of interest to the general public.”
“Like one of New York’s most eligible bachelors?”
“Yes, exactly.” He grimaces. “That article is nothing but speculation, pure clickbait, and they know it. They didn’t even bother to mention that we amended the flight plan to fly to Daytona Beach instead of Orlando. Disney World, my ass.” He looks so disgusted that despite my ongoing freak-out, my lips twitch with amusement.
“So no Mickey ears for our nuptials?” I ask with as straight of a face as I can manage. “Because Kendall was really hoping to wear them as my maid of honor.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “In that case, I take it back. Disney and Mickey it is. Will you tell her the good news, or should I?”
“I think we should let The New York Herald do it. They have the inside scoop,” I say, and as he laughs, his lean cheeks creasing with those sexy grooves he’s got, I can’t help but join in, the worst of my panic easing.
So what if my picture is in the paper, and I’m dating “one of New York’s most eligible?”
It’s not like I didn’t know that Marcus is out of my league. He is, always has been, and this clickbait article changes nothing.
Besides, only Kendall knows who the “mystery redhead” is.
8
Emma
“So, how’s our mystery redhead?” Gramps says, walking into the kitchen, and I nearly spit out the coffee I was swishing around in my mouth. At the last second, I swallow it instead—and immediately break into a coughing fit because the hot liquid went down the wrong pipe.
“Gramps!” I choke out when I can speak. “Since when do you read The New York Herald?”
I was sure, dead certain, that my grandparents wouldn’t see that piece of insightful journalism. Because why would they? The Herald is basically a local gossip rag full of clickbait stories that make the whole “getting hitched at Disney World” bit seem like a deeply researched fact.
“Since I learned that the man my favorite granddaughter is dating makes headlines, and I set up Google alerts for his name,” Gramps says, as unflappable as ever. “What, you think the internet is the province of the young?”
“He read it to me first thing this morning,” Grandma chimes in from the kitchen island, where she’s chopping veggies with the precision of a food processor. “I told him not to tease you about it, but he couldn’t resist.”
“Couldn’t resist what?” Marcus asks, entering the kitchen. He had to take a work call a few minutes ago and thus missed all the fun.
“Mentioning the article,” Grandma explains as Marcus walks over to sit on a barstool next to me. “I told Ted to keep his mouth shut and not tease Emma, but he didn’t listen.”
Marcus grins. “I can’t blame him. Look at how prettily she’s blushing. Who could resist?” Leaning over, he wraps his arm around my shoulders and kisses my temple.
My face heats immediately. I was red because of my coughing fit, not Gramps’s teasing, but now that both of my grandparents are beaming at us, I’m blushing for real.
I’m going to kill Marcus before this trip is over. I really am.
“Would you like some coffee?” Grandma asks Marcus, graciously coming to my rescue. “We don’t have anything fancy, but—”
“Whatever you have would be great, thank you,” he says. “I’m in dire need of a caffeine fix, and I’m not picky.”
Grandma wipes her hands on a kitchen towel and walks over to the coffee maker to pour a cup of the same java I’m drinking—which is actually quite fancy. It’s some kind of special blend that Grandma orders straight from Colombia. Normally, she’s very proud of it, telling all and sundry about how and where the beans are grown, so why did she just try to—
