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Knowing him, I’d wake up on Monday with all my things already in his penthouse.
A smile curves his lips. “I see. Well, you’ll be back before long. Sunday afternoon is your flight, right?”
“Yep. Speaking of which…” I squint against the glare of the sun. “How did you know what time my flight was yesterday? Did my landlady tell you?”
A strange expression crosses his face. It’s gone so quickly, though, I might’ve just imagined it. “Yes,” he says without missing a beat. “I came to your apartment to talk to you, and she told me you’d left for the airport.”
“Oh, okay. That makes sense.” I grin up at him. “Ready for another swim?”
11
Marcus
I give Emma a dozen chances to come clean for the rest of our time on the beach and as we drive back to her grandparents’ house, but she says nothing about the news she received. Or at least I’m hoping she received; it’s possible Clara Metz didn’t take the bait, though the realtor I sent to talk to her this morning said Emma’s landlady definitely seemed intrigued.
But no.
My little redhead looked upset when she got off the phone—far more than warranted by the brief separation from her cats.
I feel bad about causing her distress, but I see no other choice. I have to get Emma to move in with me, and what better way than getting her to move, period? Besides, even if I hadn’t sent the realtor to enlighten Emma’s landlady as to the rising property values in her neighborhood, Metz would’ve caught on eventually and told Emma to move out so she could spruce up the place and take advantage of the seller’s market.
I’m merely expediting the inevitable.
The idea occurred to me this morning, while Emma slept, and I wasted no time implementing it. When I asked her to move in with me at JFK, I told her she could keep her studio if she wanted, but I’ve since changed my mind. Not only does my kitten need a major push to overcome her hesitations about us, but once I actually get her into my place, I don’t want her to be able to leave on a whim. So this is the strategy I’ve settled on: get a realtor to speak to Clara Metz and encourage her to put the townhouse up for sale, so Emma would have no choice but to move. If need be, I can go further and actually buy the townhouse myself, but this is better… subtler. I don’t want Emma to discover my involvement in this—just as I don’t want her to know about the private investigator I hired to get me all the information on her, including her flight number.
It’s best if she remains in the dark on this.
It would scare her to realize the lengths to which I’d go to make her mine.
* * *
When we get back to the house, we shower off the sand and change. Since we still have a half hour before dinner, I’m tempted to grab Emma for a quickie, but she slips out of the room to help her grandmother before I get the chance.
I decide to use the time to fire off a few more work emails instead—during my shower, I had some thoughts on how we can take advantage of tariff-induced stock market volatility—and by the time I’m done, it’s five o’clock and the table in the dining room is all set and ready. There is a plump, golden-skinned turkey laid out on a silver serving dish, and about a million sides surrounding it, each more delicious-smelling than the next.
Inhaling appreciatively, I tell Mary how excited I am to try everything, and Emma beams at me as her grandmother flushes with pleasure and her grandfather puffs up with pride—probably because he’d had the good sense to choose such a great wife way back when.
We sit down to eat, and as the meal progresses, I realize that this Thanksgiving dinner is the kind I’ve seen on TV but have never experienced myself. Everything about it, from the homemade food to the genuine warmth between Emma and her grandparents, makes me feel like I’ve been dropped into a Hallmark movie. Each recipe seems to have a story behind it, with many having been passed on to Emma’s grandmother by her grandmother, and the conversation at the table revolves around that, as well as the latest happenings in Emma’s and her grandparents’ lives.
It’s nothing like the tense, awkward holiday meals during my childhood—on the few rare occasions when my mother was sober enough to remember what time of the year it was and had enough cash to buy Chinese takeout, that is.
As if picking up on my bitter memories, Mary sets down her fork and turns her attention to me. “Marcus, you mentioned that your parents passed away when you were young,” she says, her gaze warmly sympathetic on my face. “How old were you when that happened?”
