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Finally, there’s the plane itself. I’ve seen private jets in movies, but the obscene luxury of this mode of transportation didn’t fully register in my mind until I saw it in real life.
Marcus’s plane is huge. Smaller than a commercial airliner, obviously, but big enough to fit a dozen plush leather seats, a couch with a long coffee table in front of it, and a bedroom in the back. Yes, a freaking bedroom on a plane. Everything is decorated in shades of tan and cream, with natural wood accents, and looks so invitingly comfy that I plop onto the couch as soon as the initial ascent is over, just to test it out.
“Like it?” Marcus looks up from his seat, where he’s working on his laptop, and I kick off my flip-flops to stretch out on the soft leather surface. Soon, I’ll need to change into my winter clothes, but for now, I’m still in Florida mode.
“It’s not bad,” I concede, turning onto my side to face him. “I mean, it’s not as nice as a middle seat in Economy, but it’s got its charms.”
Marcus grins. “I’m glad to hear that. I was starting to feel bad for depriving you of that wonderful middle-seat experience.”
I sigh and turn over onto my back to stare at the ceiling, some of my euphoria fading. “You should feel bad. I can’t pay you for this, you know.” All of my savings combined won’t be enough to cover this private flight.
“Pay me for what? Having you here isn’t costing me a single extra penny. I would’ve flown home this way regardless; if anything, you’re doing me a favor by keeping me company.”
It’s the same rationale he used to get me on the boat, and though I see it now for the manipulative ploy it was, I can’t help wanting to believe it, to buy into the eminent reasonableness of his words. Kendall was right when she accused me of being putty in his hands. I am—because deep inside, I want the same things he does.
I’m losing these battles because when I’m fighting him, I’m fighting myself as well.
“Emma, kitten.” I hear him get up, and a moment later, the couch next to me dips as he sits down, placing a hand on the back of the couch to cage me underneath his powerful arm. Despite the dominating posture, his expression is warm and tender as he gazes down at me. “Listen to me,” he says softly. “I’m rich, okay? Filthy rich. The kind of rich they scream about on the news. I got there through sleepless nights and hundred-hour workweeks, through taking massive risks and living with the consequences, good or bad. Yes, there was luck involved—there always is—but mostly, it was nonstop work. And now I want to enjoy the wealth I’ve earned, reap the rewards of my hard labor. But I can’t if the woman I’m with refuses to partake with me.” Gently, he brushes a stray curl off my face. “I know it’s hard for you, kitten. I understand where you’re coming from, believe me. But please, can you try? For me? Let me worry about the costs of things when we’re together. Let me pay for the luxuries I enjoy.”
I bite my lip. “Marcus, I—”
“Please, Emma.” He lays his hand on my arm. “Indulge me in this one small thing. I’m not asking you to forget your principles. If you wish to pay for yourself when we go out to a restaurant of your choosing, do so, by all means. But also let me take you out to the restaurants you wouldn’t choose, the ones where the chef presents you with a single berry for dessert.”
An involuntary smile tugs at my lips. “A single berry?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s ridiculous what those high-end chefs will deem the height of culinary art.” Despite his lighthearted words, his expression remains serious, his eyes intent on mine, and I know he won’t relent on this. I can feel his iron will beating at me, like a hurricane battering the coast, and I can feel myself bending under the force of it. This is important to him, and as much as I’d like to pretend we can go on as we have, I know better.
Whether I like it or not, I’m dating a billionaire, and I can’t expect him to live according to my budget.
Scooting toward the head of the couch, I sit up, so I don’t feel at such a disadvantage lying down. Not that I’m at any less of a disadvantage being vertical with Marcus, but it’s the feeling that counts.
“You’re right,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “It’s not fair of me to ask you to eat at Papa Mario’s all the time, or to expect you to stay at a Holiday Inn on vacation because that’s all I can afford. You’ve earned your money, and you should be able to enjoy it, whether you happen to be by yourself or with me. But if we’re to do this, we need to lay some ground rules.”
