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It’s the I-could-buy-a-small-country-with-spare-change look, and they have it in spades.
Smiling as brightly as I can, I nod and repeat all the names as Marcus says them, so I can better remember them. It helps that he told me who these people are ahead of time, and I did a Google search on them. I’m a highly visual learner, which means it’s easier for me to retain information I’ve seen written down—or written out in my phone’s search bar.
Finally, the introductions are made, and as the men resume their conversations from earlier, I gratefully shift my focus to the menu lying in front of me. Unfortunately, it’s all in French, or at least half the words are, because I have no idea what most of the dishes are. Well, I do know what escargot is, and I intend to avoid it.
I’ve never tried snails before, and I’d rather do it when my stomach isn’t so unsettled.
Also, there are no prices next to any of the items on the menu. Is that normal? Does that mean this is something like an all-inclusive buffet, or are the prices so high they left them off so as not to spoil people’s appetites?
A big, warm hand covers my knee under the table, and I look up to find Marcus watching me. Leaning in, he asks softly, “How are you, kitten? Did you have any trouble getting here?”
My cheeks grow warm, though I doubt anyone heard Marcus’s endearment. “No, no trouble,” I murmur, acutely cognizant of all the curious eyes covertly watching us. I half-expected Marcus to ignore me after the introductions—after all, he’s here to schmooze with his investors—but that’s not what seems to be happening.
Though he didn’t introduce me as his girlfriend, the possessive way he’s leaning over me proclaims it as loudly as if he’d pinned a label to my chest.
“So, Emma, you’re visiting us from Boston, right?” a smooth male voice says from my left, and I turn to face Ashton.
“Boston? No, I’m afraid not.” Where did he get that from?
“Oh.” He frowns. “I could’ve sworn—”
“You’re thinking of someone else,” Marcus says, his tone hardening. “Emma is from Brooklyn, born and raised.”
Ashton’s face clears. “Never mind then. I thought for a moment—but yes, the last name is different too. So you’re a native New Yorker, Emma?”
I force myself to smile and nod. “Yes, indeed. How about yourself?” To my relief, my voice comes out normal and steady, unaffected by the sudden tightness in my chest.
There’s only one reason why Marcus’s friend would think I’m someone else.
He’s got me confused with Emmeline—which means Marcus spoke to him about her, but didn’t mention me.
“I actually am from Boston, or at least my family is,” Ashton says, giving me another one of his dazzling smiles. Only this time, I don’t feel even the tiniest bit dazzled, the tightness in my chest transforming into a stabbing ache. I don’t want my mind going down that path, but I can’t help it. It’s impossible to ignore the implications of Ashton’s mistake.
At some point in the not-too-distant past, Marcus had been serious enough about Emmeline to talk about her to his friend, to tell him her full name and where she lived.
Does that mean he lied to me? Had there been more than that one dinner date between him and Emmeline? Was he seeing her even as he was pursuing me? Is that why Ashton knows so much about her but nothing about me?
Could he be seeing her still?
“Excuse me,” I say tightly, pushing back my chair as I stand up. “I’ll be right back.”
And before anyone can stop me, I run to the bathroom in the back.
28
Marcus
Fuck. Only my investors’ presence at the table keeps me from running after Emma—and rearranging Ashton’s model-perfect features with my fist.
I’m a total fucking idiot, and so is he. I completely forgot I mentioned Emmeline to him when we hung out at the bar that time, and now Emma is thinking God knows what.
I want to go after her and explain that Ashton only knows about Emmeline because he’s the one who introduced me to the matchmaker, but if I get up now, it will look like we’re embroiled in some kind of domestic drama—that or stealing away for a covert bathroom fuck. Either way, my shy kitten would feel embarrassed, and that’s the last thing I want.
My best bet is to let her calm down and return to the table, and then explain the whole thing later. Hopefully, she won’t hold this stupidity against me. Ashton wasn’t even supposed to be at this dinner originally. He’s not an investor with my fund—at least not yet. But he emailed me over the weekend, wanting to meet up to discuss how to deal with all the cash his rapidly growing business is bringing in, and I decided to invite him to this event.
