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He may not want the money, but he’s got it, so he might as well invest with me.
“Sorry, man,” he says in a low voice when Emma disappears behind a column and the others at the table politely resume their conversations. “The whole Emma-Emmeline thing totally threw me. It was Emmeline my aunt’s matchmaker friend set you up with, right? I didn’t misremember her name?”
I force my tightly clenched hand to uncurl. “No, you didn’t. And it’s my bad. I should’ve filled you in.” And I would’ve, if I’d remembered. But my mind has been so occupied with all things Emma lately, it’s a wonder I didn’t forget about this dinner altogether. “We’ll talk more about it later,” I continue, my voice low and even. I don’t need everyone here in my business. “For now, forget about Emmeline and never mention her again.”
“You got it.” Amusement glimmers in Ashton’s blue-gray eyes as he picks up his wine glass. “I take it things are going well with you and the new Emma?”
Fucker. “She’s the only Emma, and yes, I’m going to marry her.”
He freezes, the wineglass halfway to his face. “You’re joking, right?”
“Do I look like I’m fucking joking?”
“Did I hear something about marriage?” James cuts in from across the table, his beady eyes gleaming with poorly concealed excitement as he leans forward. “Carelli, are congratulations in order here? Was The Herald right for once? Jack and I were skeptical when we saw that article, but she’s the mystery redhead, isn’t she?”
Fuck. This is much too soon for this. I haven’t even convinced Emma to move in with me, much less gotten her to reciprocate my feelings, and the Gyles brothers are notorious gossips, for all that they’re as private about their own dealings as can be.
James Gyles must have the hearing of a hunting dog because there’s no way he should’ve overheard my private conversation with Ashton.
“I haven’t proposed yet, so keep it on the down low,” I warn, even though it’s futile. By tomorrow, everyone in our social circle will know about my upcoming nuptials, and short of murdering some very prominent individuals, there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
At my words, all conversations at the table come to a halt, and Jack Gyles claps his hands, looking just as excited as his brother. “A secret proposal, how fun! Where are you planning to do it? Not Disney World, I’m sure.”
I clench my molars. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“So you’re not joking.” Ashton finally recovers enough to put down his glass. “You’re getting hitched. To the new Emma.”
I glare at him, fighting a renewed urge to slug him. “Yes. To the one and only Emma.”
“That’s wonderful news. Congratulations, Marcus,” Bob Johnson says, as polite and reserved as always.
“Yes, congratulations,” Weston and Grigori echo, though there’s a definite cynical edge to Weston’s smile.
Sure enough, a moment later, the real estate mogul leans toward me and says quietly, “Do let me know if you need a good attorney. I know someone who specializes in ironclad prenuptial agreements.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.” With Emma, I’d have to go to court to force her to take some of my money in a divorce—not that there will ever be a divorce.
There’s no way I’m letting my kitten go once we’re married.
“To the beautiful young couple,” James says, lifting his wineglass with a Cheshire cat smile. “May your union prove long and fruitful.”
“Yes, to Carelli and his bride,” his brother jumps in, lifting his own glass, and everyone at the table—even Ashton, who’s still looking at me like I lost my mind—follows his example, congratulating me on my upcoming marriage with a toast.
29
Emma
Do not jump to conclusions. Do not jump to conclusions.
I repeat the words like a mantra as I wash my hands and dry them on the cloth-like paper towel provided in the luxurious restaurant bathroom. Despite the bit of blush I applied to my cheeks at Marcus’s place, my face looks much too pale in the mirror, my freckles starkly visible. As determined as I am not to jump to conclusions, I can’t ignore the fact that the conclusions aren’t good.
Men are dogs, Kendall told me before my second date with Marcus, and I know she spoke from experience. Unlike me, she’s dated all sorts of guys, rich and poor, handsome and plain. And she’s been cheated on, more than once. Whereas I’ve only had two boyfriends before Marcus, and both of them had been too nerdy and socially awkward to so much as think about running around on me.
They’d been safe, if only because no other girl wanted them.
Marcus, on the other hand, is catnip for the female population. I know it, I see it in the covetous gazes that follow him each time we’re out in public. His looks, that aura of power he projects—he wouldn’t even need to smile at a woman for her panties to drop like an elevator with severed cables. And that’s without her knowing he’s a billionaire.
