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“Oh, awesome!” She hugs me again, enveloping me in a cloud of perfume—fragrance tolerance being yet another thing about her that’s apparently changed—and says, “I have to run now, but I’ll call you soon and we’ll set something up, okay?”
“Sounds good,” I say and watch her rush out of the bathroom, her sexy red-soled pumps clicking loudly on the tile floor. When she’s gone, I turn back to the mirror, fix my fluffed-by-the-hug curls the best I can, and exit the bathroom after her.
30
Emma
When I return to the table, Marcus is talking about his fund’s latest strategies and everyone is attentively listening, so I quietly slip into my seat next to him and spread my napkin over my lap. The encounter with Janie distracted me from my Emmeline-induced angst, but now that I’m back here, I’m thinking about it again—which is why it takes me a minute to notice that I’m the recipient of all sorts of covert glances.
Even as the men are listening to Marcus talk about the fund’s returns, they’re eyeing me with expressions ranging from confusion (Ashton) to amusement (the Gyles brothers) to cynicism (Weston Long) to a peculiar mixture of the above (the rest).
Did something happen, or did I commit some faux pas by going to the bathroom when I did?
“Excuse me, gentlemen—and lady.” The waiter must not have spotted me at first, because the last bit is hastily tacked on. “Are you ready to order, or would you like a few more minutes?”
Marcus looks up at him. “I think we’re ready. Unless—” He glances at me. “Emma, would you like a few more minutes?”
“I’m good.” I smile widely to hide my nervousness. “Please start with someone else, and I’ll decide by the time it’s my turn.” I hope. I still have no clue what half of these words on the menu mean.
Marcus seems to discern my dilemma because as the waiter starts taking everyone’s orders, he leans over and murmurs into my ear, “Would you like me to order for you, kitten?”
“Yes, please,” I whisper back. “Nothing too exotic, okay? I don’t want snails.”
He grins. “You got it.”
When the waiter comes to us, he orders a Canette Sainte-Baume for himself and Coquilles St. Jacque for me, with Céléri rémoulade au crabe appetizer for us to share. I again wonder about the lack of prices on the menu, but decide it’s for the best. The cost of this appetizer alone might exceed my weekly grocery budget, so why stress myself unnecessarily?
I’d rather not know how much Marcus is shelling out for this outing—though if it’s a business expense, it might be tax-deductible.
“So, Emma,” Ashton says when the waiter leaves, and Grigori distracts Marcus by asking about his views on tech start-ups in China. “What do you do, and how long have you and Marcus been seeing each other?” As he speaks, he watches me intently, like I’m a puzzle he needs to figure out.
Is that because of the Emmeline thing?
Is he surprised that Marcus has been seeing us both?
Pushing the stomach-churning thought out of my head, I pick up my wineglass and take a sip. “I work at a bookstore, and we met about a month ago. What about you? Marcus said you’ve known each other since business school?”
“That’s right.” Ashton seems to shake off whatever was causing his confusion and gives me another one of his stunning smiles. “We were assigned to be partners on a project in Corporate Finance. As you’d expect, Marcus completely took over, and before I knew it, he had the whole thing done. I barely had to lift a finger—not that I wanted to. It was soon after that class that I figured out all that MBA bullshit’s not for me and dropped out.”
My interest level spikes. “Really? You dropped out of business school?” That’s the last thing I would’ve expected from a man as successful as this. Not that there aren’t plenty of examples of high achievers dropping out of college—Bill Gates and Steve Jobs immediately come to mind—but business school is different. In my experience, people working on their MBAs tend to be more like Marcus: ambitious and laser-focused. They know what they want out of life, and the MBA is a stepping stone to get them there. Unless… “Was that because your business was starting to take off?”
Ashton laughs. “Hardly. I had no business at the time, and I didn’t want one. Still don’t, but what are you going to do?” He sighs and drains his wine in a few long swallows. Setting the glass down, he says, “You know how some people fuck up everything they touch?”
“Uh-huh.” Is he saying the fitness empire he’s building is a fuck-up on his part?
“Well, that’s me in reverse. The Vancroft Midas touch turned out to be a genetic affliction. All I wanted was to be a personal trainer, get my clients healthy and fit. But then this happened.” He waves a hand with such a disgusted look that a laugh bubbles up my throat.
