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36
Emma
By the time I get home from work that day, the movers have already brought all of my things, and Geoffrey has unpacked them. My clothes, all washed, ironed, and de-haired, are hanging in Marcus’s closet; my books, including the first editions he gifted me, are arranged on the bookshelves in the library; and my cat maze is standing next to the glass wall of the pool room, strategically hidden behind the lush green plants that shield it from view. My cats, never ones to miss an opportunity to climb, are already all over the maze—and the tall plants surrounding it. In fact, Queen Elizabeth is sitting on top of one especially sturdy fiddle-leaf fig as if it were an oak tree.
Hopefully, she won’t try to eat the leaves. My pets don’t usually attack plants, but there’s always a first time.
Marcus is still at work—he texted me that a meeting is running late—so I walk around the apartment, taking in my new residence. A part of me still can’t believe this is happening, that we’ve come so far so soon. Last Wednesday, exactly a week ago, I’d been on my way to Florida, my heart in pieces, and now I’m in Marcus’s penthouse, having just agreed to live here on a trial basis.
If that’s not embracing change, I don’t know what is.
There are still a million and one things that could go wrong, a hundred ways we could turn out to be incompatible, but the flame of hope he lit in my heart that night in Florida is growing stronger, brighter. Maybe, against all odds, this will work out.
Maybe someday, he’ll even return my love.
The woman I love. He said it so casually yesterday, as if it’s not my wildest dream to be that woman. Not because of the luxuries he’s so eager to provide, but because of him.
The more I get to know my Wall Street titan, the tighter his grip is on my heart.
He spoke to my grandparents this morning. I know because they called me during lunch. He wanted to thank my grandmother for a wonderful weekend and to see how my grandfather was doing with the trading software Marcus had installed for him. He also offered my grandparents free use of his plane, so they can visit us in New York anytime they want, and he promised to bring me to Florida to see them soon.
That he took the time out of his busy day is impressive enough, but what other man would’ve even thought of calling my family? Or offered to do favors for my friends?
Marcus Carelli is one in a billion, and it’s not because of the billions he’s made.
If there was any doubt in my mind that I did the right thing by agreeing to this trial run, it’s dissipating quickly.
I want to do whatever it takes to make this work.
I want to be the kind of woman Marcus could love.
37
Marcus
When I get home from work, the dining table is set with candles, and a bottle of champagne is chilling in ice.
“I asked Geoffrey to do this,” Emma says, coming down the stairs toward me. “I hope you don’t mind. Since it’s our first official day of living together, I wanted tonight’s dinner to be extra special.”
“Of course I don’t mind.” In fact, my chest fills with a warm, soft glow, the tiredness from the long workday fading as she comes up to me, rises on tiptoes, and plants the sweetest, most sensual kiss onto my lips.
My cock hardens immediately, but I resist the urge to drag her off to bed. It’s nearly eight, and if my kitten waited for me, she must be as starved as I am. Besides, I want to have this “extra special” dinner with her, to see her dimpled smile as we talk about our day.
When we sit down, Geoffrey appears out of the kitchen and makes a production out of uncorking the champagne and pouring us each a glass.
“Thank you. You’re amazing,” she tells him, her gray eyes sparkling and her dimples out in full force, and I watch in amusement as my always-composed butler flushes with pleasure before mumbling his thanks and backing away.
Like my investors, he can’t help responding to Emma’s unconscious charm, to that genuine, seductive warmth that’s lured me to her from the start.
“To you, kitten,” I say, lifting my glass when he disappears back into the kitchen. “And to a successful trial run.”
“Yes, to a successful trial run,” Emma says, clinking her glass against mine. “And to new beginnings.”
“To new beginnings,” I echo, and take a sip of the perfectly crisp, fizzy drink.
A minute later, Geoffrey brings out red-wine-braised short ribs, and we eagerly dive in. At first, we’re too busy eating to talk about anything except how good the food is, but after a few minutes, the first fullness signals reach my brain, and I ask Emma if she decided whether she wants to see her friend and her banker boyfriend.
