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“I’m so sorry, dear, but the buyer really wants to close on it before the holidays. Of course, if you need more time, I can see if they’d be willing to wait, but—”
“Oh, no, it’s fine, Mrs. Metz. I was actually going to call you next week to tell you the good news.” I take a breath. “It’s official. Marcus and I are moving in together.”
She squeals like a young girl, and I grin despite the tightness in my chest. Maybe it’s the new clothes and the great haircut, or just the buildup of feel-good hormones from all the orgasms this week, but the panic that first gripped me at the thought of giving up my place is now only a mild anxiety. I like living with Marcus—love it, in fact—and it’s not hard for me to imagine this week’s trial run extending into a more permanent arrangement, partially because Marcus acts like that’s already a given, right down to inviting my grandparents to stay at “our place” when they visit us in New York. My grandmother was beyond gleeful when she told me about that part of their chat the other day.
For someone whose career is all about analyzing risk and reward, my billionaire seems to possess zero caution.
Mrs. Metz hangs up after I promise to have my stuff out of the apartment within two weeks, and I consider what to do next. I could accelerate my (admittedly sluggish so far) search for an apartment, just in case, but unless I luck into a convenient sublet, I’ll have to sign a twelve-month lease—a total waste if things continue as they are. Another alternative is to rent a storage unit and put all of my furniture in there; it’ll be cheaper than getting a lease, and if at least a few of the pieces survive the move, I won’t be starting from scratch in case I do have to get an apartment later. Or—and this is the option that both excites and scares me the most—I can throw my own caution to the wind and get rid of my old furniture, trusting that Marcus and I will make it work.
39
Emma
I’m still pondering the dilemma the next morning, when Marcus and I meet Kendall for brunch in the West Village—at a popular, very pricey place Marcus chose, which means I’m going to have to let him pay. I thought about arguing for a cheaper alternative, since he already paid for one dinner out this week, but my heart wasn’t in it and I let it slide. Besides, Kendall just about had a stroke when she heard that Marcus got us a Saturday brunch reservation at the place.
Apparently, it’s a celebrity hotspot, and for non-billionaire mortals, there’s an eighteen-month wait for even the least popular weekday time slot.
As we approach the restaurant, a man jumps out in front of us, fancy camera in hand, and snaps a picture, then scurries away before either of us can blink.
“Hold on,” Marcus says, pulling out his phone. “I’ll get my PR team on it. They’ll squash it.”
“Was that a paparazzi?” I ask incredulously.
“Looked like it,” Marcus says, glancing up from his screen. “They tend to hang around this place. But don’t worry; my team will keep us out of the gossip rags. They’re mostly after actual celebrities, anyway.”
“Right, okay.” A paparazzi, for real? How is this my life? Before I can ask Marcus how exactly his PR team does their magic, his phone pings, and he turns his attention back to the screen.
“Ashton just texted to invite us out for lunch,” he says, looking up. “Do you mind if he joins us here?”
“Of course I don’t mind, and I’m sure Kendall won’t either.” My bestie’s always game to meet good-looking men. “Do you think he’ll get here in time?”
Marcus grins down at me. “He lives a block away, so I assume so.”
“Okay, then.” I give my nicely styled hair a shake as he opens the restaurant door for me. I can’t wait to see what Kendall says about my new haircut and clothes. In a typical male fashion, Marcus didn’t notice anything about my hair when I came home yesterday, only commenting at dinner that I “look very pretty”—though he did compliment my new outfit this morning.
And hey, at least he noticed that I looked pretty, even if he didn’t realize why.
We’re a few minutes early, but Kendall is already waiting for us at the table in the back, shamelessly gawking at the other patrons. I look around as well, and to my surprise, recognize a few people. The two women in the corner are popular reality TV stars, the guy by the counter is a big-name actor, and if I’m not mistaken, the pretty blond man next to a beefy middle-aged guy is a famous male model. A couple of other faces are familiar as well, but I can’t place them. Either way, almost everyone here looks like they’ve stepped out of the pages of Vogue and GQ, the waitstaff included. The restaurant must hire them based on their style and looks.
