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If Emma gave me the green light, I’d have her pregnant in a heartbeat.
She hasn’t given the green light, though, far from it, so I’ve been extra careful about condoms since our last slip-up. Though neither of the two morning-after pills she’d taken made her sick, I read up on the potential side effects, and I don’t want her to have to take another one. Instead, I’ve been looking into safe, effective forms of birth control that rely less on my willpower in the heat of the moment.
As much as I’d like a baby with Emma, it’s her body and her decision. My task is to convince her that I’m the “right person,” to prove to her that I’ll be a good husband and father—that she can trust me never to walk away or prioritize anything over her again.
To that end, though Monday is the Alpha Zone conference, I wrap up my Friday workday early—at five, a mere hour after market close—and decide to surprise Emma at her job. She’s working extended hours this week because of the holiday season, and I still haven’t seen her bookstore, though she’s told me quite a few humorous stories about their quirky regulars and her forever-dieting boss.
It’s well past six by the time I get to Brooklyn, the extra-heavy traffic defeating even Wilson’s navigational abilities. The bookstore is tucked away on a quiet street in the Prospect Heights neighborhood, and the brass bell over the door rings as I push open the door and walk in. Inside, the place smells like coffee and printed paper, with the crisp scent of new volumes mixing in with the mustier odor coming from older editions. I inhale it all appreciatively. Though most of my reading these days takes place on a screen, I really do love paper books.
Emma is not at the register up front—no one is manning that, in fact—so I walk through the rows of bookshelves looking for her. A few customers are leisurely browsing in the various sections, but she’s nowhere to be found—that is, until I get to the small sitting area in the back.
I hear the voices before I see them. Emma’s peal of laughter mixes with a man’s deeper tones, and my pulse shoots up even before I step around the corner and see them.
Emma and a young blond guy with glasses are sitting in adjacent armchairs, looking at the sheets of paper spread out on the coffee table in front of them, their heads so close together they’re almost touching.
My blood pressure goes through the roof, a red mist veiling my vision as I take in the dimpled smile on Emma’s face—and the answering flush on the guy’s fair skin. His foot is tapping nervously on the floor, as if he’s trying to psych himself up for something, and there’s a definite tenting in the crotch of his khaki pants.
A hard-on.
He’s got a fucking hard-on.
I’m so enraged I can’t move—because if I do, I might kill him with my bare hands.
“So, yes, I think the opening fight scene is great, but right here”—Emma picks up one of the papers—“is too much exposition, especially for the first chapter. It’s important not to overwhelm the reader with an info dump; you want to ease them into your world rather than throwing them in head first.”
“Right.” The guy’s Adam’s apple bobs as he leans in another inch and surreptitiously sniffs the air, as if smelling her hair. “I’ll-I’ll take it out. Also, I wanted to ask you…” He waits until Emma glances at him. “Do you have any plans tonight?”
My rage-induced paralysis disappears with a violent spike of fury. “Yes. She does.” My voice cracks through the air like a whip, and as the two of them spring apart, their heads snapping up in that guilty way of startled people, it’s all I can do to remain still instead of smashing my fist into the guy’s now-colorless face.
I can’t give in to the violence swirling inside me, not when my rival is a full head shorter and half my size.
What I can do, though, is make it crystal clear to whom Emma belongs. As she jumps to her feet with a surprised, “Marcus! What are you doing here?” I stride over and throw my arm around her shoulders, tucking her small, curvy body against my side.
“My girlfriend is spending the evening with me.” My tone is knife sharp as I glower at her companion—who’s now prudently backing away. “And every other evening in the future.”
“Marcus!” Emma sounds shocked, but really, she should be grateful I’m just being rude instead of pounding the guy into the floor, as every territorial instinct in me is screaming to do.
The asshole was asking Emma out.
My Emma.
And he had a fucking hard-on.
“I’m-I’m sorry,” the guy stutters out, looking like he wants to disappear on the spot. “I d-didn’t know she—that is… I have to go.”
