“Look, Em—”
“No. I’m done talking to you right now,” she cut me off.
Then she scooped up Munchkin and stormed off to the guest room, leaving me angry and horny and confused. Why the hell did I feel this way? Why couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut and let Em do her thing? Was I really so jealous over that dickbag from New York? Maybe our friends-with-benefits situation just wasn’t doing it for me any longer.
Maybe I needed something more.
Emzee didn’t come to bed that night. I lay there for a while, waiting, but finally accepted that she was staying in the other room. She’d been editing photos in there and ignoring me every time I poked my head in the door to attempt a conversation.
When I tried to sleep, I could only toss and turn.
Fuck this. I’m going to win her, I decided.
Regardless of what happened next, I wasn’t going down without a fight. I was a Malone, and when a Malone wanted something, they sure as hell got it.
Emzee would see. I was going to become the only man she had eyes for, in any room. I’d make sure that when we were together, she would be onmyarm, atmyside. Scum like Andrew Apellido wouldn’t even dare look at her while she was with me, and they certainly wouldn’t try to steal her away with their shitty business cards and false promises of helping her career.
I was going to make Emzee mine. Now and for always.
No matter the cost.
Emzee
Chapter 15
Days later, my anger at Ford had faded but still not completely dissipated.
Things between us were more or less civil, but there was a new distance that hadn’t been there before. Gone were the cozy, shared breakfasts with classic jazz playing softly in the background, and though we still had our evening walks with Munchkin—as safe as the neighborhood was, Ford refused to let me go by myself—they were no longer a chance for us to laugh and catch up with each other while strolling with casually linked arms.
Admittedly, it was mostly my fault. I was blatantly avoiding my husband. Working as much as possible, leaving in the morning before he woke up and getting home far past dinner time, communicating with him only when necessary and using one-word responses, going to bed early in the guest room where I’d set up camp for the foreseeable future.
I had assumed today would be exactly the same agonizing routine all over again. But when I got home from a DRM photoshoot early enough to take Munchkin for a pre-sundown walk, I found that the apartment was in the middle of a reformation.
The first thing that hit me was the smell. It was almost like a chemical, or—
“Careful,” Ford said, coming out of the bedroom with a leashed Munchkin in his arms. “I think the paint is still wet.”
I walked into the living room, gaping at the walls, which had been repainted a beautiful, muted shade of cool, grayish blue—exactly as I had suggested. It contrasted beautifully with the warm leather of the sofa and lightened up the entire room. And then I looked over at the mantel and let out a gasp at what I saw.
“It’s always been one of my favorites—I hope you like it hung up there,” Ford said.
Hanging over the fireplace was a huge, blown-up copy of a photo that I had taken years ago on a spring break trip to Serbia, where the Zoric family originally emigrated from.
“Subotica, right?” Ford asked. “I thought it would be cool to have something Serbian around here to look at. So you can have your own stamp on things.”
The city of Subotica was known for its swooping, fairy tale-esque architecture and soft pastel-colored buildings, city halls, and churches. I had adored the place even before stepping off the train with Emiko, one of my art school friends, and we had both taken tons of pictures—especially of the Raichle Palace, a gorgeous Art Nouveau confection of arched windows, lacy iron balconies, mosaic tiles, and peachy pink and cobalt façades. It had been converted into an art gallery, and I spent an entire day wandering around by myself in there. I was way more interested in snapping photos of the architecture than in paying attention to any of the art.
Afterward, I’d dragged my exhausted self to meet back up with Emiko at Boss Caffe. We got a table on the outdoor patio under a shady canopy of trees and gorged ourselves on steaks with gorgonzola sauce and a sampling of desserts—pistachio cake, baklava with pear sorbet, a decadent chocolate torte, and šomloi galuška. It had been a perfect, unforgettable day.
“Was it not a good choice?” Ford asked, startling me out of my memories. He sounded concerned. “I can put something else up if you want—”
“No, no. It’s perfect,” I murmured, still choked up. “I love it.”
“Great. I made a few other changes, too,” Ford said. “Come see.”
He handed Munchkin to me and I followed him as he pointed out the now floral-less bathroom, the tossed-out gold pillows, the general removal of all things overtly Claudia.
As we turned the corner into the den, I braced myself for facetime with the painting I hated so much, but to my shock, it was gone.
