9. Emzee
EMZEECHAPTER 9
S neaking myself and Munchkin in and out of my apartment building had become an elaborate operation, the likes of which would have probably impressed the KGB.
Once we even spent the night at the lookingglass offices, but unfortunately all the couches there were designed for appearance, not comfort.
Munchkin slept just fine in the dog bed that I kept under my desk, but I wasn’t so fortunate.
Waking up at dawn with an aching back and a sore neck to hurriedly change and brush my teeth in the bathroom down the hall had made me feel like some sort of criminal.
It wasn’t something I’d be repeating again.
Plus, I liked my apartment.
I didn’t want to have to sleep at work.
I wanted to be in my own home.
But everywhere I turned, there Ford was.
Holding the elevator for me, leaving flowers and dog treats on the mat outside my door, doing work on his laptop in the building’s lobby while overseeing some much-needed repairs, like the cracks in the marble floor tiles—which I had to admit now looked great.
He just kept on schmoozing me, using all of the patience and romance I’d spent years yearning for.
What an irony; now that I was finally getting Ford’s full attention, I needed it to stop.
To make matters even worse, the pregnancy was wreaking havoc with my hormones.
Which meant I was super horny all the time.
Which was obnoxious and unhelpful.
I was still completely taken aback by the whole situation.
What the hell was he trying to pull?
Why wouldn’t he just accept that we were over, sign the damn papers, and leave me alone?
But I knew why. It was because Ford Malone had never walked away from something he wanted.
And he wanted me.
I had to stay strong.
I told myself he didn’t even really want me, he just didn’t want to lose me.
He didn’t want to lose, period.
Even if we did get back together, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t get bored after a while and decide to go through with the divorce as planned.
At which point I’d be in the same boat I was in now, except that I would have totally fucked my opportunity to have the senior Malones pay off the Bratva.
Not a gamble I was willing to take.
Having him in the same building was risky enough.
Five minutes alone with him and I’d almost lost control of myself, almost threw myself at him with no regard for the consequences.
The only thing I could do to make sure I kept up my end of the deal with the Malones was to stay as far away from Ford as possible.
It had been so hard to resist him, and I wasn’t sure that I’d be able to a second time if it happened again.
Because despite everything, I still wanted him.
He was who I thought of at night, in the shower, when I got lost in a daydream at work.
Ford Malone. Years of pining for him had left a permanent scar on my heart, a default desire for him that I just couldn’t shake.
It was maddening.
Which meant that I had to avoid him at all costs.
Unfortunately, the fact that he now owned and lived in my building made that extremely difficult.
He would offer to walk Munchkin, or even take him for the entire day so I didn’t have to keep taking him to work.
I refused, of course, but he just kept asking.
There were times I’d answer a knock on my door after a late night at work to find that Ford had ordered takeout for me, or arranged to have groceries delivered.
It was all very sweet, and also very infuriating.
I had thought, at least, that work would be my refuge—and it was, at first. Mainly because I had alerted all the security guards to his presence and made it clear that he wasn’t to be allowed into the building under any circumstances, and to call the police if he walked in.
So Ford stayed away from the office.
I was safe at last.
Until he found a way around my imposed ban.
It didn’t take long for him to figure out a loophole, and it involved an endless stream of packages to my desk.
Exotic floral arrangements, pastel-colored macarons from Ladurée, gourmet catered lunches and various ridiculous gift baskets for the whole office.
He even arranged for a barbershop quartet to show up one day and serenade us.
I became not just a running office joke, but a target of my coworkers’ envy.
But as the beneficiaries of Ford’s deliveries, they all soon became frequent visitors to my desk.
I gave away everything he sent, and people were thrilled to take cashmere sweaters and Diptyque candles and MarieBelle chocolates home with them.
They were sympathetic to my plight, initially.
They’d cluck understandingly when another unwelcome package arrived and share in my frustration when I told them I just wanted to be left alone.
They seemed to understand how annoying and disruptive Ford’s constant attempts to get my attention were.
But since they all got to freely indulge in the constant barrage of luxurious gifts while I was self-righteously and steadfastly refusing them, it wasn’t long before he’d managed to build up a pretty supportive chorus around the water cooler.
A few of my colleagues even asked if I was perhaps overreacting to whatever Ford had done.
“Clearly he’s really sorry,” Natasha from the IT desk had told me one day.
“A man working so hard for forgiveness should be heard out, at least?”
It was total bullshit.
They were my coworkers, and Ford had managed to win all of them over to his side, all without setting foot in the office.
It was typical. He’d never met a woman he couldn’t charm, and now I was surrounded by colleagues who had joined forces to support his cause: getting me to forgive him.
I knew if I told them what had really happened, about the lies Ford had told and the years of trauma he had caused me, they might think twice about taking his side.
But all I’d shared was that I was trying to divorce him.
I’d even used the standard term—taken directly from my divorce papers— irreconcilable differences .
I had no desire to explain the whole story in all its gory details, the layers of obfuscation.
It was too horrible and too personal.
When they asked, I just told them that all his gifts were a drop in the bucket compared to what he had done.
I knew they thought I was being a drama queen, but I didn’t care.
They weren’t my friends.
Besides my family, I’d never actually had any of those, it turned out.
Thank God for Tori and Brooklyn.
Without their texts and calls to keep my spirits up, I would have been totally on my own.
Even still, every day it got harder and harder to stay strong.
To resist the pull of Ford Malone.
Today had been especially hard.
I’d arrived at the office to find my desk covered with my favorite flowers—orchids.
In every color imaginable, from pale pink to deep purple-black.
They were so beautiful that my pregnancy hormones almost made me cry at the sight of them.
They were all in planters, so I gave away as many as I could, but I kept a few of them for my desk.
It was the only thing Ford had sent so far that I’d decided to keep, and I was conflicted about it, but I decided a few plants couldn’t really hurt.
He would never have to know that I’d kept them.
But the blooms didn’t escape the notice of some of the editors on staff.
A few of which had been the most vocal about their opinions that I should maybe reconsider my divorce.
Two of them stopped by my desk after lunch to ooh and ahh.
“So thoughtful,” one of them said, practically swooning.
“What I wouldn’t do for my partner to shower me with flowers,” the other one sighed.
“It’s like your own private botanical garden,” the first added.
“Very romantic.”
I had just smiled and pretended to be super focused on my computer screen, but their words had sunk in deep.
By the time I headed out to supervise a photoshoot for the magazine, I couldn’t stop thinking about everything Ford had done to show me that he was sorry, that he cared, that he wanted me.
I hated that he’d gotten so involved in my new life without permission, but I couldn’t deny that he’d done a lot to make my adjustment to New York City easier.
Like leaving a map of all the local dog parks in my mailbox, having my favorite wine delivered, and finding a really good Chicago-style pizza place that he knew would remind me of home.
Hooking back up with him was absolutely not an option, but damn, I was feeling susceptible lately.
Arriving at the address in Chelsea, I was already physically and emotionally exhausted.
But I knew I had to pull myself together and make the magic happen.
Andrew had given me full creative control, which was amazing, but it also meant that I had a lot more responsibility than I’d ever had at Danica Rose.
As the photography editor-in-chief, I wasn’t just shooting my own photos, I was overseeing other photographers and shoots as well.
It wasn’t until I was already walking onto the set that I realized the shoot I’d be overseeing was all nude.
I’d been so distracted by everything happening in my personal life that I hadn’t prepared the way I usually did, hoping that I could just show up and wing it.
A mistake I would never let myself make again.
“Emzee, you’re here! Fantastic!” said Rian, an up-and-coming freelancer we’d just hired for the first time.
I’d seen her photos in a gallery one day while walking Munchkin and had immediately reached out to see if she’d be interested in shooting a series for lookingglass .
Needless to say, she was already a fan of mine for hooking her up with the gig.
“Hey!” I said, trying not to look like a deer in headlights.
“This all looks great. You want to show me your shot list before you get started?”
Rian practically jumped up and down.
“Yes! This is so exciting!”
I’d shot plenty of nudes, and I’d obviously been surrounded by naked models before, but never while pregnant—and in my fragile state, I found myself turned on to no end.
The shoot was agonizingly long, and I spent most of it trying to maintain my composure as I watched a pair of sultry, smudgy-eyelinered models with amazing chemistry pose together in various sensual positions, their bodies wrapped around each other like vines.
Rian was really into hands and the angles and curves of the body, so there was a lot of grabbing and bending and giggling involved.
An assistant was on standby with a spray bottle to add water droplets to bare skin, and the hair stylist made sure no one’s sexy bedhead fell flat.
Meanwhile the models were obviously having a great time, probably because Rian’s energy was so contagious.
By the time we wrapped, I was so hot and bothered that I could barely focus.
All I wanted to do was go home and get my vibrator out and take care of the persistent throb of desire that was coursing through my veins.
The subway ride back to Brooklyn had never taken so long.
But when I finally stepped off the elevator on my floor, I could already see Ford at the end of the hall, leaning on the wall beside my apartment door.
He looked adorably rumpled in his suit, and had probably been waiting a long time—I was home extra late, even for me.
Munchkin pulled at the leash, panting with happiness, and I let him run to Ford.
Seeing him crouch down to pet my dog, something inside me cracked.
I couldn’t resist anymore.