Chapter 7
E mma
I’m lured out of deep sleep by the delicious aromas of baked apples and pumpkin pie—and the sound of my stomach growling loudly.
I’m tempted to ignore it and burrow deeper under my blanket, but a rough male voice murmurs, “You awake, kitten?” and soft, warm lips nibble on the sensitive junction between my neck and shoulder, while a big, strong hand strokes up my side and possessively cups my breast.
The sleepy haze in my brain dissipates in an instant.
Holy fuck.
I’m in bed with Marcus.
In Florida.
At my grandparents’ house.
Eyes popping open, I sit up and twist around to stare at the billionaire who so ruthlessly chased me here.
He’s lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, his thick brown hair mussed from sleep and his eyes heavy-lidded as he meets my gaze.
With his hard jaw shadowed with morning stubble and his powerfully muscled torso uncovered by the blanket, he’s so potently, deliciously male that my skin warms and my thighs squeeze together in an instinctive attempt to ease the growing ache between them.
“Morning,” he murmurs, his gaze falling to my breasts—which I only now realize are uncovered, with my nipples tight and erect, as if I’m turned on.
Which I am, but I was hoping he wouldn’t know that.
It’s bad enough we had sex again, for the third time, after returning from the pharmacy.
That’s not how you convince a man you’re not that into him—which is the strategy I settled on last night, while we were asking the tired-looking pharmacist for Plan B.
I decided to take the risk and see where this leads, but without letting Marcus know the depth of my feelings. He’s already railroaded me into letting him stay here for Thanksgiving. If he knew that I’m in love with him, there’d be no stopping him.
He’d have me moved into his penthouse by dinnertime.
“Um… morning.” Trying not to blush, I pull the blanket up over my breasts. “What time is it?”
A lazy smile curves his lips as his gaze returns to my face. “Almost ten.”
“Oh, shit.” I was going to help Grandma with breakfast and all the Thanksgiving preparations, but judging by the delicious smells that woke me up, it’s too late.
Knowing Grandma, she’s been at it since the crack of dawn.
“We did go to sleep late,” Marcus points out. Sitting up, he throws the blanket aside to reveal a long, thick, mouthwatering erection. Morning wood, I hope—else the man is seriously obsessed with sex.
Gloriously unconcerned with his nakedness, he gets up and stretches, every muscle in his tall, hard body flexing with the motion, then heads to the bathroom with a casual, “I’ll be right back.”
I swallow my drool and jump out of bed also. Beelining for the closet, I grab a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, along with underwear, and hurriedly get dressed.
I have a feeling that if I’m still naked by the time he returns, we’re not emerging from this bedroom until noon.
While I wait for Marcus to come out, I pick up my phone to check my email. To my surprise, there’s a voicemail from my best friend, Kendall—and a whole array of texts from her.
Concerned, I go for the texts first.
The first is a link to an article in The New York Herald , followed by: OMG, Ems, is that you with Mr. Wall Street on Page Seven???
Then: It is totally you! Holy crap, I’m friends with a celebrity!
They’re calling you a “mystery redhead,” did you see that? And fuck, that kiss looks hot. He’s holding you like he wants to do you right then and there. No wonder you were mum on the orgasm situation. He gives you lots, doesn’t he? I can tell.
Wait a minute. That was at JFK? Why were you at the airport together?
Is he in Florida with you???
You sneaky little bitch! He’s meeting your grandparents already, isn’t he? Why didn’t you tell me???
The next two texts are pictures of prom-like dresses, followed by: I plan to wear one of these as your maid of honor. Just FYI. And absolutely no Mickey ears. I refuse.
Equal parts horrified and confused, I click on the article link in the first text. Sure enough, there’s a picture of Marcus kissing me at my gate last evening. The headline reads: Is One of New York’s Most Eligible Getting Hitched at Disney World?
What the hell?
Heart pounding, I skim over the actual text:
Hedge fund billionaire Marcus Carelli was spotted last night at JFK, locking lips with a mystery redhead.
The notoriously private head of $92 billion Carelli Capital Management is not known for engaging in PDA, leading bystanders to speculate that the relationship might be serious.
According to our sources, the young woman was standing in the Economy Class line for a flight to Orlando, home of Mickey Mouse, when Carelli pulled her aside for an intense-seeming discussion culminating in a passionate make-out session (see photo above).
The woman then boarded her flight, leaving Carelli at the gate.
But the story doesn’t end there, as according to a flight plan filed some fifteen minutes later, Carelli’s private jet flew to Orlando that very evening.
Is one of New York’s wealthiest bachelors about to get hitched at Disney World to a girlfriend who flies Economy Class?
A real-life Cinderella story may be in the works.
Cinderella story? Disney World? Get hitched?
What are they smoking?
My gaze returns to the second sentence, and I reread it incredulously.
Yep, I didn’t imagine it. They said “$92 billion.” Kendall told me Marcus’s fund has some insane amount of money under management, but that’s like the GDP of a small country. Or a medium-sized country, maybe?
Fuck, I should’ve paid attention in my one and only Econ class in college.
I’m still hyperventilating when Marcus emerges from the bathroom. His sharp-eyed gaze lands on me, and he swiftly crosses the room to stand in front of me. “What’s wrong?” he demands, clasping my shoulders. “Did something happen?”
He’s still naked, which is bad for my already-shaky equilibrium, so I wordlessly hand the phone to him and rush into the bathroom.
Closing the door behind me, I lean against it and try to convince my lungs that there’s plenty of air to go around—and my brain that this article is nothing to freak out about.
Oh, who am I kidding?
They have a picture of me making out with Marcus.
A picture and an article on Page Seven.
Like I’m a Kardashian or something.
Oh, and Marcus apparently manages almost a hundred billion dollars and is considered one of New York’s most eligible bachelors.
If that’s not a reason to freak out, I don’t know what is.
Somehow, I manage to get myself over to the sink and go through my usual morning routine of brushing my teeth, washing my face, and so on.
It calms me just enough so I’m not on the verge of a panic attack.
As the last step, I slather on a thick layer of sunblock—Florida sun is murder on a redhead’s complexion—and decide I’m as ready to face the world as I’ll ever be.
And by “world,” I mean Marcus—who, thankfully, is dressed in a pair of jeans and a polo shirt when I come out.
He’s sitting on the bed—which is now fully made, I note with the part of my brain that’s started keeping track of his neat freak tendencies—and typing on his phone.
Hearing me, he looks up, slips the phone into his pocket, and rises to his feet.
“Sorry about that,” he says before I can get a word out. “My PR team should’ve been on top of it. Or rather, I should’ve been. They could’ve squashed this if I’d let them know I saw a couple of phones pointed at us yesterday.”
“They—you did?” All my calm goes out the window. “Is this a thing that happens a lot? I mean, the picture and the article and—”
“No, because my team is on top of it. Usually.”
“Uh-huh, okay. And you need a PR team because…?”
He sighs. “Because, unfortunately, the media is not always content to focus solely on my fund and our investments. I’m fairly high-profile in the business world, and every once in a while, some desperate-for-eyeballs reporter tries to make me into a figure that might be of interest to the general public. ”
“Like one of New York’s most eligible bachelors?”
“Yes, exactly.” He grimaces. “That article is nothing but speculation, pure clickbait, and they know it. They didn’t even bother to mention that we amended the flight plan to fly to Daytona Beach instead of Orlando.
Disney World, my ass.” He looks so disgusted that despite my ongoing freak-out, my lips twitch with amusement.
“So no Mickey ears for our nuptials?” I ask with as straight of a face as I can manage. “Because Kendall was really hoping to wear them as my maid of honor.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “In that case, I take it back. Disney and Mickey it is. Will you tell her the good news, or should I?”
“I think we should let The New York Herald do it. They have the inside scoop,” I say, and as he laughs, his lean cheeks creasing with those sexy grooves he’s got, I can’t help but join in, the worst of my panic easing.
So what if my picture is in the paper, and I’m dating “one of New York’s most eligible?”
It’s not like I didn’t know that Marcus is out of my league. He is, always has been, and this clickbait article changes nothing.
Besides, only Kendall knows who the “mystery redhead” is.