Chapter 25
E mma
I’m in a state of panic throughout the entire morning.
At my request, Wilson drove me to my apartment before work, so I could pick up a dress for tonight—a long-sleeved, wrap-style piece I found on a department store clearance rack a few years ago.
At the time, it looked nice and stylish, the gray material draping over my curves with a subtle flair, but after a dozen encounters with a washing machine, it more closely resembles something out of a cat’s butt.
Still, I grabbed it this morning because it’s the only business-y thing I own.
In fact, I was going to wear it to job interviews, back when I still had hopes of getting a position with some big-name publisher.
The interviews never materialized, so now I just wear the dress whenever I need to look a little more put-together—like, say, when I’m going out to dinner with half a dozen individuals whose monthly income exceeds what most families earn in a lifetime.
And that’s not an exaggeration. I asked Marcus for their names this morning and looked them up. Let’s just say he won’t be the only person at our table tonight who’s been featured by Forbes .
Dammit. What am I doing? I still can’t believe Marcus got me to agree to this. I must’ve still been out of it after that intense sex session, because instead of panicking right then and there, I’d been equal parts shocked and flattered that he wants to introduce me to his investors.
After all, I’m about as far from being “an asset at social functions” as a girl can get.
But Marcus had been insistent that he wants me there, and I’d given in, partially because of the flattered bit and partially because he promised to stop pressuring me about moving in.
Then he started making love to me again, and that eliminated all possibility of thinking.
It’s only when I woke up this morning that I realized the dinner means I won’t be able to go home tonight, as it would likely run late and packing up my cats would take at least an hour—longer if I have to chase them around the spacious penthouse.
They really like Marcus’s place, so much so they spent all night running around and exploring.
I only saw them briefly this morning, when they jumped into bed with me for a few minutes of obligatory cuddles.
Thankfully, Marcus was in the shower by then; I’m not sure how he would’ve felt about furry paws on his pristine white sheets.
He may not think he’s a neat freak, but he totally is. Even his briefs are arranged in perfectly folded squares.
In any case, it’s clear to me now that I’ve been outmaneuvered.
Again. Thanks to this dinner, I’m going to end up staying at Marcus’s place two nights in a row, which is what he was after all along.
What’s worse is I committed to accompanying him to an event that I’m completely unequipped for, and not just because all he’d packed for me were jeans and sweaters.
I have literally never been to a business dinner, much less one with people this rich and powerful.
One of Marcus’s investors manages the California Teachers’ Union pension fund; another is a real estate tycoon; a third is a Russian-born tech billionaire; a fourth is an up-and-coming fitness mogul; and the last two are pretty much invisible online, which likely means they’re some type of secretive old money.
Meanwhile, I’m an introverted bookstore clerk whose most professional outfit is a cat’s butt dress.
Naturally, when I realized all this upon waking up and tried to back out, Marcus offered to buy me whatever I needed to feel comfortable—an offer I immediately declined, claiming I have everything I need.
But that pretty much committed me to going—hence me literally breathing into a paper bag during my lunch hour.
“Emma, are you okay?” Mr. Smithson asks, finding me in an armchair at the back of the store, and I lower the bag to give my boss an overly bright smile.
“Yep. Just testing out a new meditation technique.”
“Oh, I see.” His expression clears as a knowing grin appears on his face. If we were in a comic book, there’d be a thought bubble above his head that says, Millennials. Should’ve known better than to ask.
Satisfied that I’m not about to throw up on the latest row of thrillers, he ambles away, and I resume breathing into the bag, hoping against hope that this calms me down.
It doesn’t. If anything, I feel extra jittery.
Ugh. Why did I agree to this? And why does Marcus want me there, anyway?
We’ve just started dating, and I’m nowhere near the type of girlfriend a billionaire would be dying to show off.
My table manners are okay—my Southern grandmother made sure of that—but all the rest of it, like small talk and schmoozing, is beyond me.
I can discuss the latest New York Times bestsellers, but that’s about it.
Come to think of it, there’s no way Marcus was going to bring me to this dinner when we stopped by my apartment after the flight. Otherwise, he would’ve packed something fancier than jeans for me. Unless he was planning to buy me clothes? But no, he knows how I feel about stuff like that.
This was definitely an impulse invitation on his part, which makes it all the weirder that he was so insistent I accept.
In general, his behavior after dinner yesterday was strange, with that uber-intense sex and the children query and all.
He even seemed upset when Geoffrey showed up with the morning-after pill and I took it…
as if Marcus himself wasn’t the one who sent him on the errand.
It’s as though something happened, only for the life of me, I can’t think what. Marcus was adamant it wasn’t Mr. Puffs breaking the sculpture. But that’s about the only mishap that occurred after we finished dinner. Unless… was it something at dinner?
Maybe he was upset I’d brought up his father?
“Emma. Earth to Emma.”
“Yes, Mr. Smithson?” Lowering the bag again, I look up at my boss, who must’ve been standing there for a while. And he’s not alone. With him is his blond nephew, the aspiring urban fantasy author I showed around the bookstore a couple of weeks ago.
Pushing all thoughts of Marcus aside, I rise to my feet and smile brightly. “Hi, Ian. How are you? How’s your book coming along?” The last time we spoke, he’d been very excited about it, and I told him about my freelance editing services, in case he decided to go the self-published route.
Never hurts to drum up a little business.
My boss beams at me, and I wince internally, realizing he’s again matchmaking—and misinterpreting what he’s seeing. Though the shy, geeky Ian is what I’ve always thought of as “my type,” my only interest in him is as a potential client.
Not only am I officially dating Marcus now, but from the moment I met my Wall Street titan, I haven’t felt so much as a smidgeon of attraction to another man.
Ian’s fair skin flushes, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he adjusts his glasses. “I’m, um… almost done with the first draft. I think I’ll finish this week.”
“Oh, good for you. Do let me know if you need any editing help once you get to that point.” That’s a little pushier than my typical MO, but I want to make it clear to Mr. Smithson that I’m seeing his nephew purely as a business opportunity.
Unfortunately, my boss is undeterred. With a huge smile, he says to Ian, “Yes, definitely talk to our Emma. She knows good books.”
And winking at me, he ambles away, leaving me alone with his nephew.
* * *
The good news is that talking to Ian—or rather, listening to him explain every plot point of his book in yawn-inducing detail—serves as a distraction from my anxiety about the dinner. The bad news is that an hour later, when Ian finally departs, I’m right back to freaking out.
Seriously, why did I agree to this? More importantly, is it too late to back out?
I grab my phone to call Marcus, but then I recall that he’s supposed to be in meetings all day today—something about the start of the month and strategizing for the upcoming Alpha Zone conference.
I have no idea what Alpha Zone is, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a werewolf get-together, which is where my shifter-romance-reading brain goes whenever I hear the word “Alpha.”
Given the context, it’s probably some obscure investing term. I should really look it up, if only because it’s good for an editor to know these things.
Either way, I end up calling Kendall instead of Marcus and spilling my entire dilemma to her. “Do you think I should fake an illness, maybe?” I say when I’m done. “It is flu season, and—”
“Don’t you dare!” she interrupts, and I hear a car honking in the background. She must be outside, running one of the million errands her boss always sends her on. “Are you crazy?” she continues when the honking stops. “He’s bringing you to a business dinner. Don’t you know what that means?”
I take a breath. “Well…”
“It means it’s serious, Emma! He’s integrating you into his life, the most important parts of his life.
” Two more honks interrupt her words, and I picture her jaywalking across a busy intersection like the fearless New Yorker she is.
“A man like him would never ask a casual lay to an investor dinner. This is next-level shit. Even you, Miss Oblivious, have to know that.”
“Well, duh, of course I know that! That’s why I agreed: because I was flattered to be asked. But these people—”
“Are just people,” Kendall says firmly. “Being rich and famous doesn’t make you superhuman, I told you that. They’re just individuals; treat them as such, and you’ll be okay.”
Easy for her to say. With her outgoing personality, she could have a witty exchange with a tree. Whereas I—
“Stop it, Ems.” Another loud honk in the background. “I can hear you thinking, and I don’t like it.”
“My thinking?”
“Your overthinking! Just put on your cat’s butt dress and go with the flow. And next time, let Marcus buy you an outfit like he offered. Now I’ve got to go; I’m getting into the subway. Bye!”
And she hangs up, leaving me no calmer than before.