Chapter 27
E mma
Taking a deep breath, I smooth my palms over the dress Geoffrey ironed for me and try to rub away the scuff marks on my high-heeled boots—the newish ones I’d worn on my first real date with Marcus.
Inside my dimly lit studio and on New York’s muddy streets, they’d looked fine, nice even, but here, in the middle of Marcus’s bright, gleaming entryway, there’s no hiding what they really are: cheap knockoffs that have seen better days.
Oh, well. At least my gray dress and the beige woolen coat I’m about to put on are blessedly cat-hair free, again courtesy of Geoffrey.
I left work a half hour early in case of traffic, but Wilson got me to Manhattan in record time, so I decided to stop by Marcus’s place and make myself as presentable as possible before heading over to the restaurant.
I don’t want to embarrass Marcus in front of his investors—at least any more than I’m bound to embarrass him just by being who I am.
The scuff marks on the boots are showing no signs of disappearing, so I give up and straighten, about to leave, when a big white furball streaks toward me and jumps straight into my arms.
“Puffs!” Instinctively, I catch the cat against my chest, which means my gray dress—which was already pilled and rather sad-looking despite the ironing—is now also covered with white hair.
“Ms. Walsh, are you all right?” Geoffrey appears in front of me as if by magic, though it’s more likely he was chasing Mr. Puffs. The cat undoubtedly got into some mischief and, being smart and sneaky, decided to seek refuge with me. “Here, let me take Puffy from you.”
Puffy? Suppressing a hysterical giggle, I hand over the cat—who gives me a betrayed look that promises much retribution later—and walk over to the hallway mirror.
It’s even worse than I thought. The white hair is all over my chest, arms, and even the top portion of the dress’s skirt, probably as a result of the cat’s long, fluffy tail.
“Here, let me help you.” Deftly, the butler lowers Mr. Puffs to the floor, whips out a sticky roller from his pocket, and goes to town on all the hair clinging to my dress.
Three minutes later, the dress again looks its best—which is not saying much. But you have to work with what you’ve got, so I thank Geoffrey, throw on my coat, and hurry out to the car before any more of my cats decide to share their fur with me.
* * *
The ride to Midtown from Marcus’s place in Tribeca takes about twenty minutes, and the entire time, I’m doing breathing exercises to try to calm myself.
I hate feeling so anxious and insecure; it reminds me of when I was an awkward teen trying to adjust to my changing body and hair that never wanted to behave.
It also reminds me of how I felt before my first real date with Marcus.
Thankfully, I’m no longer insecure around him—there’s nothing like a man sexing you up three times a day to assure a woman of her attractiveness—but I’m still acutely cognizant that I’m not what Marcus originally wanted.
Geoffrey could iron and de-hair my clothes from now ’till eternity, and I still wouldn’t be able to hold a candle to someone like Emmeline.
To my relief, the breathing exercises help, and by the time we pull up to a fancy hotel on Park Avenue, I’m calm enough to make my way through the gilded lobby toward the restaurant in the back without stumbling over my feet.
I’m about five minutes early, but everybody’s already seated at the round table in the semi-private nook the hostess leads me to.
Two bottles of wine, red and white, are sitting in the middle of the table, and everyone’s glasses are already filled.
Only one empty chair remains, and it’s next to Marcus, whose gaze goes to me as soon as I walk in.
“There you are,” he says, standing up to greet me, and as he clasps my hands in a strong, warm grasp and bends to brush a kiss over my cheek, I feel more of my nervousness ebbing away.
“Would you like something to drink, ma’am?” the waiter asks as I sit down in the chair Marcus pulls out for me. “Perhaps some wine? Mr. Carelli has ordered an excellent Cabernet Sauvignon and Pinot Grigio for the table, but we also have a wide selection of—”
“The Pinot Grigio is perfect, thank you.” I normally drink only water, but a little wine might be just the thing today. Now that I’m seated and everyone’s staring at me, my heartbeat is speeding up again.
God, I hope I don’t have a piece of broccoli stuck in my teeth—or some cat hair somewhere.
“Everyone, this is Emma Walsh,” Marcus announces, surveying our dinner companions like a monarch would his subjects, and then he goes around the table introducing each person—or rather, each man, as I’m the only woman present.
To my left is Ashton Vancroft, the fitness empire mogul whom Marcus introduces as “a good friend from business school.” Unlike everyone else at the table, he’s dressed casually, in jeans and a cream-colored cashmere sweater that fits his muscled torso like a glove.
His sun-streaked hair is on the longish side, down past his ears, and to my slightly awed eyes, he looks like a cross between Brad Pitt in Troy and Chris Hemsworth in Thor .
Shaking my hand, he grins, flashing dazzling white teeth, and says in a smooth, deep voice that makes me think of melted caramel, “Pleasure to meet you, Emma.”
Before I can recover from the potency of that charm attack, the introductions continue.
On the other side of Ashton is Robert “Bob” Johnson, a stiff-looking older guy who manages the Teachers’ Union pension fund.
To Bob’s left are Jack and James Gyles, two round-faced brothers in their mid-forties whom Marcus introduces as his “long-time investors.” They’re the ones who have no online presence, meaning they’re old money or something even sketchier.
Next to them is Grigori Moskov, the tech billionaire, and immediately to Marcus’s right is Weston Long, the real estate tycoon.
Both are tall, athletically built men around Marcus’s age, and though they don’t resemble him physically, they project a similar kind of power and self-assurance.
It’s the I-could-buy-a-small-country-with-spare-change look, and they have it in spades.
Smiling as brightly as I can, I nod and repeat all the names as Marcus says them, so I can better remember them.
It helps that he told me who these people are ahead of time, and I did a Google search on them.
I’m a highly visual learner, which means it’s easier for me to retain information I’ve seen written down—or written out in my phone’s search bar.
Finally, the introductions are made, and as the men resume their conversations from earlier, I gratefully shift my focus to the menu lying in front of me.
Unfortunately, it’s all in French, or at least half the words are, because I have no idea what most of the dishes are.
Well, I do know what escargot is, and I intend to avoid it.
I’ve never tried snails before, and I’d rather do it when my stomach isn’t so unsettled.
Also, there are no prices next to any of the items on the menu. Is that normal? Does that mean this is something like an all-inclusive buffet, or are the prices so high they left them off so as not to spoil people’s appetites?
A big, warm hand covers my knee under the table, and I look up to find Marcus watching me. Leaning in, he asks softly, “How are you, kitten? Did you have any trouble getting here?”
My cheeks grow warm, though I doubt anyone heard Marcus’s endearment.
“No, no trouble,” I murmur, acutely cognizant of all the curious eyes covertly watching us.
I half-expected Marcus to ignore me after the introductions—after all, he’s here to schmooze with his investors—but that’s not what seems to be happening.
Though he didn’t introduce me as his girlfriend, the possessive way he’s leaning over me proclaims it as loudly as if he’d pinned a label to my chest.
“So, Emma, you’re visiting us from Boston, right?” a smooth male voice says from my left, and I turn to face Ashton.
“Boston? No, I’m afraid not.” Where did he get that from?
“Oh.” He frowns. “I could’ve sworn—”
“You’re thinking of someone else,” Marcus says, his tone hardening. “Emma is from Brooklyn, born and raised.”
Ashton’s face clears. “Never mind then. I thought for a moment—but yes, the last name is different too. So you’re a native New Yorker, Emma?”
I force myself to smile and nod. “Yes, indeed. How about yourself?” To my relief, my voice comes out normal and steady, unaffected by the sudden tightness in my chest.
There’s only one reason why Marcus’s friend would think I’m someone else.
He’s got me confused with Emmeline—which means Marcus spoke to him about her, but didn’t mention me.
“I actually am from Boston, or at least my family is,” Ashton says, giving me another one of his dazzling smiles.
Only this time, I don’t feel even the tiniest bit dazzled, the tightness in my chest transforming into a stabbing ache.
I don’t want my mind going down that path, but I can’t help it.
It’s impossible to ignore the implications of Ashton’s mistake.
At some point in the not-too-distant past, Marcus had been serious enough about Emmeline to talk about her to his friend, to tell him her full name and where she lived.
Does that mean he lied to me? Had there been more than that one dinner date between him and Emmeline? Was he seeing her even as he was pursuing me? Is that why Ashton knows so much about her but nothing about me?
Could he be seeing her still?
“Excuse me,” I say tightly, pushing back my chair as I stand up. “I’ll be right back.”
And before anyone can stop me, I run to the bathroom in the back.