Chapter 38
E mma
Over the next two days, Marcus and I find a morning routine that works for us.
Even without any kind of early meetings, he wakes up at the crack of dawn, and since we’ve both learned that I’m not a cyborg who can subsist on sex in place of shut-eye, he lets me snooze while he gets in either a run or a workout in his home gym.
By the time he’s done, I’m up, and we have a quick breakfast together before rushing off to our respective workplaces.
Well, he rushes off because Wilson drops him off first and then returns for me—which gives me time to leisurely get ready and even work on some editing.
I continue said editing during my cushy commute in Wilson’s car, with the result that I get quite a bit accomplished by the time I get to my full-time job.
On Thursday, Marcus works late again, so I use the time to proofread my new client’s novella, and then, because I still somehow have energy, I open my super-secret project file to write a few paragraphs.
It’s slow going, so I set it aside to play with my cats, but as I’m petting Cottonball, the scene suddenly unfolds in my mind.
It’s so exciting I get completely absorbed in writing it, to the point that when Marcus arrives an hour later, I’m startled to realize it’s almost nine p.m. and I still haven’t eaten.
We have another delicious dinner together, followed by a prolonged lovemaking session, and when I wake up on Friday morning, I feel so good about life I don’t even get upset that Puffs broke another priceless vase overnight—especially since Marcus doesn’t seem to care.
When I get to work, I find the bookstore again mobbed by customers, but luckily, my boss is there to help.
By noon, the flow of book shoppers eases a little, so I ask him to cover for me while I take a longer lunch break.
Then I quickly wolf down the pear-and-gorgonzola sandwich Geoffrey so considerately packed for me and step out to run my errands.
My first stop is a clothing boutique a few blocks from my work. I’ve walked by it a dozen times in the past, but have never actually gone in. It’s got that organic-cotton, made-in-the-USA vibe, and I figured all the hipster-stylish clothes there are bound to be out of my budget.
Sure enough, the very first item I pick up—a plain but well-made T-shirt—is forty-nine dollars. The jeans that I pick up next—nearly two hundred. Dispirited, I’m about to walk out and try my luck elsewhere when I spot a discreet “50% Off” sign in the back.
Now we’re talking.
The sales rack isn’t huge, but every item of clothing on it is about ten times better than anything I have in my closet.
Browsing through it, I find a casual long-sleeved dress, a little blue cocktail dress, three cute tops, and a pair of jeans in my size.
There’s also a small shoe section in the back, where I see taupe-colored ankle booties that go with absolutely everything and a pair of nude pumps that would dress up any outfit—and would look beautiful with the blue dress.
When I try on my finds, everything fits but the jeans—they’re too long—but I decide to get them anyway, as they do amazing things to my butt.
I’ll just have to get them hemmed. The shoes are what really makes the outfits, though, so even though they’re not on sale, I take both the booties and the pumps to the register, determined not to give in to the part of me that’s freaking out about the expense.
My editing business has been picking up, to the point that I’m booked out several months in advance—and have all those partial deposits in my bank account. Which means that I can afford this splurge, even if it feels otherwise.
It’s not until the cashier rings up my purchases and I see the four-figure total on the register screen that my resolve wavers.
The last time I spent anywhere near this amount on clothes was…
well, maybe never. I don’t do shopping sprees; I grab one item on clearance here, another there.
My current wardrobe, such as it is, has been assembled piecemeal over the years, and as I mentally do that math, I’m stunned to realize that some of my things date back to when I started high school.
God, no wonder Kendall’s been on my case; my look might be more than a decade out of date.
My resolve firming, I hand my credit card to the cashier.
I might not be able to bring myself to let Marcus purchase clothes for me, but that’s no reason to embarrass him in front of his friends and acquaintances.
Everyone might’ve been nice to me at that investor dinner, but I’m sure they wondered why a billionaire’s girlfriend was wearing the modern-day equivalent of rags.
Marcus didn’t look embarrassed, but I’m sure he would’ve preferred that I wear a nicer outfit—and now I can.
The blue dress and pumps might not be by some high-end designer, but they’re good quality and won’t look out of place at any business dinner.
Shopping bags in hand, I head over to my second stop—a hair salon I found this morning.
Located just five blocks from my work, it’s small and unassuming, with a discreet sign above the door and only two hair-cutting stations inside.
It does, however, have rave reviews on Yelp, with people claiming it’s both dirt cheap and crazy good.
They don’t take appointments, only walk-ins, so I sign in and wait.
Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in front of a mirror with a sharply stylish Asian man examining my unkempt curls. “Gorgeous color, but a lot of split ends,” he says, lifting one strand to peer at it through purple-rimmed glasses. “A lot of frizz, too. What products do you use?”
I tell him, and he winces, as if I’ve just dealt him a physical blow. “No wonder your hair is so dry. You’re killing it with all those harsh sulfates. I’ll teach you how to care for it properly. First, though, let’s see if we can give it some shape. Do you have any preference as to the length?”
My pulse jumps. The change-resistant cat lady inside me is freaking out at the idea of getting anything more than my usual basic trim, but I’m determined not to listen to her. “It’s up to you,” I say, my voice mostly steady. “I want whatever will look the best and be the easiest to care for.”
“Got it. I’ll do a dry cut, so we can see how each curl behaves.
” And before I can panic at the excited gleam in his eyes, he picks up the scissors and goes to work.
Fifteen minutes later, there’s enough red hair on the floor to make a carpet, but somehow, I still have quite a bit of length—and for the first time in my life, my hair seems to curl around my face in a purposeful, if not quite tame, manner.
“I’m going to do a deep-conditioning treatment next,” the hairdresser announces, and though I wasn’t counting on this additional expense, I give in without a whimper.
Forty minutes later, I walk out with my curls so soft, silky, and bouncy that I consider signing up for a shampoo commercial.
They need natural redheads, don’t they? On my phone is a list of recommended products, including, at my request, one brand that makes unscented shampoos and conditioners for curly hair, along with gels, cremes, deep conditioners, and other apparent necessities for hair like mine.
I may never pull off a Janie-like transformation, but there’s no reason I can’t look my best.
Stopping at an intersection, I pull out my phone to send a selfie to Kendall, but before I can snap a picture, my screen lights up with an incoming call.
“Hi, Mrs. Metz,” I say, picking up, and then I listen to her telling me apologetically that she just got an amazing offer on the townhouse and would love it if I expedited my plans to find a new place.
“I’m so sorry, dear, but the buyer really wants to close on it before the holidays. Of course, if you need more time, I can see if they’d be willing to wait, but—”
“Oh, no, it’s fine, Mrs. Metz. I was actually going to call you next week to tell you the good news.” I take a breath. “It’s official. Marcus and I are moving in together.”
She squeals like a young girl, and I grin despite the tightness in my chest. Maybe it’s the new clothes and the great haircut, or just the buildup of feel-good hormones from all the orgasms this week, but the panic that first gripped me at the thought of giving up my place is now only a mild anxiety.
I like living with Marcus—love it, in fact—and it’s not hard for me to imagine this week’s trial run extending into a more permanent arrangement, partially because Marcus acts like that’s already a given, right down to inviting my grandparents to stay at “our place” when they visit us in New York.
My grandmother was beyond gleeful when she told me about that part of their chat the other day.
For someone whose career is all about analyzing risk and reward, my billionaire seems to possess zero caution.
Mrs. Metz hangs up after I promise to have my stuff out of the apartment within two weeks, and I consider what to do next.
I could accelerate my (admittedly sluggish so far) search for an apartment, just in case, but unless I luck into a convenient sublet, I’ll have to sign a twelve-month lease—a total waste if things continue as they are.
Another alternative is to rent a storage unit and put all of my furniture in there; it’ll be cheaper than getting a lease, and if at least a few of the pieces survive the move, I won’t be starting from scratch in case I do have to get an apartment later.
Or—and this is the option that both excites and scares me the most—I can throw my own caution to the wind and get rid of my old furniture, trusting that Marcus and I will make it work.