Chapter 8
M arcus
Where the hell is she?
Standing by the side entrance of an ugly old brownstone, I ring the doorbell for the second time, with the same lack of results.
Emma Walsh is not home.
I know her last name thanks to her Facebook profile, which I accessed by tapping on the Facebook icon on her phone.
According to that same profile, she’s single (which I already suspected), twenty-six years old, and a graduate of Brooklyn College.
She loves books and does freelance editing when she’s not working at a small, family-owned bookstore.
Oh, and she definitely owns cats—three of them, judging by her frequent posts about them on Facebook.
Knowing all this about a woman I met by accident makes me feel like a stalker, a feeling that’s only exacerbated by my inexplicable desire to learn more.
I played a bit with her phone on the way here—to make sure I had the right address, I told myself—and in the process, I’ve looked at everything from her photos to her email.
I didn’t read any of the email because that would’ve been really wrong, but I did glance at the subject lines.
It seems like most of her inbox is occupied by messages related to her editing jobs, though there are a bunch of emails from someone named Kendall, too.
Same goes for texts, though most of those are from “Grandma” and “Gramps,” who I’m guessing are her grandparents.
Fuck, I am being a stalker.
Disgusted with myself, I turn to leave so I can give the phone to my assistant tomorrow and forget this madness, but at that moment, a small, shapely figure with curly hair approaches from the street… and freezes in place, her hands flying up to grab at the strap of her cheap purse.
In a flash, it dawns on me how I must look to Emma, with my features cast in shadow by the tiny light hanging over the door. If I were a young woman confronted by an unknown six-foot-three man on her doorstep in the dark, I’d probably be shitting my pants right about now.
“It’s me, Marcus,” I say quickly, wanting to reassure her. I might’ve acted like a stalker, but I don’t mean her any harm. “From the café, remember?”
She takes a step back, still gripping her purse strap.
“What—what are you doing here?” She sounds breathless; I must’ve really scared her. “How did you find me?”
“Your phone,” I explain, pulling the pink smartphone out of my pocket. “I found it in the booth after you left and wanted to return it to you.”
“Oh.” She approaches uncertainly. As the over-the-door light illuminates her pale face, I see that her expression is a mix of relief and confusion.
Stopping a couple of feet away, she says in a slightly calmer voice, “Thank you. I was looking for that phone. I was almost home when I realized that I didn’t have it, so I went back to the café, and the waiter said they didn’t find anything and—” Cutting herself off, she takes a deep breath and says, “I’m really glad you found it, but you didn’t have to come all the way here.
I could’ve just met you somewhere tomorrow or—”
“It’s not that far out of my way,” I say. It’s a lie, but I’m not about to admit the full extent of my insanity. “I figured you might worry, so I brought it.”
She stares up at me, her gray eyes dark in the evening shadows. “Oh. Okay, well, thank you. That’s very kind of you.”
She extends her hand, and I give her the phone.
She’s careful to take it in such a way that our fingers don’t touch—something I irrationally resent.
Even worse, the moment the phone is out of my hands, I regret giving it to her so quickly.
That phone was the only thing linking us together, and now I have no reason to be here—except my inexplicable desire to get to know her.
“Emma, listen,” I say as she pockets the phone with evident relief. “I think I made a mistake earlier, at the café.”
“You were supposed to meet someone named Emmeline?” A small smile appears on her lips, and I realize she’s figured it out too.
“That’s right.” I grin at her. “Let me guess. You were supposed to meet Mark?”
“Yep.” Her smile widens, exposing small white teeth and the same cute dimples I saw on the selfie. “What are the odds, right?”
“I can have one of my analysts look into that if you want,” I say, only half-kidding.
Researching the answer to her rhetorical question would give me an excuse to stay in touch—something I badly want.
With that dimpled smile, the little redhead looks so fucking adorable I want to lick her like an ice cream cone.
“I’m sure we can figure it out if we run some statistics on naming trends in the population,” I add.
Emma blinks, her smile dimming. “One of your analysts? Do you run a think tank or something?”
“A hedge fund,” I say. “We employ a multitude of strategies to stay ahead of the market, everything from traditional equity analysis to quant-driven trading.”
The dimples disappear completely. “Oh, I see.” She looks disappointed, a reaction that’s the complete opposite from the one I get when women realize I must have some serious dough.
Pasting on a new, less sincere smile, she says, “Thanks again for returning the phone, Marcus. I really appreciate you coming all the way out here. If you’ll excuse me…
” She gives me an expectant look, and I realize I’m still standing on her doorstep, blocking the door.
I should move—that would be the polite, gentlemanly thing to do—but I don’t. Instead, I ask bluntly, “Do you hate Wall Street or something?”
I know I’m borderline harassing the girl, but I can’t let her go like this. Once she gets into her apartment—a shithole place, judging by the rundown state of the door—it’ll all be over. She’ll go about her life, and I’ll return to mine, and I’m not ready for that to happen.
“Um, no. I don’t have anything against your profession.
I mean, not really.” She gives me a wary look.
“I just—” She inhales. “Look, Marcus, I really appreciate the gesture and all, but I’m hungry and exhausted, and I still need to feed my cats and answer some emails.
We can debate Wall Street ethics some other time. ”
Some other time? Something tense inside me relaxes. Though she undoubtedly meant her words as a polite brush-off, I’m going to take them at face value.
I’m going to see Emma again and figure out what it is that draws me to her.
Stepping aside, I say, “Sounds good. Goodnight, Emma. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“Same here. Goodbye, Marcus, and thanks again,” she says, pulling her keys out of her purse as she steps around me.
I watch her open the door, making sure she gets inside safely, and when the door closes behind her, I order another Uber and make a note on my phone about the next steps. My pulse is thrumming with excitement, and my muscles are coiled tight in anticipation of the new challenge.
I’m acting completely unlike myself, but I no longer care. Emma might not be what I need for the long term, but she’s what I want for the moment, and for the first time in my life, I’m going to live in the present.
I’m going to have the lush little redhead for dessert and worry about consequences later.