Chapter 15
E mma
Marcus leads me to a fancy black car parked at the curb and opens the door for me.
I climb into the back seat, my face hot despite the chilly November wind as he takes a seat next to me.
The car is large and spacious, but with Marcus there, it feels stiflingly small.
It’s not just his large frame, either; it’s everything about him.
He takes up space in a way that goes beyond the physical, commanding the very air around him.
Next to him, I feel like an asteroid caught in Jupiter’s orbit—small and powerless to escape the massive planet’s pull.
“The restaurant, please, Wilson,” Marcus says to the driver, and I see the man nodding in the rearview mirror as the car starts moving.
The fact that Marcus knows his name makes me wonder if Marcus hired the car for the evening, or if Wilson is his personal or company driver.
Do people even have personal drivers these days?
Before I can ask, Marcus transfers his attention to me. “So, Emma,” he says, his deep voice tugging at that something in me again. “Tell me about yourself.”
“What would you like to know?” I ask, hoping I sound like a confident woman instead of the nervous twelve-year-old who seems to have taken up residence in my body.
I have the unsettling sensation that I’m at an interview—an impression heightened by the fact that Marcus is wearing a suit and tie under his unbuttoned winter coat.
I know he probably just came from work, and his wearing a suit doesn’t mean I’m horribly underdressed, but I feel that way: awkward and uncertain and out of place.
Stop it, Emma. He’s just a guy. A hot and intimidating one, but still just a guy.
“Have you lived in Brooklyn long?” he asks, his pale gaze shadowed in the darkened interior of the car.
“All my life,” I say, striving for a casual tone. “Born and raised. How about you?”
“I was born on Staten Island,” he says. “So I’m a New Yorker like you.”
“Oh. Are you from an Italian family, by any chance?” That could explain the olive tint to his skin.
“On my mother’s side.” His words are curt, as if I’d touched a nerve.
“I’m mostly Irish,” I volunteer, hoping to smooth over whatever error I made.
“I guessed as much.” Marcus’s reply is wry, and as the car stops at a streetlight, I see a hint of a smile on his face.
I instinctively touch my hair. “It’s pretty obvious, huh?”
“It was just a lucky guess,” Marcus says, and I grin at him, some of my nervousness ebbing.
We continue to make small talk for the rest of the fifteen-minute ride, and I learn that Marcus lives in Tribeca while his office is in Midtown.
I’m not surprised; if anyone could afford to live and work in Manhattan, it would be a hedge fund manager.
My Wall Street salary index is fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure those guys make bank.
“What’s your fund called?” I ask, remembering Kendall’s question as the car comes to a stop in front of a small, cozy-looking restaurant. My friend will undoubtedly drill me on this, so I better gather all the facts.
“Carelli Capital Management,” Marcus replies as he opens the door and climbs out, then holds open the door for me.
As I step out, he gently clasps my elbow, making sure I don’t trip, and warmth floods my cheeks again.
Even through the thick wool of my winter coat, I feel the restrained strength in his grip, the power that could be devastating if unleashed.
He doesn’t let go of my arm when I’m out of the car, and my heart pounds heavily as I stare up at him.
The streetlights illuminate his mouth and the hard cast of his jaw, leaving his eyes in shadow, and for a brief, fanciful moment, I feel like a small animal caught in a hunter’s snare.
Something hot and electric arcs between us, the moment fraught with tension—then he releases my arm and turns, offering me his elbow.
“Shall we?” His tone is calm, as if he’s completely unaffected by whatever just passed between us, but I see his jaw flex and know he’d felt it too.
My mouth feels dry as I slip my hand through the crook of his elbow, trying not to think about how thick and solid his arm feels. It’s like holding onto a curved tree trunk—albeit one that’s covered by expensive cashmere-wool.
“Do you come to this restaurant a lot?” I ask, trying not to pant audibly as we walk toward the restaurant.
Marcus’s legs are so long I have to take two steps for every one of his, and the exertion, combined with the heat thrumming under my skin, makes me feel like I’ve just run up three flights of stairs.
“I’ve been here a few times,” he says, opening the door for me.
I step inside and appreciatively inhale the rich, savory aroma of basil, roasted garlic, and fresh-baked dough.
It smells like Papa Mario’s, but the ambiance is infinitely better.
The restaurant is small, but clean and cozy, with about a dozen tables covered by white linen tablecloths and topped with vases with real flowers.
Even though it’s a Thursday night, each table is occupied except the one in the far corner.
This dinner might be worth the hit to my budget.
Unbuttoning my coat, I smile up at Marcus. “This looks like a very nice place. Thanks for suggesting it.”
“My pleasure. Here, let me take your coat.” He reaches for it, and I have no choice but to let him help me. His fingers brush over my shoulders in the process, and despite my sweater wrap, a tingle of heat radiates from the spot where he touched me.
God, if he ever puts his hands on my bare skin… Just the thought of it makes my insides tighten.
A short, dark-haired man of indeterminate age approaches us. “Mr. Carelli, welcome.” His Italian accent is strong, and his dark eyes twinkle brightly in his thin face. “Please follow me.”
He leads us to the corner table. As we walk, Marcus places his hand on the small of my back, and I suck in a breath, stunned by the unexpectedly possessive gesture.
My heart hammers faster, and the hot tingling spreads throughout my body, centering low in my core.
Marcus’s touch is light, solicitous, but there’s no mistaking the purely male intent behind it.
He’s staking a claim, announcing to the other patrons in the restaurant that, for this evening at least, I belong to him.
It’s something a man might do with a woman he’s had sex with—or one he intends to have sex with very shortly.
Stop it, Emma. He’s just being a gentleman. Even as I tell myself that, my pulse picks up further, and the images from my sex dream return in all their graphic glory.
“Are you okay?” Marcus asks, glancing down at me, and I realize my burning face must match my hair.
“Yes, of course,” I say, trying to ignore the feel of his large palm resting on my back. “I’m just a little hungry, that’s all.”
“Then let’s feed you,” he says, dropping his hand as the waiter pulls out a chair for me. Marcus steps around the table to his side, and I sit down, grateful for the reprieve from his devastating nearness.
“What would you like to drink?” the waiter asks, hovering next to our table.
“Just regular water for me, please,” I say.
“Same for me,” Marcus says without missing a beat.
I smile, pleased he didn’t try to force an alcoholic beverage on me.
Some men like to do that, as if a woman drinking plain water somehow offends their masculinity.
I’m no stranger to alcohol—I got puking-drunk in college more than once—but I don’t enjoy the taste of wine and beer enough to have it with every meal.
Picking up the menu, I study it carefully. The only thing that looks to be within my price range is the pizza appetizer, so that makes my choice easy. I look up to find Marcus watching me with strange intensity.
“What is it?” I ask, feeling self-conscious.
“Nothing.” One corner of his mouth turns up. “You’re just really cute when you’re concentrating.”
Treacherous heat blooms in my cheeks again. “Um, thanks.” The words come out on an awkward mumble. Clearing my throat, I ask in a steadier tone, “What are you getting?”
“I’m thinking of the calamari for the appetizer and the squid ink risotto for the main course.
You’re welcome to share either or both with me,” he says, closing his menu.
“What about you? Anything in particular look appealing? If you’d like, I can recommend a couple of dishes, depending on what you’re in the mood for. ”
“Oh, no, I’m good, thanks. I’m going to get the pizza appetizer.”
He smiles. “Good choice. It’s excellent here. What about the main course?”
“I’m not that hungry, so I’ll just stick with the appetizer.
” It’s not a lie, because I had a peanut butter sandwich before leaving the house.
It’s my way of ensuring I don’t get starvation jitters while waiting for the food to arrive—and that I don’t blow through my monthly food budget in one meal.
“Are you sure?”
He’s frowning at my about-face, so I give him my best not-hungry smile. “Yep. The pizza appetizer is plenty for me.”
“Okay, if that’s what you want.”
He motions for the waiter to come over, and we order our food.
Then the waiter leaves, and it’s just the two of us at the semi-private corner table.
We stare at each other, and I feel that electric tension again, growing and expanding until it engulfs us in a strange kind of bubble.
We’re in a crowded restaurant, but it’s as though we’re completely alone.
I’m cognizant of him to a degree that scares me; every movement of his hands, every breath that expands his chest—I feel it so completely it’s as if an invisible string joins us together.
Desperate to break the spell, I say, “So, Marcus—”
“So, Emma—” he begins at the same time, and we both burst out laughing, the tension bubble popping like an overfilled balloon.