Chapter 15 #3
“Ah, an omnivore. I like it.” He grins, showing those sexy cheek grooves, and I feel the magnetic pull again.
It’s unfair that the best-looking guys are often the ones who are off limits, either because they’re assholes or because they’re gay.
Marcus is definitely not the second, but the jury is still out on the first.
“So,” I say, leaning back in my chair to put a little distance between us. “What is your criteria? Do you have a list with all the qualities you want your future wife to possess?”
He raises his eyebrows. “Doesn’t everyone? Isn’t there something you’d want your future spouse to be? Some qualities you’d want him to have?”
“I guess,” I say after considering it for a moment. “I’d definitely want him to be nice and kind to animals… especially cats. I’d want him to love cats.”
“That’s it? Just nice and an animal lover?”
“Well, it would be good if he shared some of my interests, too. The more we have in common, the greater the odds that it’ll work out longer term.”
Marcus regards me with a curious smile. “You don’t believe in opposites attracting?”
“No—not in any sustainable way, at least,” I say as he reaches for more risotto.
“I think two incompatible people can be physically attracted to each other, but for an enduring relationship to form, you need a stronger foundation. There must be shared values and beliefs, goals and interests… If you don’t have that, the relationship will be like a match: fragile and quick to burn out. ”
His smile fades, his expression turning unusually serious. “You’re right. I couldn’t agree more.” He takes a sip of water before digging into his food again, and I watch in amazement as he polishes off a sizable portion of the risotto in record time.
“So you never told me what your criteria is,” I say when Marcus’s plate is almost clean. “Is it height, weight, eye color… education level?”
He puts down his fork, his gaze locking on my face.
“Education is definitely important to me. So is intelligence, upbringing, and a certain amount of ambition. Obviously, I want to be attracted to her, but I’m also looking for a woman who’d be an asset at social functions, someone who’d be comfortable interacting with my existing and potential investors and wouldn’t mind doing so.
And above all else, I want a wife who’d understand that a successful career requires sacrifices, that you have to work hard to get somewhere in life. ”
I stare at him in fascination. His bluntness is both refreshing and off-putting.
What he’s describing sounds more like a business partner than a love interest. For some reason, I picture the wife from House of Cards —the cool, elegant Claire who’s the female half of the scheming political power couple in that Netflix show.
Marcus isn’t a politician, but his requirements seem similar.
I don’t know what kinds of events he attends, but the fact that he refers to them as “social functions” implies they’re not backyard barbecues in Brooklyn.
“What about her personality and interests?” I ask, pushing away my dismay.
I don’t know why I feel disappointed at Marcus’s revelations; it’s not as if I didn’t know we were utterly different.
When he asked me out, I knew the dinner would be a one-off affair, and it shouldn’t upset me to learn that he wants a woman who’s my polar opposite.
I’m no longer as socially awkward as I was in my teens, but I’m enough of an introvert that a casual gathering with friends can tire me out.
Just the thought of some big formal event makes me want to break out in hives, and I wouldn’t know how to begin making small talk with those investors of his.
I can talk to strangers about books, but that’s about it.
“Personality and interests?” Marcus appears to give it some thought as the waiter clears off the dishes and sets a dessert menu in front of each of us.
“Yes, obviously, those are important too. I’d want her to be level-headed and reasonable, not a hothead.
Also honest. Honesty and loyalty are very important to me. ”
“Me too,” I say, nodding. “I think trust is key in any relationship.”
Marcus smiles. “I’m glad we agree on that.”
“What about interests?” I ask. “What do you like to do in your spare time?”
“I don’t have a lot of that, but I suppose I like collecting things, and I’m also into fitness. I enjoy challenging myself physically, so I do a couple of marathons and triathlons every year, and I train in mixed martial arts when I can.”
“Oh, wow.” That explains his athletic build—and confirms my overall impression of him. Marcus is indeed an extreme Type A, the kind of man who accomplishes more in a week than most people do in a lifetime. “That’s hardcore.”
“What about you?” he asks as I glance down at the dessert menu, more out of habit than any real interest. “Do you have any hobbies?”
“I like books,” I say sheepishly, looking up to meet his gaze.
I wish I could tell him I’m into something cool and sporty, like skiing or rock climbing, but walking is my exercise of choice.
The only time I run is when I have to catch the train.
“When I’m not editing books, I’m usually reading them,” I elaborate when he continues looking at me.
“I also like TV shows and movies. You know, pretty normal stuff. Oh, and cats. I love my cats, obviously.”
“Obviously,” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smile. “I like books too, by the way. In fact—”
“Would you like some dessert?” the waiter asks, approaching our table, and I shake my head.
“I’m good, thanks.”
“None for me either, thank you,” Marcus tells the waiter.
“We’ll just take the check,” I say before he can slip away.
The waiter nods and disappears, and I turn to find Marcus watching me with a frown.
“In a hurry to leave?”
“No, but I figured you might be,” I say honestly. “Clearly, we don’t have a lot in common, and you’re a busy man, so…” My voice trails off as Marcus’s frown deepens.
“Emma, listen to me,” he begins, but before he can finish, the waiter returns and discreetly places a small black folder in the middle of the table. In a practiced move, I snatch up the folder and open it, quickly skimming the lines on the check to confirm that my portion is indeed what I expected.
“What are you doing?” Marcus asks as I reach into my wallet and take out twenty-eight dollars—the cost of my pizza appetizer, plus tax and tip.
I look up to find his blue eyes narrowed and his jaw set in a hard line.
“I always pay for myself,” I explain, putting the money into the folder. “I don’t think it’s right for my date to pay for me when I’m perfectly capable of buying my own meal.” I start to move the folder back to the middle of the table, but Marcus reaches across the table and catches my hand.
“Emma…” His grip on my fingers is gentle, but his eyes glint harshly as he says in an even tone, “I asked you to dinner, and I’m paying for it. End of story.”
My breathing speeds up at his touch, and it’s all I can do to say steadily, “I understand the custom, but I don’t feel comfortable with it. I prefer to pay my own way.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Why? A dinner doesn’t mean you owe me. You don’t have to sleep with me just because I’m paying for your pizza.”
The ache between my thighs returns as his words bring up the images from my dream.
“I know that.” My words come out strangled.
His palm is warm and strong, keeping my hand pinned in place with no effort, and I feel like I’m burning up from the heat inside me.
“It’s just my dating policy, that’s all. ”
He stares at me, his eyes boring into mine, and the rest of the restaurant fades away again. It’s as if we’re completely alone, the tension thrumming between us like an exposed wire. I feel caught, utterly powerless to break his spell as he leans in until his face is less than a foot from mine.
“This is not going to end here, kitten,” he says softly. “You know that, right? It doesn’t matter if you pay for your dinner or not, because we’re still going to end up in the same place.”
I can literally feel my panties getting soaked. “W-what place?”
“My bed.” His eyes glitter darker. “Or your bed—or a hotel bed if you prefer. Hell, it doesn’t even have to be a bed. I’d fuck you on the table or the floor, or up against a wall. Just tell me when and where, and I will make it happen.”
My breath stops in my lungs. I’ve never been propositioned so bluntly, and certainly never in those terms. Most men try to couch their intent in terms of romance, or avoid talking about it at all.
Certainly, my ex-boyfriend would’ve turned redder than my hair if those words had come out of his mouth.
I should probably be insulted, but I’m too turned on to work up any real indignation.
Something about his unapologetic crudeness intensifies the wet heat between my legs, turning my insides soft and liquid.
I want exactly what he’s offering: him, thrusting into me…
on the bed, the table, the floor… Even up against the wall, though I can’t quite picture it with the difference in our heights.
He’s all wrong for me, and I want him. I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
“I… I have to go.” My voice sounds choked as I yank my hand out of his grip and stand up, nearly turning over my chair in my haste to get away. Spinning around, I rush to the coat check like the coward that I am, the scenes he evoked playing in my mind like a graphic movie.
I almost have my coat when a big hand reaches past me, grabbing it before I can. I look up, my pulse accelerating further as I meet that cool blue gaze.
“Let me take you home,” Marcus says quietly, and I stare up at him, powerless to do anything else as he wraps the coat around my shoulders, his warm fingers brushing over my collarbone.
My neck hurts from arching it back to hold his gaze, but I can’t look away from those magnetic eyes, can’t focus on anything but the dark, heated promise within them… and my own helpless response.
“I won’t pressure you to do anything you don’t want,” he promises softly, and I believe him.
Swallowing my heart back into my chest, I let him button up my coat and lead me out to the car.