Chapter 32
E mma
“Oh my God, this is so good,” I moan around a mouthful of cheese that was on fire just a few moments ago.
I’d never tried halloumi before, and I’d been seriously missing out.
Not only was it fun to watch the waiter set flame to the block of cheese as he brought it out, but the result is beyond delicious—rich, salty, a little crispy on the outside, and gooey-melty on the inside.
Probably a million calories in each bite, but so worth it.
“It’s one of my favorite things here,” Marcus says huskily, his blue eyes intent on my face, and a fresh wave of color washes over me as I realize that my near-orgasmic reaction to the food is turning him on again.
The man is a sex fiend, clearly—and so am I when I’m around him.
Still, after he got that embarrassing confession out of me, we’d somehow managed a normal conversation for the rest of the ride, with me babbling about my job at the bookstore and Marcus attentively listening.
I don’t know if he was really interested or merely indulging me, but I can’t deny that it felt good to have his undivided attention.
And I still have it—despite at least two women in this place doing their best to get him to notice them.
I have no idea if they know who he is or if they’re just responding to his commanding good looks, but either way, I don’t like it.
To his credit, Marcus seems oblivious to their existence—even when the supermodel-hot blonde purposefully drops her purse in front of his chair, so she can bend over and show off her tiny, toned ass in her skimpy dress.
I gape at her, stunned by her brazenness, but Marcus doesn’t so much as spare her a glance.
Nor does he look at the gorgeous brunette two tables over, who’s already paraded in front of our table twice, flipping her long, straight locks over her shoulder each time and smiling at Marcus like he’s Thor reincarnated.
“Do you come here a lot?” I ask, stifling the urge to trip up the brunette when she walks by our table yet again, swaying her slim hips like she’s on a catwalk. “To this restaurant, I mean.”
He nods, cutting into his own portion of the halloumi. “It’s only a few blocks from my place, so I’m here at least once a month.”
That explains it. I bet those two have found out that a billionaire frequents this restaurant, and they’re here specifically to meet him. Maybe they’ve even bribed a waiter to learn about Marcus’s reservation.
Why else would the blonde be sitting at a table all by herself? Women—especially gorgeous women—don’t go to nice, sit-down restaurants on their own. The brunette, at least, appears to be with a friend—who, come to think of it, is glaring at me as if she’d like to ask the waiter to set me on fire.
I look away, the last bite of cheese turning bitter in my mouth as I realize she probably thinks I’m like her friend—a gold digger.
Eeenie, meenie, miney, moe, everyone knows your mom’s a ho!
I reach for my glass of water with an unsteady hand, the childish taunt ringing in my ears as if it’s been minutes instead of years since I’ve heard it.
“Emma.” A large, warm palm covers my free hand. “Are you okay?”
I nod and force a smile to my face. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Maybe because you suddenly looked like someone spit in your plate,” Marcus says dryly, withdrawing his hand.
“No, I just…” I take a sip of water and set the glass down. “People here know who you are, don’t they?”
“Ah.” His gaze clears, as if he’s solved a mystery. “Yes, they do—at least the owner and the staff. Is that what’s bothering you? You’re worried some of them might think you’re with me for my money?”
I flinch instinctively. Marcus is either eerily perceptive, or my hang-ups are more obvious than I thought. Unless… “Do you think I’m with you for your money?” I blurt, horrified. “Because I promise you, it’s not at all what—”
“No, of course not.” His jaw flexes. “I don’t think that at all.”
“Oh, okay.” I chew on my lip, studying his closed-off expression. “Are you sure? Because I understand why you’d be concerned, and I can assure you that I would never—”
“I know, kitten.” His hard face softening, he reaches across the table to cover my hand again. “I know you would never use me like that.”
Use me.
I stare at him, the air in my lungs thickening until it feels like I’m sucking in water.
User. Whore. Sociopath. Manipulative bitch.
“How do you know?” My voice sounds as choked as I feel, all the epithets hurled at my mother playing in my mind on a loop. “What makes you so sure?”
“You.” His gaze is steady on my face as his thumb rubs a circle on the inside of my wrist. “The way you are.”
“But you don’t really know me. We’ve just met and—”
“I know enough.”
I stare at him, the pressure in my lungs intensifying. His trust is both heart-warming and crushing. Because he doesn’t know—not really. If he knew the full truth, he wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss this possibility.
I certainly wouldn’t in his shoes.
Shakily, I withdraw my hand from his hold. “My mother… she was a user,” I say, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat. I don’t know why I feel compelled to tell him this, but I do.
If he walks away, I want it to be now, before I can fall any deeper under his spell.
His gaze turns inscrutable. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that she used people—all people, but especially men who were interested in her.” I swallow the growing knot in my throat.
“Once, when I was nine, she slept with my science teacher so he wouldn’t give me a bad grade on a test. And before you ask—no, she didn’t really care about my grades.
She just wanted to show a decent report card to her parents—my grandparents—so they’d stop accusing her of neglecting me while she partied all over the city, dragging me from one boyfriend’s place to another’s whenever she got bored. ”
Marcus’s expression doesn’t change, so I plow on, determined to make him understand.
“They said she had an antisocial personality disorder, lacked empathy and all that. A sociopath, but not a particularly smart one, you know? Because the smart ones get far in life, and she didn’t—though she wasn’t hampered by anything like morals and ethics.
The only person she cared about was herself, and she did whatever it took to get her way—lying, cheating, stealing… and always, always using people.”
“You included?” he asks quietly, and I shrug, though my throat feels even tighter.
“I suppose, though I was too young to be of much use to her. She did like to dress me up and parade me in front of her boyfriends—kind of like a pet. Mostly, though, she ignored me—but that’s not the point.” I drag in a breath. “Look, Marcus, the reason why I’m telling you this is—”
“You are not like her.” His gaze drills into me. “Do you hear me? You are nothing like her.”
I stare at him, startled by the intensity in his voice. “I know, but—”
“You are nothing like your mother,” he repeats in a softer tone, and something inside me—a cold knot I never knew was there—begins to melt, a warm feeling creeping in.
“Thank you,” I say hoarsely, and then I have to look away as our waiter comes by, bringing the main course.
I don’t want him or Marcus to see the sheen of tears in my eyes.