Chapter 40
E mma
I don’t understand what’s happening, why I’m in Marcus’s car—with him in the backseat next to me—heading over to my apartment.
“Don’t you have work?” I try again. “I thought you Wall Street types worked on the weekends.”
He lifts his broad shoulders in a shrug. “It can wait. I’m my own boss.”
I give up. Because there’s apparently no polite way to ask a man why he’s so determined to watch you do laundry and cuddle with your cats. Especially if that man is Marcus. Once he sets his mind on something, there’s no stopping him—I’ve learned that the hard way. And I do mean hard .
I’m very sore from all the fucking.
A tendril of heat licks at me at the recollection of how I got that way, and I sneak a glance at the cause of that soreness—who’s watching me with a darkly intent stare.
Holy shit. Does he want sex again ?
Is that why he’s not letting me leave his side?
That must be it. I can’t imagine why else he’d come to my shoebox studio in Brooklyn instead of staying in his luxurious penthouse. I certainly wouldn’t leave that place if I were him.
I’m about to inform him that I can’t have sex for at least a few hours when my phone dings with an incoming text.
It’s from Kendall.
Well? Any more gifts from Mr. Wall Street?
Then a second one: Did you text him a thank-you like I told you?
Oh, crap. Kendall has no clue that we’re miles beyond thank-you texts, and why would she? I haven’t had a free minute to call her since Marcus ambushed me last night with the books, and the sex, and the dinner date, and then more sex, and—
“Who’s that?” Marcus asks, and I look up, my face flushing betrayingly.
“No one. I mean, it’s just my friend—Kendall, you know? That is, of course you don’t know; you’ve never met her. But she’s my best friend from college and—” I stop, realizing I’m babbling. “In any case, she’s the one who texted me.”
“What about?”
Is he serious?
He certainly looks serious, his thick eyebrows arched expectantly, as if it’s a given that I’ll answer.
“Just… something random.” I’m too flustered to come up with any kind of clever lie. “Like I said, it’s nothing.”
My phone dings with a third text, and I can’t help glancing at the screen.
Ems! Text him. I mean it.
“Nothing? Really? Let me see.” And before I can react, Marcus plucks the phone from my grasp, his eyes skimming over the texts with lightning speed.
“No! What are you doing?” I gasp in horror, but it’s too late.
A big grin is already spreading over his lean, hard face. “So Kendall knows about me, does she?”
My cheeks burning like Florida asphalt in July, I attempt to snatch the phone back, but he transfers it to his other hand, holding it out of my reach.
“Yes, she does. So what?” I snap, sitting back empty-handed. To get the phone back, I’d have to lean over his lap, and I’m not about to stoop to that indignity. “I didn’t sign any kind of NDA.”
“NDA?” He’s laughing now, white teeth flashing and cheeks bisected by those sexy grooves. “What have you been reading, kitten? Fifty Shades ?”
My flush impossibly intensifies, and I attempt to grab the phone again—to no avail. He holds me off with one arm, still laughing, and I see his other hand’s thumb land on the little phone icon next to Kendall’s name.
“Oh my God, you just dialed her. Hang up!” I make another futile grab for the phone. “Marcus, hang up right now!”
He glances at the phone just as Kendall’s tinny voice says from the speaker, “Hello? Emma, is that you?”
I expect him to hang up then, or at least hand the phone over to me, but I underestimated his assholeness. Lifting the phone to his ear, he says with a wicked smile, “No, sorry, Kendall. This is Marcus with Emma’s phone.”
There’s a moment of dead silence, during which I try to decide if I should brain him or set him on fire, and then an incredulous: “What?”
“Give it to me,” I hiss, all but sprawling across his lap to reach the phone, and this time, he lets me have it, mischief dancing in his eyes as I scramble back to my seat, clutching my prize.
“—are you doing with Emma’s phone?” Kendall is asking warily as I lift the phone to my ear.
“It’s me, hi. Sorry about that. Marcus was just being a dick.” I glare at him as I say it, but instead of taking offense, he starts laughing again, his powerful shoulders shaking.
“Are you talking about Marcus Carelli ?” Kendall sounds as if I’ve just blasphemed about the Pope in the Vatican. “ The Marcus Carelli? He’s with you right now?”
“Yep.” I pointedly turn my back to him. “We’re in a car heading to Brooklyn.”
“Wait, what? From where? Start from the beginning,” Kendall demands, and I grit my teeth, throwing Marcus a fuming look over my shoulder.
He’s already stopped laughing, but he’s still grinning, the bastard.
“I can’t really talk right now,” I tell Kendall, looking away lest I smack him with the phone. “I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Wait! Just tell me if you two have hooked up.”
“Kendall—”
“Just a yes or no, quickly.”
“Yes, okay? It’s a yes.” I hang up and turn to meet Marcus’s amused—and not the least bit apologetic—gaze.
My temper boils over. “You had no right to do that. That is my phone and my friend and—”
“You’re right.” He catches the hand I’m waving around—the one still clutching the phone. Bringing it to his lips, he kisses the knuckles reverently. “I shouldn’t have done it, kitten. I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, you’re very cute when you’re angry. I’ve thought so from our very first meeting.”
“Oh, we’re doing clichés now, are we? What’s next? You knew I was the one from the moment you laid eyes on me?” To my relief, I still sound pissed, rather than all gooey and melty, like my insides. The traitors have turned to mush at the tender gesture and the bullshit compliment.
“No,” Marcus says, all traces of amusement gone. “I didn’t.”
Ouch. I blink and try to smile, as if all meltiness didn’t disappear in an instant, my stomach shriveling into a hard ball instead.
Obviously, I’m not the one for him—that would be Emmeline or someone like her—but did he have to be so blunt about it?
I was using that as an example of a cliché, not fishing for a proposal.
Still, something about my reaction must’ve given me away because Marcus’s face darkens, his hand tightening around mine. “Emma, what I meant was—”
“Just don’t do it again.” I somehow manage to sound playful, the smile actually appearing on my lips. “This is my phone”—I yank my hand out of his hold—“and you don’t get to just grab it and look at my messages, no matter how many clichéd compliments you give me afterward.”
“What about non-clichéd ones?” he asks huskily, the glimmer of amusement returning to his gaze. I must be a better actress than I thought. “Can I grab it then?”
“No,” I say with exaggerated firmness, as if talking to a child or a dog. “My phone is off limits.” I make a show of stuffing it into my purse and zipping it up for emphasis.
He sticks out his lower lip in a pout, just like a disappointed toddler would, and I can’t help laughing for real, even as some of the melting feeling returns, along with the lingering hurt from his words.
Because in that pout, as comical as he meant it to be, I see the vulnerable little boy he had been once, and I can’t help wishing for the impossible.
Can’t help wanting this—us—to be real.