Chapter 46
M arcus
Bleary-eyed, I scrub my palm over my face and glance at the clock.
We’ve been at it for over twelve hours.
I slap my palm on the table, and everyone snaps to attention.
“Enough,” I say. “Everyone, go home. We’ll resume this first thing in the morning.”
I don’t want their judgment compromised by lack of sleep.
It’s bad enough I’ve let my dick do my thinking for me.
“See you back here at seven?” Jarrod says, walking by me, and I nod.
It wouldn’t hurt to catch up with my CIO before the PMs pile in.
He’s only twenty-seven, but he has a knack for seeing the big picture, same as I do.
One day soon, he’s going to strike out on his own, but until then, I’ve got his clever brain to bounce ideas off of.
Everyone files out of the conference room, and I follow, a tension headache squeezing my temples as I close the door behind us. On the main floor, the analysts are hunched over their computers, crunching numbers and sorting through data, searching for something to bring to their PMs.
I’m tempted to send them home too, but since they don’t make the decisions, being clear-headed is less crucial for them. I decide to leave it up to the individual PMs and head out, my headache worsening with every step I take.
It takes less than twenty minutes to get home—traffic is nonexistent at this hour—and as I fall into bed, my thoughts turn to Emma for the fiftieth time this night.
She’s probably long asleep by now. I can picture her curled up with her cats in her short, narrow bed, her wild red curls spread over the pillow and her lush little body barely covered by the pair of panties and a tank top that she wears in place of pajamas.
Even with the headache beating at me, the image tightens my groin and makes warmth curl in my chest.
I’d give anything to hold her right now.
Anything at all.
My hand is already reaching for my phone when I realize what I’m doing. Swearing under my breath, I yank it back, furious with myself. This is the tenth time I’ve nearly called or texted her tonight, despite my resolution to do an Emma detox.
No seeing her or thinking about her—that’s the goal I’ve set for myself. And that means no calls or texts. I need to be in control of this addiction, to prove to myself that I can go without my fix for at least some time.
That I can function at work and elsewhere even with this obsession.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to focus on the investment ideas, so that as I sleep, my brain can process all the information I’ve crammed into it over the past twelve hours.
It’s often the best way to do it, to just step back and let the connections form on their own, without forcing the process.
Yet as I’m drifting into sleep, it’s not debt coverage ratios and volatility hedges that occupy my mind.
It’s her.
Emma.
The craving I can’t erase.