I can’t bear the thought of going home by myself tonight, much less breaking up with him.
“Good.” The intensity in his gaze doesn’t abate. “We’re in agreement then. We’re doing this, subject to your ground rules.”
“Right,” I say warily. Why do I feel like he’s going somewhere with this, and I’m not going to like wherever that is?
“In that case, I’ll get the movers over to your studio tonight.” A wicked smile curves his lips. “Think of my place as a hotel I’ve booked on a long-term basis.”
19
Marcus
“This does not mean I’m moving in with you,” Emma emphasizes for the fifth time as we approach her doorstep. “I’m just going to sleep over at your place tonight.”
“Right. With your cats.” I keep my voice even and soothing. No need to spook her by gloating over this win. “Just as a trial run.”
“Not a trial run. One night only—and only because you have that early-morning meeting and can’t stay over at my place tonight.”
“Of course. Whatever you say.” I give her the most innocent smile I can muster. “Just don’t forget their litter boxes, food, and anything else they need.”
She casts a glare at me. “Obviously. Be prepared, though: they’re going to wreak havoc on your place. Mr. Puffs especially.”
“I don’t mind.” That’s a lie—I’m not looking forward to having animals running around my meticulously clean apartment—but Emma will latch on to any sign of hesitation on my part, and I’m not about to let her use her pets to stall this.
If I want her at my place, I have to put up with the furry beasts. I come with money, she comes with cats—that’s the deal.
We both have to compromise.
“Okay, fine. But it’s your funeral,” she mutters, unlocking her door. “Or rather, your fancy things’ funeral.”
I don’t have a chance to respond because the moment the door swings open, Emma is mobbed by her cats. Meowing loudly, three fluffy white Persians attack her like she’s their favorite meal. One climbs up her jeans, Ninja-style, while the other two do infinity loops between her legs in a synchronized attempt to trip her.
If it were me, I’d be running for the hills, but Emma looks incandescently happy. Grinning hugely, she uses one arm to hug the cat that’s using her body as a tree pole—it’s the medium-sized one, Cottonball—and simultaneously bends to pet the other two. The small, dainty one—Queen Elizabeth—immediately starts purring, while the giant one—the incongruously named Mr. Puffs—hisses at her, green eyes slitted, and swats her hand with a furry paw.
“Oh, don’t be mad, Puffs,” she coos, bravely reaching for him again. “I’m sorry I left you for so long, I really am, but everything’s okay now. Mama’s back.”
The evil creature hisses at her again, but keeps his claws sheathed this time, magnanimously letting her scratch the top of his head and underneath his chin.
Finally, all three cats are pacified and back on the floor, and Emma is able to advance deeper into her tiny apartment despite the tripping hazard her pets represent. I walk in after her, wheeling her suitcase, and survey the rundown place.
It’s just as I recalled. Pretty much everything in here is junk, with the possible exception of the floor-to-ceiling cat maze that decorates one wall. I’ll have to make space for it, or something like it, in my penthouse, once Emma gives the green light for the movers to do their thing.
Hopefully, the cats will be okay without the maze for however long this trial run lasts—and it is a trial run, no matter what she says.
The cats wouldn’t be coming with her otherwise.
It was surprisingly easy to convince her to stay with me tonight—once I suggested the furry beasts accompany her, that is. Before that, it was battle royal, with her completely refusing to see reason. To me, it’s beyond simple: if she’s okay with staying in a hotel I’ve booked, then she should be fine staying at my place. Permanently. Starting with tonight. But Emma doesn’t see it that way.
To her, moving in together is a big deal, and she refuses to take that step so soon.
It’s frustrating, but I’ll take what victories I can get, starting with convincing her to spend the night in my home. The cats were initially an obstacle to that—she didn’t want to leave them alone after being away for so long—but a smart man knows how to take hurdles and use them to leapfrog toward his goal. Hence, my idea of telling her to bring the cats with her.
To have Emma, I’d put up with a horde of demons camping out at my place—which, for all I know, the cats might be.
Of course, early-morning meeting or not, I could’ve stayed with Emma at her place, but that wouldn’t have gotten me any closer to having her move in with me. And frankly, I’m not too keen to spend another night on her narrow, lumpy bed.
Call me spoiled, but I much prefer my comfortable king-sized mattress.
“All right, guys, let’s get you fed before we go,” Emma says, entering her tiny kitchen, and I watch as she opens cans of cat food and puts each one on a separate plate. I take note of which cat gets which brand/flavor, in case I ever have to do this, and then I focus on what I came here for.
Getting Emma packed and ready to go home with me tonight.
I start by unzipping her suitcase and taking out all the clothes she brought to Florida. She’s worn them all, so they go into a laundry hamper. Then I sort through what remains in the suitcase: her toiletries, flip-flops, laptop, and an ancient, beat-up Kindle. She’ll need all of that at my place, so I repack it neatly and walk
