I want my kitten at the restaurant with me tonight, and not just because that means I’ll see her hours sooner.
I want her to know it’s not just sex between us.
I want to show her I’m in it for good.
Of course, it would’ve been better if I’d decided this sooner, so I could’ve given Emma more time to prepare, maybe even talked her into letting me buy her something suitable for the event. She claimed she has something at home, but I’ve seen her closet and I very much doubt that’s the case.
Not that I care what she wears; it’s more about her being comfortable. The BE—Before Emma—version of me would’ve been horrified that I’m bringing a girlfriend in cheap, worn-out clothes to an investor dinner, but the AE version doesn’t give a fuck. Emma is more important to me than all of my investors combined, and in any case, at this point in my career, I could show up to this dinner naked, with all three of Emma’s cats sitting on my shoulders, and these people would still jump through hoops to give me money.
My fund’s returns speak for themselves.
So yes, I don’t need to impress anyone with the woman I’m going to marry, but I suspect Emma will impress them anyway. The longer I’m around her, the more I see that her beauty doesn’t come from the clothes she wears or how she styles her hair; it shines from deep within her, her warm, sweet sensuality as powerful a lure as anything I’ve known. That dimpled smile alone is enough to send heat rushing to my groin, and I know I’m not the only one susceptible to it. When we were in Florida, men of all ages were eyeing her like hungry jackals; it’s only my presence that deterred the fuckers from approaching to ask her out.
I have no idea how she stayed single for so long, I really fucking don’t.
Which reminds me… Holding up a hand to get my telecom PM to stop talking for a second, I lean over my desk and press a button on my intercom.
“Lynette, I need you to come into my office as soon as Henry here is done,” I say when my assistant answers. “I have a special project for you.”
Buying a ring might be premature, but I haven’t gotten where I am by not planning for the future. It’ll take time to make Emma fall in love with me, but as soon as she does, I’ll be ready.
I’m going to marry her, and fast.
27
Emma
Taking a deep breath, I smooth my palms over the dress Geoffrey ironed for me and try to rub away the scuff marks on my high-heeled boots—the newish ones I’d worn on my first real date with Marcus. Inside my dimly lit studio and on New York’s muddy streets, they’d looked fine, nice even, but here, in the middle of Marcus’s bright, gleaming entryway, there’s no hiding what they really are: cheap knockoffs that have seen better days.
Oh, well. At least my gray dress and the beige woolen coat I’m about to put on are blessedly cat-hair free, again courtesy of Geoffrey. I left work a half hour early in case of traffic, but Wilson got me to Manhattan in record time, so I decided to stop by Marcus’s place and make myself as presentable as possible before heading over to the restaurant.
I don’t want to embarrass Marcus in front of his investors—at least any more than I’m bound to embarrass him just by being who I am.
The scuff marks on the boots are showing no signs of disappearing, so I give up and straighten, about to leave, when a big white furball streaks toward me and jumps straight into my arms.
“Puffs!” Instinctively, I catch the cat against my chest, which means my gray dress—which was already pilled and rather sad-looking despite the ironing—is now also covered with white hair.
“Ms. Walsh, are you all right?” Geoffrey appears in front of me as if by magic, though it’s more likely he was chasing Mr. Puffs. The cat undoubtedly got into some mischief and, being smart and sneaky, decided to seek refuge with me. “Here, let me take Puffy from you.”
Puffy? Suppressing a hysterical giggle, I hand over the cat—who gives me a betrayed look that promises much retribution later—and walk over to the hallway mirror.
It’s even worse than I thought. The white hair is all over my chest, arms, and even the top portion of the dress’s skirt, probably as a result of the cat’s long, fluffy tail.
“Here, let me help you.” Deftly, the butler lowers Mr. Puffs to the floor, whips out a sticky roller from his pocket, and goes to town on all the hair clinging to my dress.
Three minutes later, the dress again looks its best—which is not saying much. But you have to work with what you’ve got, so I thank Geoffrey, throw on my coat, and hurry out to the car before any more of my cats decide to share their fur with me.
* * *
The ride to Midtown from Marcus’s place in Tribeca takes about twenty minutes, and the entire time, I’m doing breathing exercises to try to calm myself. I hate feeling so anxious and insecure; it reminds me of when I was an awkward teen trying to adjust to my changing body and hair that never wanted to behave. It also reminds me of how I felt before my first real date with Marcus. Thankfully, I’m no longer insecure around him—there’s nothing like a man sexing you up three times a day to assure a woman of her attractiveness—but I’m still acutely cognizant that I’m not what Marcus originally wanted.
Geoffrey could iron and de-hair my clothes from now ’till eternity, and I still wouldn’t be able to hold a candle to someone like Emmeline.
To my relief, the breathing exercises help, and by the
