For a moment, I’m almost certain Emma is going to deck me—that or explode on the spot. “You told my grandmother we’re moving in together?”
“I did.” I smile darkly. “Are you going to tell her otherwise? Ruin her holiday?”
I’m being a manipulative bastard, I know, but I’m fighting for us—and I have no intention of losing.
For a moment, Emma seems struck speechless. Then her temper goes supernova. “You… you ass!” Her curls are all but vibrating with outrage. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
My smile darkens further. “Your boyfriend, kitten. Soon to be your live-in boyfriend—at least as far as your grandparents are concerned. Unless, of course, you don’t mind telling them—and me—why exactly you want this to be over.”
“I told you. Because we’re not compatible,” she says through gritted teeth. “You want your perfect Emmeline, and I—”
“Emmeline?” A puzzle piece—one I would’ve never found on my own—falls into place. “Is that what this is about? Emmeline?”
Emma’s entire body stiffens, and I see it then—the pain underneath the outrage and anger. Her eyes are much too bright, glittering with unshed tears, and her chin is quivering ever so slightly.
She’s hurt—somehow, I hurt her—and all of this is in response to that.
Except what does Emmeline have to do with anything? I only had dinner with the woman once—the night Emma and I met through our Emma-Emmeline/Mark-Marcus blind date mix-up. The elegant lawyer might’ve been a good fit on paper, but we had zero chemistry, and throughout the dinner, all I could think about was the fiery little redhead I’d briefly mistaken for Emmeline. In fact, Emma only knows about Emmeline because on our first real date, she asked if I ever connected with the woman I was supposed to meet, and I told her the truth. We then talked about the matchmaker and what qualities I want my future wife to—
Oh fuck.
I can’t believe I’ve been so blind.
I, who have made a career out of connecting dots and seeing what everyone else is missing, have been oblivious to an answer written in large letters in front of my very eyes.
“Emma, kitten…” Moving slowly so as not to spook her, I capture her tightly balled hand between my palms. “Tell me something. Why did you send me away the first time? That Friday night when I broke down your door?”
She blinks. “What?”
“Why did you send me away that night?” I repeat. After she told me to leave, I’d been so focused on convincing myself it was for the best that I never really pondered why she did it. I suppose I assumed she shared the doubts I had about our relationship at the time, but I never explicitly articulated that to myself. “We were having a great time, and all of a sudden, you said it’s not going to work out and I should leave,” I continue. “Why?”
“Well, because… because it was the right thing to do.” With the shield of her anger dissipating, she seems so young and vulnerable that my chest swells with tenderness. “We’re not compatible at all and—”
“Not compatible how?” She already said that, and I ignored it as an obfuscating non-answer—but what if she meant it?
What if she took what I said on our first date to heart, and while my feelings on the matter have evolved with my growing obsession, her doubts about us have never gone away?
Her hand twitches in my grasp, her gaze sliding away from mine. “You know exactly how. You want a woman who’d be ‘an asset at social functions.’ Like Emmeline or… or Claire—you know, the politician’s wife from House of Cards?”
And there it is, the core of the matter.
I have never seen the show, but I know what she’s talking about, having come across an interview given by the actress once. The character she plays—a ruthless politician’s perfectly poised wife—is indeed how I’d always envisioned my future romantic partner. Except when I try to do that now, the picture refuses to form in my mind. All I can see is my little redhead, surrounded by her white, fluffy cats.
I don’t know what that means yet, but I know if I don’t convince Emma to give us a chance, I’ll never find out.
I take a deep breath. “Emma, kitten, listen to me—”
“Why are you doing this?” she bursts out, her gaze snapping back to my face. Her eyes are glittering brighter, the tears on the verge of spilling over. “Why are you here? Do you just like toying with me? One weekend you’re all in, the next three days you’re gone—”
“Yes.”
Her eyes widen at my callous answer, and I catch her other hand before she can punch me.
“Yes,” I continue, holding her gaze. “I like toying with you, kitten… Love it, in fact. I also love fucking you. And I really, really love being with you. I love holding you as you sleep, and I love watching you as you eat. Fuck, even the way you breathe turns me on. If I could, I’d toy with you day and night, keep you in my bed and at my side all the time. Because you are what I need, Emma. Not Emmeline or Claire or some ‘asset.’”
She’s staring up at me like she can’t believe her ears, and in a way, neither can I. But the very idea of dating another woman feels wrong, repellent even. Maybe in the future, if my obsession with Emma eases, I’ll resume my search for the ultimate trophy wife, but right now, all I want is the woman standing in front of me.
A woman I need to convince of that, as she’s already shaking her head in disbelief.
“You don’t… you don’t mean that.” Pulling out of my hold, she backs away. “It’s the chemistry talking, that’s all. We’re too different, too—”
“Are we, though?” Ruthlessly, I advance on her. “Because it didn’t feel like that last weekend. In fact—”
“Why did you disappear on Sunday then?” Her voice
