On Sunday, another icy storm blankets the city, so we don’t go anywhere, staying warm and cozy inside the penthouse with my cats. Marcus does his usual hardcore gym workout after breakfast, and because I have nothing better to do, I let him teach me how to properly lift weights. Afterward, we swim in the pool and eat lunch, then Skype for an hour with my grandparents. In the afternoon, we again do some work, and I covertly write another chapter of my secret project.
I now have five thousand words, and I’m getting seriously excited.
On the weekdays, we repeat the routine from last week, except Marcus convinces me to swim with him in the evenings. At first, I’m reluctant—I’ve always been too tired for exercise when I get home from work—but the pool is so convenient and refreshing that by the middle of the week, I find myself looking forward to the activity. Not that I’m a skilled swimmer or anything—I do something between a dog paddle and leisurely frog style—but it’s enough for my sluggish muscles because by Tuesday, I’m seriously sore. Of course, it could also be from the weightlifting on Sunday; it was the first time I’d stepped foot inside a gym in years.
“Poor kitten. Let me see if I can help,” Marcus croons sympathetically when I complain that I hurt all over. Then he lays me face down on our bed and goes to work, massaging each aching muscle until I’m overcooked spaghetti in seventh heaven—at which point he turns me over and makes me sore in an entirely different way.
It’s all so perfect it frightens me. If things go south now, it won’t just break my heart—it will completely devastate me. With each day that passes, I fall deeper under Marcus’s spell, grow ever more addicted to his vital presence and the way he makes me feel like I’m the only woman in the world. When we’re together, his focus on me is so absolute I feel like he notices every blink of my lashes, every subtle shift in my mood. Even when we’re both working on our laptops, a change in my breathing is all it takes for those cool blue eyes to home in on me… and fill with familiar dark heat.
He’s so intense about me sometimes it should be a relief when we’re apart, but it’s not—because I start missing him within the first ten seconds.
“Stop being such a scaredy cat. Why would things go south?” Kendall says when I confide in her during my lunch hour on Wednesday. “You two are perfect for each other. I’ve never seen a couple so in love.”
“That’s the thing.” I prop up my phone so I have my hands free to unwrap my sandwich—another fancy concoction of prosciutto on thinly sliced rye with arugula and fig jam. “You see, I love Marcus, but I have no idea if he loves me.”
Kendall snorts. “Yeah, okay, please. That man worships the cat-hair carpet you walk on. Case in point: he’s carved out an evening for you two to go to dinner with Janie and Mr. Suck-Up.”
I grimace. “Yeah, don’t remind me.” Biting into the sandwich, I mumble through a mouthful, “I agreed to go last week, but I’d much rather cuddle with Marcus and our cats at home.”
“Our cats, is it?” Kendall grins. “Are they his fur babies now too?”
“They might as well be,” I say after I finish chewing. “Cottonball has changed allegiances completely, and Queen Elizabeth is warming up more to Marcus every day. Mr. Puffs is the only holdout, but I think it’s because he’s batting for the third team.”
“His father, Satan?” Kendall guesses.
I shake my head. “Geoffrey, Marcus’s butler. Those two are getting tight. My cat actually behaves in his presence. Doesn’t even try to steal food when he cooks in the kitchen, can you imagine?”
“No way.” Kendall sounds appropriately shocked. “Maybe he has a thing for British men.”
“He certainly seems to,” I say, then recall the mystery that’s bugging me. “Speaking of men—American, not British—how did you and Ashton—”
“Wow, real smooth, Ms. Sleuth. Now why don’t you finish your delicious-looking sandwich, and I’ll go get myself a boring salad for lunch.” And as she hangs up, I hear her mutter enviously, “A butler who cooks, my foot.”
* * *
To my relief, the dinner with Janie and Landon that evening goes smoothly, with the banker only briefly wrinkling his patrician nose at the patch of cat hair that got on my new, stylish outfit when Mr. Puffs ambushed us on the way out. After that, Janie’s boyfriend turns on the charm, and though it’s definitely on the slightly fake side, the four of us end up having a good time—even after Marcus has another sneezing fit from Janie’s perfume.
“I’m so sorry,” she apologizes for the tenth time as we say our goodbyes, with me prudently avoiding hugging her this time. “I swear, I would’ve never worn it had I known.”
“No, stop. It’s totally my fault. I should’ve warned you,” I say, feeling bad. “At home, we’ve got almost everything unscented, so I forgot.”
“We’ll be sure to avoid any and all fragrance the next time we meet,” Landon announces, shaking Marcus’s hand with a big, toothy smile. I picture him throwing out Janie’s perfume that very night, lest he repeat the error with another important business contact, and hide my grin.
One
