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  Instead of begging him to come back and finish what we started.

  “Emma, listen to me,” Kendall continues, and I reluctantly open my eyes as she climbs back onto her bar stool. “Marcus clearly likes you. So what if you don’t fit his requirements for a wife? That doesn’t mean you can’t have fun with him. You’ve been having sex dreams about the man, for chrissakes. And just think about it: Marcus Carelli. Do you know what kind of doors would be open to you if you were on his arm? The places he could take you, the people you could meet?” When I stare at her blankly, she rolls her eyes and says pointedly, “That publishing industry job you’ve wanted forever? He could hook you up in a moment. Hell, his fund could probably buy any publisher you want with spare change.”

  I wince. “Kendall—”

  She holds up a hand. “I know, I know. You’re determined to stand on your own two feet, and that’s admirable. But guess what, Ems? The ground under your feet can be a green lawn or a swamp, and we don’t get to choose which—unless we’re very lucky and fate hands us a way to cross over. And you, my darling, just got handed the equivalent of the Golden Gate Bridge. Marcus Carelli can lead you to the greenest pastures imaginable; all you have to do is say yes.”

  On the subway ride home, I do my best to forget Kendall’s words, but the bitter taste in my mouth lingers. I’ve told her about my childhood more than once, but she still doesn’t get it, not really. To her, Marcus’s billionaire status is a plus, whereas to me, it’s a huge minus. His money and connections are the last thing I want, and that fact alone would’ve doomed any relationship we might’ve started.

  Not that he even wants a relationship with me. I’m pretty sure it would’ve been a one- or two-night deal, at most. And while I had entertained the idea, when it came down to it—when he didn’t deny that he might ultimately marry Emmeline—I couldn’t go through with it, no matter how much my body begged me to.

  I was too overwhelmed by how he made me feel—and downright terrified of what it would be like when he inevitably walked out of my life.

  So it’s for the best that I made it happen yesterday, before I got in any deeper. It really is. So what if I felt so shitty after rejecting him that I couldn’t sleep? It was too much for me—he was too much for me—and it’s good to know one’s limitations.

  Or at least that’s what I’ve been telling myself from the moment Marcus walked out, closing the repaired door behind him. Without his presence, my studio immediately felt colder, emptier… less vital somehow.

  No, that’s not true. I refuse to go there. However volcanic our attraction, we’re otherwise completely incompatible. I made the right choice, no matter what Kendall or anyone else thinks.

  All I need to do is make myself believe that.

  24

  Marcus

  * * *

  I spend the rest of Friday evening trying to convince myself that what happened was for the best, that I’m glad Emma pulled the plug on this insanity before it went any further. Granted, it would’ve been nice to fuck her and relieve the tension that’s taken hold of me from the moment I laid eyes on her, but ultimately, this couldn’t have gone anywhere.

  Emmeline—or another woman like her—is what I need, and Emma would’ve just been a distraction. Had already been a distraction, in fact, messing with my focus at work and elsewhere.

  In spite of that perfectly rational reasoning, I barely sleep Friday night, feeling tense and restless despite two cold showers and an encounter with my fist. Each time I close my eyes, I see Emma in her lacy underwear, and my body burns with the need to have her, to feel her soft curves under my palms and taste the sweetness of her lips.

  Finally, I give up on sleep and go for a ten-mile run. The hard pace I set is sufficiently exhausting, and by the time I sit down to eat the gourmet breakfast my butler has prepared for me, some of my frustration has eased. Still, I decide to call Emmeline to really get my mind off things.

  We have another pleasant chat. I learn that she’ll be coming to New York on a business trip in December, and we agree to meet for dinner the night she’s free. It’s all very proper and civilized, and when I hang up the phone, I don’t feel the slightest urge to stalk her or drag her off to a cave.

  And that’s how it should be, I tell myself as I go into my home office to catch up on some work. With Emma, I was constantly on the verge of losing control and forgetting what’s really important. The hunger the little redhead awakened in me was too potent, too dangerous. I want to be attracted to the woman I’m with, but not like that.

  Not to the point where she’s all that matters.

  I work through the morning and most of the afternoon, and then, because my restlessness is returning, I call up my friend Ashton for a sparring session at our MMA gym.

  He happens to be free, and we meet up an hour later. He’s as good at mixed martial arts as I am, and after an hour of nonstop back-and-forth, the score is even and we’re both dripping with sweat.

  “Grab a beer after we get changed?” he offers as we walk to the locker room, and I gladly agree.

  Anything to keep me from thinking about Emma.

  “So, how did the matchmaker work out for you?” Ashton asks as we sit down at the bar. It’s barely six o’clock, so even though it’s a Saturday, the place is quiet enough to carry on a conversation. “My aunt told me you got in touch with Victoria,” he continues as the bartender hands us our beers. “Did she find you a wife yet?”

  I lift my beer and take a long sip in an effort not to snap at him. This is the last thing I want to talk about right now, but since he’s the one who turned me onto Victoria Longwood-Thierry, I owe him an answer.

  “She put me in touch with a promising candidate—a woman named Emmeline Sommers,” I say, putting down my beer. “But she’s in Boston, so we’ll see how that goes.”

  “See? I told you.” He grins, showing off his pearly whites. “That shit works—at least if you want it to. You couldn’t pay me enough to be with one chick for the rest of my life, but if that’s what you’re after, might as well make sure that pussy is top notch.”

  He sounds like the asshole that he is, but the two women standing by the bar look dazzled by his smile. It’s always that way with him. Ashton Vancroft comes from old money—serious money—and it shows. His innate rich-boy arrogance, coupled with his athletic physique and golden surfer looks, draws women like a magnet, and it has for as long as I’ve known him—which is soon to be well over a decade.

  We met in business school, where we were both getting our MBAs—me, so I could convince investors to trust me with their money, and Ashton, because it was expected of him. As he explained to me once, his career options were lawyer, doctor, or investment banker; anything else was deemed unacceptable for a Vancroft. He finally rebelled by dropping out of business school to become a personal trainer, but the damage was done.

  He’d acquired too much business savvy to live the poor and carefree life he’d always wanted.

  What started off as a few clients on the weekends quickly grew into a profitable business, thanks to word of mouth about his hardcore, no-nonsense approach to fitness and the app Ashton created to train his clients remotely during their travels. Before long, he had thousands of clients all over the world, and as their before-and-after pictures flooded Instagram, his training app exploded in popularity, rocketing to the top of all the app stores. Now he’s a multimillionaire even without his parents’ money—and is in denial about the whole thing.

  “How’s the business coming along?” I ask, because I know that will aggravate him—which is only fair, given how much his prying into my dating life has aggravated me.

  Predictably, he grimaces. “Awful. Revenues grew by another twenty percent last month, and I’m getting flooded with sponsorship offers. I don’t want any of that shit, but do they listen? No. They’re convinced I must be dying to peddle their shitty supplements or gym equipment or whatever crap they’re selling. Never mind that none of that quick-fix
bullshit works. It’s all about proper nutrition and challenging your body and—”

  I automatically tune out as he launches into his usual rant about couch potatoes looking for magical solutions to their laziness, and my thoughts drift to Emma. I wonder what she’s doing this Saturday night. Is she in her PJs cuddling with the cats, or is she out somewhere?

  Maybe on a date?

  My hand tightens on my beer mug as I picture her sitting in a restaurant with some asshole, smiling at him with her pretty, dimpled smile. He’d be panting over her, all but salivating as she ate her cheap slice of pizza or whatever, and then they’d amicably split the bill before going together to her place and—

  Fuck, no. I’m not going there.

  I’m already feeling homicidal as it is.

  She’s not yours, I tell myself as I drain my beer. She has every right to see whomever she wants and do whatever she pleases. We’re not together anymore—not that we ever were. Two dates don’t make a relationship, and neither do a couple of kisses… at least once you’re out of high school.

  So it makes no sense for me to feel like this is a real break-up, like I actually lost something when she said that this is over and told me to leave. At most, my pride should be wounded by her rejection, nothing more.

  Yet when the two women by the bar sidle up to us, flirting and batting their long lashes, all I can think about is Emma and her dimpled smile. And when I excuse myself to go home, it’s her lush curves I picture as I stand in the shower, my fist wrapped around my aching cock.

  It’s her face I see in my mind as I come.

  25

  Emma

  * * *

  The next eleven days drag by at a snail’s pace. I go to work, I come home, and I work on my editing website. Financially, things are looking up: I got a couple of new clients through referrals, one of my regulars just sent me a new novel to work on, and an author who’d been having financial difficulties finally ponied up the payment he owed me for editing his thousand-page epic fantasy novel. My cats haven’t had any costly trips to the vet either, so for once, my bank account balance is in the four figures. I’ve even paid down a small portion of my student loans, making the recent interest rate spike hurt a little less.

  So there’s no reason to feel like I’m trudging through a swamp with a fifty-pound pack on my back.

  “Call him,” Kendall urges me again on Wednesday morning, when I complain that I’m in a funk and have been having trouble sleeping. “Tell him you’ve changed your mind and want to see him again. Or at least text him a quick hello. Maybe he’s still interested and will respond.”

  I wave away her suggestion, claiming my bad mood has nothing to do with that, but all of Wednesday, my phone taunts me, the bright pink case as aggravating as a red cape to a bull. I don’t call—heroically, I resist the urge—but that night, I dream that I gave in… and that Marcus immediately came over.

  I wake up slick and aching, on fire from my dirtiest dream yet. Sitting up, I turn on the bedside lamp, and the cats glare at me from my pillow, annoyed to be disturbed from sound sleep.

  “Yeah, whatever, remember the vase you smashed in the middle of the night last week?” I mutter at Mr. Puffs, and he swishes his tail, acknowledging my point.

  The cats promptly go back to sleep, but I get up, too agitated to lie still. The phone is on my nightstand, taunting me, calling to me. I reach for it but yank my hand back at the last moment, telling myself that this is a bad idea.

  A very bad idea.

  Still, I can’t take my eyes off the device, and my hand reaches for it again, picking it up.

  Don’t do it, Emma.

  I freeze, trying to heed the voice of reason, but a second later, my fingers are moving of their own accord, swiping across the screen to locate my texts with Marcus. My heart beats furiously in my chest as I type out, “Hey…”

  Don’t send it. Erase, erase, erase!

  I chew on my lip, staring at the screen, my finger hovering over the delete button. To send or not to send?

  A soft meow startles me out of my existential dilemma, and I look up to see Queen Elizabeth gracefully making her way toward me across the blanket.

  “Do you think I should send it?” I ask her, and she meows again.

  “Really?”

  She gives me a look that says I’m being dumb by talking to a cat about this.

  “Well, who else am I going to talk to in the middle of the night?”

  She sits down and starts licking her paw.

  “Okay, fine, be like that.” Annoyed, I look down at my phone—and my stomach drops.

  Somehow, as I was talking to the cat, my finger slipped and pressed “send.”

  26

  Marcus

  * * *

  My phone pings at 2:49 a.m. on Thursday, waking me up less than two hours after I got home from work. Cursing, I pick it up—and see that it’s a text message.

  From Emma.

  I’m instantly awake, my entire body buzzing with adrenaline as I jackknife to a sitting position and swipe across the screen.

  Hey…

  That’s all the message says.

  I throw off my blanket and turn on the light. I can see the three dots dancing on the screen, telling me that Emma is about to send a second message.

  Hey… do you want to come over?

  Hey… I’ve missed you.

  Hey… so I realize I’ve made a mistake.

  Hey… what are you doing tonight?

  The possibilities are endless, and I’m fucking dying to see what she’s going to say.

  The three dots disappear, as if she’s stopped typing and deleted her message. Five seconds later, they reappear.

  I stare at the phone, my heart pounding with predatory anticipation. I can’t wait for her to admit that she wants me, that she’s changed her mind about sending me away. I have an important investor meeting first thing in the morning, but if she wants me to come over right now, I’m there.

  If I could, I’d teleport myself to Brooklyn, so I could turn up on her doorstep as soon as I receive that text.

  She’s taking her sweet time composing it, so I get up, unable to sit still. Clutching the phone, I head to the bathroom to get ready in case this is, as I’m hoping, a booty call.

  I’m almost done shaving when the phone finally pings with a new text. Setting down the razor, I swipe across the screen with one semi-dry finger.

  Sorry, sent to the wrong person.

  I reread the words in disbelief—and growing fury.

  What the fuck?

  She was texting someone else at three a.m.?

  Fighting the urge to smash the phone against the marble countertop, I roughly wipe away the remnants of the shaving cream and throw the towel in the sink. Theoretically, this someone could be a friend or a relative, but practically, the chances of that are nil.

  There’s only one person you text at this hour, and it’s someone you’re fucking—or thinking about fucking.

  And that someone isn’t me.

  White-hot fury sears through me as I picture the guy—probably some asshole fresh out of Peace Corps who owns a million cats. He wouldn’t have a fucking clue how to please a woman, yet he’d get to be in Emma’s bed because he’s an animal lover and fucking “nice.”

  Well, I am not nice—and I have never given up on something I truly want. Over the past twelve days, I’ve done my best to forget her, to convince myself to move on, but every night, I’ve dreamed of her, and every morning, I’ve woken up hard and frustrated, unable to focus until I’ve relieved myself with my fist. Whether I like it or not, this new obsession of mine is not going away, and it’s time I’ve accepted it.

  Grimly, I open my email and compose a message to the private investigator I use to keep tabs on C-level executives at the companies we’re heavily invested in. He operates just this side of the law and can sniff out a scandal years before any gossip rag gets a clue. I’ve never had him investigate a woman I’m intereste
d in before, but there’s always a first time.

  Stalker move or not, I have to know whom Emma might be seeing—because I’m done playing by the rules.

  One way or another, the little redhead will be mine.

  27

  Emma

  * * *

  The flowers arrive Thursday afternoon, just as my boss is telling me all about his new diet. The vase is so big that the delivery guy strains to lift it onto the counter, and when he finally succeeds, the enormous bouquet of pink, yellow, and red tulips nearly blocks the register.

  “Is it your birthday today?” Mr. Smithson asks, eyeing the flowers in confusion as I hunt for a card in the forest of stems and leaves. “I could’ve sworn it was in September.”

  “Um… it’s definitely in September.” My face turns bright red as I find the card and read the one-word message. My boss is still looking at me quizzically, so I lie, “This is just something from my grandparents. I love tulips, and they do this once in a while, to let me know they’re thinking of me.”

  “Oh.” Mr. Smithson blinks. “Okay, well, enjoy.”

  He ambles away to restock the thrillers, and I exhale, my hand shaking with a mixture of trepidation and excitement as I lift the card and reread the message.

  It’s just one simple word.

  Hey.

  I’m almost calm by the time I get home from work, having convinced myself that the bouquet was Marcus’s payback for my dumb texts last night. It was definitely a cowardly move on my part to claim that I’d sent that “hey” to the wrong person, but I panicked and didn’t know what else to do.