Don’t bother packing more than a handful of things.
Another command.
And then that last Directive From On High, delivered like an edict. I kissed you. You kissed me. And now, now what happened is over. It is finito.
At least he was right about that.
What had happened was over. Of course it was because, really, nothing had happened. A couple of kisses. Big deal. A night’s rest, a little time to think, and she’d realized that.
He’d caught her off guard, was all. Caught her when she was vulnerable, first saving her from the rain and the possible dangers of the street, then offering her a job anyone with a functioning brain would kill for.
The Knight Errant.
Except, he wasn’t.
He was accustomed to being the king. What did that make her? A peasant? Be ready at eight. Fine. Not a problem. He was her boss. He had the right to tell her when the workday began. But he had no right to tell her things were or were not finito when she had already decided that for herself, and he had no right to tell her what to pack or rather what not to pack.
Emily looked at her suitcase, standing beside her. Nola had once described it as the third room in their two-room apartment.
OK. So it was… large. What good was a suitcase if it wasn’t?
This morning, it was stuffed to the brim. Marco had said he would pay for the special clothes she’d need for formal work-related functions. Not a problem there, either, but the clothes she wore every day would be her own.
Right now, she had on jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt, a cashmere cardigan left over from her college days. They were flying to Paris. Well, this is how she’d have dressed if she were flying there alone. For comfort, not for style. He’d undoubtedly show up in one of those custom-made suits. So what? She would change when they reached the hotel. She had suits. Blouses. Shoes. Everything she could possibly need.
The Knight Errant. Sir Arrogant. He would surely not approve but that was not her problem, it was his.
Actually, his arrogance was his problem.
Emily snorted.
Carrie Bradshaw had Mr. Big.
She had Sir Arrogant.
The thought made her laugh. What a perfect title! Sir. Arrogant. Not Marco Santini, CEO. Not Marco Santini, Employer. Not Marco Santini, Studly Hunk…
Because he was. A studly hunk. How come she hadn’t mentioned that to Jaimie?
“Woof!”
Something rubbery, wet and cold jabbed at her hand.
Emily looked down. The owner of the something rubbery, wet and cold looked up. It was a small gray mop of a dog with bows in its hair, polish on its nails, a nose that sniffed at everything nonstop, and the desire to pee on the entire world.
Like her suitcase.
“No,” Emily said firmly.
The Mop bared its teeth. The gesture, combined with the bows and polish, turned it into a virtual clone of its owner, Emily’s downstairs neighbor and the premier neighborhood gossip, Mrs. Flynn.
The dog inched closer to the suitcase.
“Forget it,” Emily said, shooting to her feet and grabbing the case by the handle. Not that that would help. She’d had to bump the thing down the stairs.
“Precious only wants to mark his territory,” Mrs. Flynn said.
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