“Are just people,” Kendall says firmly. “Being rich and famous doesn’t make you superhuman, I told you that. They’re just individuals; treat them as such, and you’ll be okay.”
Easy for her to say. With her outgoing personality, she could have a witty exchange with a tree. Whereas I—
“Stop it, Ems.” Another loud honk in the background. “I can hear you thinking, and I don’t like it.”
“My thinking?”
“Your overthinking! Just put on your cat’s butt dress and go with the flow. And next time, let Marcus buy you an outfit like he offered. Now I’ve got to go; I’m getting into the subway. Bye!”
And she hangs up, leaving me no calmer than before.
26
Marcus
The first weekday of the month is always busy for me, as I spend all day catching up with my portfolio managers. I sit down with each one individually and go over his or her team’s P&L for the past month, their past and upcoming trades, and anything else they want to talk about, like hiring new analysts or getting a greater share of the fund’s assets under management. And this being December, it’s also when bonus talk begins, though I’m only giving out the official numbers in January.
In our business, a lot can happen in a month, both good and bad.
As I meet with one person after another, my thoughts keep drifting to Emma. I wonder what she’s doing, how she’s feeling, whether she’s still as panicked as she’d been this morning. Admittedly, it wasn’t nice of me to spring the dinner on her like that, but once the idea popped into my mind, I couldn’t let it go.
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.