Wall Street Titan (Alpha Zone 1)

Thus resolved, I get off the train at the next stop and go across the platform to get the one heading in the opposite direction. It takes a solid twenty minutes before it comes—stupid MTA with its endless delays—but finally, I’m on the train heading back to the café. I still haven’t had dinner, so I’m both tired and hungry, but I’m determined.

If my phone is at that café, I’m getting it back.

I can’t let this date from hell become a complete disaster.

6

Marcus

I know it’s not the best thing for my future relationship with Emmeline, but as soon as we’re done eating, I order an Uber instead of inviting her out for drinks. I use her morning flight to Boston to justify the early end of our date, but in reality, I’m anxious to begin my search for the redhead.

As ridiculous as it is, I need to return that phone.

The Uber ride to Emmeline’s hotel takes about a half hour in traffic. I come out of the car to open the door for her and walk her to the hotel entrance, where I give her a gentlemanly peck on the cheek and promise to call her. It’s a promise I fully intend to keep—Emmeline is what I want, after all—but tonight, I need to get away from her.

I have to locate Emma and rid myself of this budding obsession.

The moment Emmeline disappears through the revolving hotel doors, I step to the side and pull out the pink phone. It’s an older Android model, and fortunately, there is no password required to unlock the screen.

I start by pulling up the pictures to make sure that it is, in fact, Emma’s phone. At first, all I find are snapshots of fluffy white cats—how many does she have?—but soon, I come across a smiling selfie of a redhead in a tank top and loose pajama pants.

It’s Emma all right.

My heartbeat speeds up, and my suit pants suddenly feel tight. There’s nothing in that picture that’s meant to be seductive—she’s sitting with her knees pulled up to her chest, so I can’t even see the shape of her breasts—but something about the pale curves of her shoulders, the scattering of freckles across her nose, and the dimples in her cheeks makes me harder than an iron rod.

Fuck. What am I doing?

Lowering the phone, I lean back against the outside wall of the hotel and squeeze my eyes shut. There’s something seriously wrong with me today. I never act impulsively or irrationally, yet I just cut short a date with the woman of my dreams and let her go back to her hotel room without so much as an attempt to kiss her—all so I could chase after a girl who is the complete opposite of what I need.

Maybe I should have my assistant return the phone to Emma. If I had such a strong reaction to her picture, it’s probably not a good idea for me to see her in person again.

Opening my eyes, I look at the pink phone again. Emma’s softly rounded face, framed by a halo of wild red curls, looks back at me, her gray eyes full of mischief.

Mischief and something so warm and seductive I can’t help reacting to it.

Something I can’t help wanting.

Staring at that picture, I understand for the first time how powerful the lure of temptation can be. Smoking, drugs, unhealthy foods, laziness—those have never been my vices. My self-discipline is legendary among my friends and colleagues. Once I set my mind on something, I do it, and I don’t let anything stand in my way. Whether it’s running a marathon in two and a half hours or graduating from college in two and a half years, I’m able to set goals and achieve them, and I’ve never understood people who say they want to do something but lack the willpower to make it happen.

Yet here I am, staring at a selfie of a woman I know would be bad for me. She’s chocolate and lazy days on the couch, Netflix binging and a pack of cigarettes. She’s everything I can’t have and shouldn’t want—an unhealthy temptation that can ruin everything. The smart thing to do would be to go home and hand over this phone to Lynette first thing in the morning. That way, I can get a good night’s sleep and call Emmeline tomorrow to set a time for us to meet again—maybe even arrange a trip to her hometown of Boston.

That’s the smart thing to do, but I don’t do it. Instead, my hand seems to move of its own accord as my fingers swipe across the screen to get to the contacts icon. My heart thuds in a heavy, expectant rhythm as I scroll through the list of names until I get to H, where I find the entry called “Home.”