I’m going to have the lush little redhead for dessert and worry about consequences later.
9
Emma
My legs are shaking as I make it into my apartment and hang up my coat by the door. Whatever little energy I got from eating the banana is long gone, and I’m all but passing out from hunger. Despite that, I have the strange sensation that I’m floating on air, my heart racing from the aftereffects of adrenaline and dizzying excitement.
Marcus—tall, arrogant Marcus with his perfectly tailored suit and a coat that costs more than my quarterly rent—came to my apartment and returned my phone.
It seems impossible, surreal, yet it clearly happened, as I’m holding said phone in my hand. He gave it to me, and now instead of worrying about the hit to my bank account, I’m unsettled for a completely different reason. My breathing is panic-attack fast, my palms are sweating, and I feel so wired I could bounce off the walls despite my exhaustion.
Holy. Fucking. Shit. Marcus came to my apartment.
When I first saw him standing there, looking like some kind of caped villain in his unbuttoned knee-length winter coat, I thought he was a burglar and nearly had a heart attack. Because why else would someone be lurking on my doorstep so late in the evening? I was a second away from screaming my head off and sprinting away when he spoke, and then my knees went weak for a different reason.
The man who was on my mind all through the subway ride home—the man I was convinced I’d never see again—was by my door, being the complete opposite of an asshole.
Right now, I’m too tired and hyper to figure out what that whole encounter meant, so I don’t even try. Instead, I focus on my cats, who are all rushing toward me, meowing loudly. Mr. Puffs, as the biggest, pushes Queen Elizabeth and Cottonball out of the way and stakes his claim on me by winding his giant furry body between my legs as I attempt to make my way to the kitchen.
“Stop it, Puffs,” I order, but he ignores me, rubbing himself on my calves to mark his territory. His siblings follow in a calmer fashion; as usual, they let Mr. Puffs be the annoying one.
“Oh, come on, just give me a second,” I say in exasperation, nearly tripping over his tail. “I’m getting you food, I promise.”
Cottonball lets out a loud meow at the mention of food, and Queen Elizabeth joins in with her softer, more delicate voice.
Even when hungry, she sounds like a lady.
When I finally make it into my tiny kitchen, I grab three cans of cat food and open them, putting their contents on three individual plates. My cats are very particular about their food, so I’m careful to put on each plate the precise flavor and brand that cat prefers. Queen Elizabeth likes Fancy Feast Wild Salmon, Cottonball likes variety so he’s getting the Chicken Feast Classic today, and Mr. Puffs has developed a taste for Purina Seafood Stew Entree. Once Puffs finishes his portion, he’ll eat some of Queen Elizabeth’s and Cottonball’s too, but he has to start with his own plate.
I suspect it’s because he feels more like the boss that way.
As soon as I put the plates on the floor, the cats dive in, and I’m free to feed myself. Fortunately, I got my bookstore paycheck on Monday, so my fridge is full. I have fruits, vegetables, bread, and some deli meats, so I slap together a quick sandwich and devour it while standing in the kitchen. Then, feeling infinitely more human, I check to see if I got any messages from the real Mark.
To my disappointment, the answer is no. He must’ve taken offense to being stood up and decided to forego all contact with me. Though I’m exhausted, I write him a quick email with an apology and explanation about the mix-up, and then I finally head to the shower.
I have to rinse off the city grime before I get into bed.
* * *
By thinking about ways to get new editing clients, I manage to keep my mind off Marcus all through the shower. It’s only when I’m lying under the covers, surrounded by my cats, that I realize I’m still far too hyper to sleep. It’s as if an electric current is buzzing under my skin, keeping my heart rate elevated and my body uncomfortably warm.
Marcus was waiting by my door when I came home. He came all the way here to return my phone.
It still feels unreal, partially because it’s hard to believe he went to such trouble just to be nice. Though our meeting in the café was brief, Marcus didn’t strike me as much of a good Samaritan. Nor is his choice of profession indicative of a man who’s particularly altruistic. I was an English major in college, but I know several finance majors who went to work on Wall Street after graduation, and all of them are highly ambitious, driven to maximize their productivity and monetize (their terminology, not mine) every hour of their time. They’re Type A in the extreme, and if Marcus runs his own hedge fund, he must be that, times a hundred.