“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say, and go hunting for a vase big enough to hold the enormous bouquet. As I bounce around the kitchen, I realize I feel giddy, almost high at the idea that Marcus might like me. He’s the polar opposite of my type, but something about him draws me—which explains those dreams last night.
His big hands all over my body, his hard-muscled chest pressing down on my breasts as he moves inside me…
Whoa. A hot flush crawls along my hairline. Despite my lengthy dry spell, I have a healthy libido and enjoy sex, but this is something else entirely. My heart seems to have taken up drumming lessons in my chest, and my panties feel damp from the mere recollection of those dreams.
This is attraction like I’ve never felt before—base, primal, and having nothing to do with logic or intellectual connection. I know next to nothing about Marcus, and what little I do know suggests we don’t have anything in common, yet the mere thought of him turns me on more than an hour of foreplay by my college boyfriend.
“Do you think I’m in heat?” I ask Queen Elizabeth as I grab a big pot—the closest thing I have to a vase of needed size. “I mean, I’m human and all, but this is kind of extreme, don’t you think?”
Queen Elizabeth looks up and daintily runs her tongue over her face, cleaning off any remnants of her food.
“Yeah, you’re right. I’m being ridiculous. Human females don’t go into heat.” I fill the pot with water, remove the plastic wrap from the roses, add the flower food to the water, and put the roses in. They end up listing to one side, but they still look beautiful—and very expensive.
If my grandmother knew about this, she’d say Marcus is courting me.
“Do you think he’s courting me?” I ask the cat, but Queen Elizabeth just sits gracefully and starts licking her paw. She’s clearly had her fill of interaction with a human, and I don’t blame her.
I should be calling Kendall with this, not bugging the cat.
As soon as the thought occurs to me, I run to my phone and eagerly swipe across the screen. Before I can select Kendall’s number, though, a message notification pops up, and my pulse jumps further.
It’s a text message from an unknown number.
Hi, Emma, it reads. This is Marcus. I hope the flowers and the gift for your cats got to you safely. Are you free this Thursday evening? I’d love to take you out to dinner. We can debate Wall Street ethics if you wish.
I stare at the text, feeling like I’m hyperventilating. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise—after all, I did think, just moments ago, that Marcus might be courting me—but somehow, I still feel caught off-guard.
Dinner? On Thursday? That’s tomorrow.
Something soft taps my calf, and I glance down to see Cottonball swishing his tail back and forth as he stares up at me.
“He wants to have dinner with me tomorrow,” I tell the cat, and even to my own ears, I sound shell-shocked. “Can you believe that?”
Unlike Queen Elizabeth, Cottonball is not a female of any species, so he doesn’t care about my dating issues. He just lifts his paw and swats my calf again. Sighing, I put down my phone and pick him up, knowing he won’t leave me alone otherwise. Thankfully, he’s not as heavy as Mr. Puffs, so I can hold him with one arm, which leaves my hand free to pick up the phone again.
Chewing on my lip, I read the text again and wonder what to do. If this were any other man—Mark from the dating app, for instance—it would be easy. I’d thank him for the thoughtful gift, suggest a pizza place next to my apartment, and see how things go. But this is Marcus—he of the tailored suits and sex-dream-inducing hands. He makes me uneasy, and not just because of my physical reaction to him.
As bizarre as it is, there’s something almost… dangerous about him, something not quite civilized.
Cottonball emits a loud purr, bringing my attention back to him, and I put the phone down to stroke his soft, fluffy fur. He’s the cuddliest of my cats, demanding a thorough petting session at least once a day, and I’m normally happy to oblige him. Right now, though, I’m too overwhelmed to deal with a needy cat.
Marcus asked me out on a date, and I have no idea what to say.
12
Marcus
Why isn’t she answering?
Frustrated, I glare at the phone, where a tiny notification at the bottom informs me that my text message was received and read ten minutes ago. I know my frustration is not rational—ten minutes is not that long—but I can’t control the impatience consuming me.
Why the hell isn’t she answering?