I step outside, grateful to be out of the cat-infested hallway. When I was a boy, I used to like dogs and cats, but pets are no longer my thing. I dislike the idea of taking care of them, plus there is the whole messy and unsanitary aspect of having animals indoors.
Not your problem, I remind myself as Emma manages to step outside sans cats and turns around to lock the door. If I were actually considering Emma for a relationship, this would be a stumbling block, but I’m not.
I’m here to satisfy this odd craving and get her out of my system.
Done with the door, Emma turns around to face me and gives me a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that. My cats can be a bit of a handful.”
“No problem.” I politely offer her my arm, and my stomach clenches when her small hand slips through the crook of my elbow. She’s tiny next to me, the top of her head barely coming up to my shoulder, but there is nothing childlike about the sensual sway of her hips as I lead her toward the car.
Emma Walsh might not be my type, but I want her too much to care.
15
Emma
Marcus leads me to a fancy black car parked at the curb and opens the door for me. I climb into the back seat, my face hot despite the chilly November wind as he takes a seat next to me. The car is large and spacious, but with Marcus there, it feels stiflingly small. It’s not just his large frame, either; it’s everything about him. He takes up space in a way that goes beyond the physical, commanding the very air around him.
Next to him, I feel like an asteroid caught in Jupiter’s orbit—small and powerless to escape the massive planet’s pull.
“The restaurant, please, Wilson,” Marcus says to the driver, and I see the man nodding in the rearview mirror as the car starts moving. The fact that Marcus knows his name makes me wonder if Marcus hired the car for the evening, or if Wilson is his personal or company driver. Do people even have personal drivers these days?
Before I can ask, Marcus transfers his attention to me. “So, Emma,” he says, his deep voice tugging at that something in me again. “Tell me about yourself.”
“What would you like to know?” I ask, hoping I sound like a confident woman instead of the nervous twelve-year-old who seems to have taken up residence in my body. I have the unsettling sensation that I’m at an interview—an impression heightened by the fact that Marcus is wearing a suit and tie under his unbuttoned winter coat. I know he probably just came from work, and his wearing a suit doesn’t mean I’m horribly underdressed, but I feel that way: awkward and uncertain and out of place.
Stop it, Emma. He’s just a guy. A hot and intimidating one, but still just a guy.
“Have you lived in Brooklyn long?” he asks, his pale gaze shadowed in the darkened interior of the car.
“All my life,” I say, striving for a casual tone. “Born and raised. How about you?”
“I was born on Staten Island,” he says. “So I’m a New Yorker like you.”
“Oh. Are you from an Italian family, by any chance?” That could explain the olive tint to his skin.
“On my mother’s side.” His words are curt, as if I’d touched a nerve.
“I’m mostly Irish,” I volunteer, hoping to smooth over whatever error I made.
“I guessed as much.” Marcus’s reply is wry, and as the car stops at a streetlight, I see a hint of a smile on his face.
I instinctively touch my hair. “It’s pretty obvious, huh?”
“It was just a lucky guess,” Marcus says, and I grin at him, some of my nervousness ebbing.
We continue to make small talk for the rest of the fifteen-minute ride, and I learn that Marcus lives in Tribeca while his office is in Midtown. I’m not surprised; if anyone could afford to live and work in Manhattan, it would be a hedge fund manager. My Wall Street salary index is fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure those guys make bank.
“What’s your fund called?” I ask, remembering Kendall’s question as the car comes to a stop in front of a small, cozy-looking restaurant. My friend will undoubtedly drill me on this, so I better gather all the facts.
“Carelli Capital Management,” Marcus replies as he opens the door and climbs out, then holds open the door for me. As I step out, he gently clasps my elbow, making sure I don’t trip, and warmth floods my cheeks again. Even through the thick wool of my winter coat, I feel the restrained strength in his grip, the power that could be devastating if unleashed.
He doesn’t let go of my arm when I’m out of the car, and my heart pounds heavily as I stare up at him. The streetlights illuminate his mouth and the hard cast of his jaw, leaving his eyes in shadow, and for a brief, fanciful moment, I feel like a small animal caught in a hunter’s snare. Something hot and electric arcs between us, the moment fraught with tension—then he releases my arm and turns, offering me his elbow.