“Do you have someplace to be?” he inquires, cocking his head, and my cheeks warm as I realize he’s dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a soft-looking T-shirt—the first time I’m seeing him in something other than his business attire.
Or naked.
Because I’ve definitely seen him naked.
Stop thinking about sex, Emma. And stop blushing. “My cats will be upset if I don’t come home soon,” I say, my face burning despite the admonitions. “And I’m supposed to Skype with my grandparents at 11:30. Speaking of which, do you know what time it is?”
He grins. “Last I checked, it was 11:23.”
“What?”
“What can I say? You didn’t get that much sleep last night.”
Because he kept waking me up by sliding into me, or going down on me, or sucking on my—oh God, here I go again.
“Right, okay.” With effort, I focus on something other than the way the soft material of the T-shirt hugs his defined pecs. “Where’s my purse? I need to text my grandparents to reschedule.”
“Why? You can Skype here. My internet is really fast, and I’ll give you privacy.”
I blink. “Here? As in, your bedroom?”
“Or library or guest room—wherever you prefer. You might not want to do it downstairs, though. Geoffrey is cooking up a storm for brunch, and the smells will drive you crazy.”
He’s driving me crazy. Doesn’t he realize that if I Skype my grandparents from some place other than my apartment, I’ll have to explain where I am?
“No, that’s okay, thanks. I’ll just—”
“Why not?” He folds his powerful arms across his chest, drawing my attention to the flexing muscles. “Food won’t be ready for another half hour, anyway. Geoffrey started cooking late, as I wasn’t sure when you’d wake up.”
I tear my eyes away from those impressive biceps. “You don’t understand. My grandparents are nosy—really nosy—and I don’t want to lie to them and claim I’m in some fancy hotel.”
“Why would you lie to them?”
I stare at him, dumbfounded. “Well, I’m not going to tell them that we… you know.”
“Why not? Are they old-fashioned? Do they expect you to wait until marriage?”
“No, they’re actually pretty liberal, but they’re my grandparents.” How dense is he? “If I tell them about you, they’ll think it’s a big deal and ask a million questions and want to meet you and stuff.” There, spelled out in detail. Now run for the hills, as any sane man would.
He uncrosses his arms, not looking the least bit concerned. “That’s fine. I’m happy to meet them.”
“Y-you are?” Is there something wrong with my hearing? Because I’m pretty sure Marcus just told me that he wants to meet my family.
“Yeah, why not? Feel free to introduce me when you talk to them. I’ll be in my office, catching up on work. Oh, and the Wi-Fi password is bond$carelli19.”
And with that, he walks out of the room—or rather, his ginormous closet.
36
Emma
I don’t call my grandparents.
Not at 11:30, at least. It takes me several minutes to find my purse in Marcus’s huge bedroom—it was sneakily hanging on the back of the door—and when I finally fish out my phone, it’s already 11:37 a.m. and I have a worried text from Grandma.
I’m normally never late when it comes to our biweekly Skype sessions.
Ugh. Now I can’t not explain. If I just text back to reschedule, she’ll think something is seriously wrong.
Phone in hand, I look around. The bedroom is as gorgeous as the rest of the penthouse, and there’s a nook with a sleek lounge chair where I can Skype. But I really don’t feel comfortable talking to my grandparents next to the bed where Marcus fucked my brains out. Repeatedly. It’s bad enough I’ll be sitting in a borrowed robe.
Library it is, then.
I rush over there and plop my butt into one of the chairs by the fireplace. Then I get my phone on the Wi-Fi, send the videocall request, and wait.
“Emma, sweetheart!” Grandma’s rounded face fills the small screen, with Gramps’s ear next to her. “What happened? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, I just woke up late. I’m so sorry. How are you guys doing?”
“Oh, we’re great. Already prepping for Thursday,” Grandma says, beaming as Gramps moves fully into the camera view. With a start, I realize she’s talking about Thanksgiving—which means I’m flying out to Florida this Wednesday, having bought the plane tickets on a mad sale last year.
“Your grandmother’s already gotten the turkey,” Gramps says as proudly as if it were his achievement. “And she found a new stuffing recipe online.” He peers at me, his nose growing as he leans closer to the camera. “Wait a minute. You’re not at home.”
“Um, no.” Crap, I’m so not ready for this. If I’d remembered that Thanksgiving—complete with endless opportunities for interrogation—is this coming week, I definitely wouldn’t have done the call here. “I’m at a… friend’s place.”