I smile at him. “We focus on alpha generation under all market conditions, so it’s a mix of everything, from commodities to long-short equity to quant strategies. Lately, we’ve also been dabbling in some illiquid investments, including real estate and private equity.”
“And how long have you two been dating?” Mary Walsh asks, her gray eyes as bright and clear as her granddaughter’s. It’s obvious all the finance lingo has gone right over her head, and she couldn’t care less about my fund’s strategies. “Emma said you met through a dating app?”
I glance over the screen at Emma. She shrugs awkwardly, so I reply, “You could say that.” I guess she didn’t feel like telling her grandparents the whole messy story. “As to how long we’ve been together, our first date was earlier this month.”
Mary launches into her next set of questions, and I answer with calm patience. Yes, I’ve lived in New York City all my life except when I was away at school. Where did I go? Cornell for undergrad (finance major) and Wharton for MBA. No, I don’t have any family I’m close to, as my parents passed away when I was young. Yes, I own my apartment, and a few other properties as well. No, I have no plans to move out of New York to save on taxes.
For some reason, the interrogation doesn’t bother me—nor does the fact that with this call, we’ve just leapfrogged over months of typical relationship development. Offering to meet Emma’s grandparents had been an impulse on my part, but one I can’t bring myself to regret. Last night didn’t scratch my Emma itch—if anything, it made it stronger—and my fascination with her is growing by the minute. I want to know everything about her, to crawl into her mind and see the world from the inside of her pretty head.
At the very least, I want to meet everyone important to her, so I can figure out how to become one of those people.
Finally, Emma’s grandparents seem satisfied that I’m neither a bum nor a serial killer, and we’re already saying our goodbyes, with Emma standing next to me, when Mary says, “You’re not flying in with our Emma this coming week, are you, Marcus? Because if you are, I’ll be sure to make some extra food.”
Before I can say a word, Emma is already shaking her head. “Of course not, Grandma. I told you, we’ve just met, and besides, Marcus’s work is crazy busy. Right?” Her eyes cut to me. “You have an insane week at the fund, don’t you?”
“Yes.” My voice doesn’t sound entirely like my own. “Yes, I do. A killer workload all week long.”
“We understand.” Mary smiles gently. “But if you do manage to get free, you’re always welcome at our Thanksgiving table, Marcus. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“Likewise,” I say, and give the phone to Emma to disconnect the call.
I had no intention of going to Florida this week—even I know that’s too big of a step so soon—but for some reason, the knowledge that Emma doesn’t want me there stings worse than a Portuguese man-of-war.
38
Emma
Marcus is unusually quiet, almost brooding, as he leads me downstairs for brunch. Is he upset with me for allowing the grilling? Because he pretty much asked for it—insisted on it, really. Still, I feel a little bad that I let my grandparents put him through the wringer.
I should’ve shielded him from the worst of it, like I’d always done with Jim, my college boyfriend.
Oh, well, too late now. And Marcus had held his own the way Jim could never have. He’d spoken to my grandparents respectfully but as an equal, answering their questions without the slightest hint of nervousness or uncertainty. At the same time, he hadn’t boasted about his accomplishments, all of his answers factual but revealing little of the extent of his power and wealth. Of course, Gramps and Grandma had been impressed anyway—and why wouldn’t they be?
It’s not his billions that make Marcus Carelli formidable; it’s the steely, indomitable core of the man himself. A few minutes in his company is all it takes to know that he’s a force of nature, someone you’d never want to cross.
“You okay?” I ask softly as we approach the dining area with Marcus still not saying a word. The rich, savory aromas emanating from the kitchen are making my stomach growl, but I’m too concerned about his strange mood to think about food. “I’m sorry about my grandparents. They’re just—”
“Protective of you.” He smiles, and though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, the strange tension between us fades. “They seem like lovely people. Your grandfather reminds me a bit of Mr. Bond.”
I beam at him. “Yes, they’re great. And Gramps actually was a teacher. He taught English and Social Studies for almost forty years before retiring.”