by Anna Zaires
With her grandparents as a buffer, the residual tension between us melted away, her resistance to me fading until it was as if my stupid mistake of staying away from her had never happened in the first place. She didn’t even object when I paid for everyone’s lunch at the Italian restaurant, though I did find a twenty lying prominently on my wallet later that evening.
Once we’re back in New York, it will be different, I can tell. The next big battle—getting Emma to move in—is already brewing. When I came out of the bathroom this morning, I caught a glimpse of apartment listings on her laptop screen before she closed the computer—which means my ploy with her landlady is both working and not.
My kitten is planning to move but on her own. Despite our growing closeness over the past four days, she’s still afraid to trust me, to let me fully into her life.
“Marcus, what time are you flying out?” Mary asks, refilling my cup with more of her signature Colombian brew—a coffee so good my butler has already ordered it for me. “I assume it’s again out of Daytona?”
“That’s right.” I smile at her. “I told my pilot to have the plane ready by three p.m., so Emma and I would be able to stay for lunch.”
“Wait, what?” Emma looks up from her omelet. “You mean, you’d be able to stay for lunch. My flight is at 12:45, so Gramps and I have to leave for Orlando in an hour.”
I stare at her. “Orlando? Kitten, I have an entire plane just for the two of us. Why would you make your grandfather drive you all the way to Orlando when Daytona is a half hour away, and we can fly home together?”
“That’s what I told Emma yesterday,” Ted says, looking at the two of us. “But she said that’s what had been decided.”
Emma’s jaw tightens, and I realize I was wrong. The next big battle isn’t moving her in; it’s this. For some reason, I assumed she’d fly home with me, that this would be like the boat, where she’d see the utility of joining me since I’ll be using the jet regardless.
“I can take an Uber to Orlando,” she says stiffly. “If driving me there is a problem.”
Ted sighs. “Don’t be silly. I’m happy to drive you, of course. It’s just that—”
“It’s just that I have a perfectly good plane nearby and a car parked outside that we can take there, thus freeing your grandfather from any and all unnecessary driving,” I say, my resolve hardening.
This isn’t like the twenty she put on my wallet—and which I quietly stuffed into her bag when she wasn’t looking. It’s bigger, more important. Worthy of a fight. Tomorrow, we’re going back to our regular lives, back to work and separate (for now) apartments. This is our chance to spend a few more hours together, and I’m not going to let it slip away because of her stubbornness.
Emma’s gray eyes turn stormy. “I have a flight, all booked and paid for. I even checked in online last night.”
“So what? I’ll get it refunded for you.”
She smiles triumphantly. “You can’t. It’s too late, and besides, it’s a nonrefundable ticket.”
My poor kitten. She has no idea what I can or cannot do. My answering smile would make a shark proud. “What if I could? What if I got you a refund right now? Would you fly home with me then?”
Mary and Ted turn expectant gazes on her, and she frowns, realizing I’ve maneuvered her into a corner. The nonrefundable ticket made for a good excuse; without it, all that’s left is her irrational stubbornness, laid bare in front of her grandparents.
“Look, Marcus—” she starts, but I raise my palm.
“Let me try to get you that refund, okay? Maybe it won’t work after all.” It will, of course, but I want her to think there’s still a chance she can win.
“Yes, let him try, sweetheart,” Mary urges softly. “Won’t it be nice to fly together rather than apart?”
Emma hesitates for two long seconds, but then she reluctantly nods. “Fine. You can try. But I’m telling you, the best they’ll be able to do is change my flight to another day after first charging an enormous fee.”
“We’ll see. Give me a few minutes.” Setting down my coffee cup, I get up and walk out onto the lanai, where I place a call directly to the United Airlines’ CEO. I have his cell number from our conversation on Wednesday, when I had him delay Emma’s flight by an hour.
Ten minutes later, I return to the table to find Emma staring at her phone in disbelief. “How did you do this?” she demands, turning the screen toward me to show an email with a refund confirmation. “And so fast? The last time I had to call this airline for something, I was on hold for two-plus hours. And they didn’t even charge a fee!”
I shrug innocently. “Maybe their customer service has improved.”
“Yeah, right,” she mutters, eyeing me balefully. “I guess money pulls all kinds of strings.”
Oh, she has no idea—but she will.
I intend for my money to pull whatever strings it takes to win her.
18
Emma
I should be mad, upset that I’d been outmaneuvered so skillfully, but as we board Marcus’s private jet, I can’t help but be grateful that we’d had those extra few hours with my grandparents—and that I don’t have to part from Marcus quite yet. As excited as I am to see my fur babies tonight, I’m dreading having to sleep alone in my cold, lumpy bed.
And then, of course, there’s the fact that I’m flying on a freaking private jet. As much as I’d like to pretend such over-the-top luxuries hold little interest for me, I can’t lie to myself.
Private planes are awesome.
First of all, we drive up right to the plane. No security lines, nothing—we step out of the car and board right away. I guess the thought process here is that the jet owner is not likely to blow up his own plane.
Then, as soon as we get on the plane, we take off, with only a five-minute delay to get air control clearance. There’s no waiting for the other passengers to settle in, no stuffing of bags into a tiny overhead compartment. We just get in and fly, like one would get into a car and drive.
Finally, there’s the plane itself. I’ve seen private jets in movies, but the obscene luxury of this mode of transportation didn’t fully register in my mind until I saw it in real life.
Marcus’s plane is huge. Smaller than a commercial airliner, obviously, but big enough to fit a dozen plush leather seats, a couch with a long coffee table in front of it, and a bedroom in the back. Yes, a freaking bedroom on a plane. Everything is decorated in shades of tan and cream, with natural wood accents, and looks so invitingly comfy that I plop onto the couch as soon as the initial ascent is over, just to test it out.
“Like it?” Marcus looks up from his seat, where he’s working on his laptop, and I kick off my flip-flops to stretch out on the soft leather surface. Soon, I’ll need to change into my winter clothes, but for now, I’m still in Florida mode.
“It’s not bad,” I concede, turning onto my side to face him. “I mean, it’s not as nice as a middle seat in Economy, but it’s got its charms.”
Marcus grins. “I’m glad to hear that. I was starting to feel bad for depriving you of that wonderful middle-seat experience.”
I sigh and turn over onto my back to stare at the ceiling, some of my euphoria fading. “You should feel bad. I can’t pay you for this, you know.” All of my savings combined won’t be enough to cover this private flight.
“Pay me for what? Having you here isn’t costing me a single extra penny. I would’ve flown home this way regardless; if anything, you’re doing me a favor by keeping me company.”
It’s the same rationale he used to get me on the boat, and though I see it now for the manipulative ploy it was, I can’t help wanting to believe it, to buy into the eminent reasonableness of his words. Kendall was right when she accused me of being putty in his hands. I am—because deep inside, I want the same things he does.
I’m losing these battles because when I’m fighting him, I’m fighting myself as well.
“Emma, kitten.” I hear him get
up, and a moment later, the couch next to me dips as he sits down, placing a hand on the back of the couch to cage me underneath his powerful arm. Despite the dominating posture, his expression is warm and tender as he gazes down at me. “Listen to me,” he says softly. “I’m rich, okay? Filthy rich. The kind of rich they scream about on the news. I got there through sleepless nights and hundred-hour workweeks, through taking massive risks and living with the consequences, good or bad. Yes, there was luck involved—there always is—but mostly, it was nonstop work. And now I want to enjoy the wealth I’ve earned, reap the rewards of my hard labor. But I can’t if the woman I’m with refuses to partake with me.” Gently, he brushes a stray curl off my face. “I know it’s hard for you, kitten. I understand where you’re coming from, believe me. But please, can you try? For me? Let me worry about the costs of things when we’re together. Let me pay for the luxuries I enjoy.”
I bite my lip. “Marcus, I—”
“Please, Emma.” He lays his hand on my arm. “Indulge me in this one small thing. I’m not asking you to forget your principles. If you wish to pay for yourself when we go out to a restaurant of your choosing, do so, by all means. But also let me take you out to the restaurants you wouldn’t choose, the ones where the chef presents you with a single berry for dessert.”
An involuntary smile tugs at my lips. “A single berry?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s ridiculous what those high-end chefs will deem the height of culinary art.” Despite his lighthearted words, his expression remains serious, his eyes intent on mine, and I know he won’t relent on this. I can feel his iron will beating at me, like a hurricane battering the coast, and I can feel myself bending under the force of it. This is important to him, and as much as I’d like to pretend we can go on as we have, I know better.
Whether I like it or not, I’m dating a billionaire, and I can’t expect him to live according to my budget.
Scooting toward the head of the couch, I sit up, so I don’t feel at such a disadvantage lying down. Not that I’m at any less of a disadvantage being vertical with Marcus, but it’s the feeling that counts.
“You’re right,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “It’s not fair of me to ask you to eat at Papa Mario’s all the time, or to expect you to stay at a Holiday Inn on vacation because that’s all I can afford. You’ve earned your money, and you should be able to enjoy it, whether you happen to be by yourself or with me. But if we’re to do this, we need to lay some ground rules.”
His eyes gleam brighter. “Go ahead.”
“First, you don’t buy me things. No clothes, no shoes, no purses, no jewelry, no electronics, no first-edition books, no expensive gifts of any kind. Small gifts are okay, obviously, but nothing that a regular person—say, a bookstore cashier—wouldn’t be able to afford.”
His lips tighten, but he nods. “Fine. I can live with that.”
“Second, if I invite you out to a place of my choosing, I pay for us both.” I raise a hand, forestalling his objections. “It won’t happen often, as my going-out budget is limited, but if you’re planning to pay for me at your single-berry restaurants, I will pay for you at Papa Mario’s and such.”
He sighs. “Okay. Anything else?”
I consider it. “I think that mostly covers it.”
“Let me make sure we’re on the same page.” He leans in, eyes narrowed. “If I let you pay when we go where you want, I can take you out anywhere I want, correct? And if I don’t get you expensive gifts, you will fly on my plane with me, and stay with me at whatever hotel I book, and do whatever activities I enjoy without any talk of paying for your portion, right?”
I nod, though my stomach is knotted tight. As necessary as this compromise is, it feels too much like everything I’ve fought against, like everything I don’t want to be. Four days ago, I couldn’t have imagined myself taking this step, but now, I can’t imagine walking away from Marcus—which is the only real alternative. An unthinkable alternative, because if I was in love with him before, spending this long weekend together and seeing him with my family has left me hopelessly addicted.
I can’t bear the thought of going home by myself tonight, much less breaking up with him.
“Good.” The intensity in his gaze doesn’t abate. “We’re in agreement then. We’re doing this, subject to your ground rules.”
“Right,” I say warily. Why do I feel like he’s going somewhere with this, and I’m not going to like wherever that is?
“In that case, I’ll get the movers over to your studio tonight.” A wicked smile curves his lips. “Think of my place as a hotel I’ve booked on a long-term basis.”
19
Marcus
“This does not mean I’m moving in with you,” Emma emphasizes for the fifth time as we approach her doorstep. “I’m just going to sleep over at your place tonight.”
“Right. With your cats.” I keep my voice even and soothing. No need to spook her by gloating over this win. “Just as a trial run.”
“Not a trial run. One night only—and only because you have that early-morning meeting and can’t stay over at my place tonight.”
“Of course. Whatever you say.” I give her the most innocent smile I can muster. “Just don’t forget their litter boxes, food, and anything else they need.”
She casts a glare at me. “Obviously. Be prepared, though: they’re going to wreak havoc on your place. Mr. Puffs especially.”
“I don’t mind.” That’s a lie—I’m not looking forward to having animals running around my meticulously clean apartment—but Emma will latch on to any sign of hesitation on my part, and I’m not about to let her use her pets to stall this.
If I want her at my place, I have to put up with the furry beasts. I come with money, she comes with cats—that’s the deal.
We both have to compromise.
“Okay, fine. But it’s your funeral,” she mutters, unlocking her door. “Or rather, your fancy things’ funeral.”
I don’t have a chance to respond because the moment the door swings open, Emma is mobbed by her cats. Meowing loudly, three fluffy white Persians attack her like she’s their favorite meal. One climbs up her jeans, Ninja-style, while the other two do infinity loops between her legs in a synchronized attempt to trip her.
If it were me, I’d be running for the hills, but Emma looks incandescently happy. Grinning hugely, she uses one arm to hug the cat that’s using her body as a tree pole—it’s the medium-sized one, Cottonball—and simultaneously bends to pet the other two. The small, dainty one—Queen Elizabeth—immediately starts purring, while the giant one—the incongruously named Mr. Puffs—hisses at her, green eyes slitted, and swats her hand with a furry paw.
“Oh, don’t be mad, Puffs,” she coos, bravely reaching for him again. “I’m sorry I left you for so long, I really am, but everything’s okay now. Mama’s back.”
The evil creature hisses at her again, but keeps his claws sheathed this time, magnanimously letting her scratch the top of his head and underneath his chin.
Finally, all three cats are pacified and back on the floor, and Emma is able to advance deeper into her tiny apartment despite the tripping hazard her pets represent. I walk in after her, wheeling her suitcase, and survey the rundown place.
It’s just as I recalled. Pretty much everything in here is junk, with the possible exception of the floor-to-ceiling cat maze that decorates one wall. I’ll have to make space for it, or something like it, in my penthouse, once Emma gives the green light for the movers to do their thing.
Hopefully, the cats will be okay without the maze for however long this trial run lasts—and it is a trial run, no matter what she says.
The cats wouldn’t be coming with her otherwise.
It was surprisingly easy to convince her to stay with me tonight—once I suggested the furry beasts accompany her, that is. Before that, it was battle royal, with her completely refusing to see reason. To me, it’s beyond simple: if she’s okay with staying in a hotel I’ve boo
ked, then she should be fine staying at my place. Permanently. Starting with tonight. But Emma doesn’t see it that way.
To her, moving in together is a big deal, and she refuses to take that step so soon.
It’s frustrating, but I’ll take what victories I can get, starting with convincing her to spend the night in my home. The cats were initially an obstacle to that—she didn’t want to leave them alone after being away for so long—but a smart man knows how to take hurdles and use them to leapfrog toward his goal. Hence, my idea of telling her to bring the cats with her.
To have Emma, I’d put up with a horde of demons camping out at my place—which, for all I know, the cats might be.
Of course, early-morning meeting or not, I could’ve stayed with Emma at her place, but that wouldn’t have gotten me any closer to having her move in with me. And frankly, I’m not too keen to spend another night on her narrow, lumpy bed.
Call me spoiled, but I much prefer my comfortable king-sized mattress.
“All right, guys, let’s get you fed before we go,” Emma says, entering her tiny kitchen, and I watch as she opens cans of cat food and puts each one on a separate plate. I take note of which cat gets which brand/flavor, in case I ever have to do this, and then I focus on what I came here for.
Getting Emma packed and ready to go home with me tonight.
I start by unzipping her suitcase and taking out all the clothes she brought to Florida. She’s worn them all, so they go into a laundry hamper. Then I sort through what remains in the suitcase: her toiletries, flip-flops, laptop, and an ancient, beat-up Kindle. She’ll need all of that at my place, so I repack it neatly and walk over to her closet to see what else to take.