by Anna Zaires
If I hadn’t been wearing a suit, it would’ve been downright embarrassing.
As it was, all of my social graces deserted me as soon as I laid eyes on her. With her wild red curls and Salvation Army sense of style, Emma was so unlike the images in my mind—and so strangely appealing despite that fact—that I straight up told her she wasn’t what I’d expected. As soon as the words left my mouth, I wanted to take them back, but it was too late. Her clear gray eyes narrowed, her rosebud mouth tightened, and her flame-bright hair seemed to puff up, each curl quivering with indignation. Then she retorted that I looked different from my pictures, and things escalated from there. I don’t remember the last time I’ve been less than polite with a woman, but with Emma, it was as if I’d turned into a caveman.
I all but ordered her to join me, going so far as to use my size to intimidate her into complying.
Why did Victoria send her to me—if she did, that is? Now that all the blood isn’t rushing to my groin, the redhead’s behavior strikes me as extremely odd. Her accusations and ramblings about cats make zero sense… unless there’s been some kind of misunderstanding.
Shit.
I slide out of the booth to follow the woman, but before I can take two steps, a tall, elegant brunette steps into my path. “Hi, Marcus,” she says with a cool, graceful smile. “I’m Emmeline Sommers. Sorry I’m late.”
Even before she says her name, I know who she is—and I know I fucked up big.
This is the woman Victoria was talking about, the one whose file I didn’t have a chance to download before getting called into an emergency meeting with my portfolio managers. Victoria sent Emmeline’s pictures and bio to me this afternoon, and between the meeting and taking the subway to avoid rush-hour traffic, I showed up at the café completely unprepared—something I’d normally never do. I figured it wasn’t a big deal—I’d just confess my unpreparedness to Emmeline, and we’d have a good time getting to know one another—but I didn’t count on a similarly named woman who, by some bizarre coincidence, must’ve also come to the café on a blind date with a guy who shares my name. What were the fucking odds of that?
Staring at the brunette in front of me, I can’t believe I mistook Emma for her. No two women could be more different. Emmeline is Princess Diana, Jackie Kennedy, and Gisele all rolled up into one stunning package. I can easily picture her at the social functions and political events that are increasingly a part of my life. She’d know which fork to use and how to make small talk with senators and waiters alike, while Emma… Well, I can see her bouncing on my dick, and that’s about it.
Pushing the pornographic images out of my mind, I smile at the tall brunette. “No problem,” I say, reaching out to shake her hand. “I only got here a few minutes ago myself. It’s a pleasure meeting you.”
Emmeline’s fingers are long and slim, her skin cool and dry to the touch. “Same here,” she says, squeezing my hand with just the right amount of pressure before gracefully lowering her arm. “Thank you for coming all the way out here to meet with me. My sister is a student at the Brooklyn Conservatory of Music, so I’m staying in the area until my flight tomorrow morning.”
“Of course. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me,” I say as we sit down at the table.
For the next few minutes, we make small talk and get to know one another. I don’t say anything about the mix-up with Emma—I don’t need Emmeline thinking I’m a total idiot—but I do explain that I didn’t have a chance to review the file Victoria sent me. As I’d hoped, Emmeline waves away my apologies, saying that it’s just as well that we can get to know each other without preconceived notions. It’s obvious, however, that she’s gone through her file on me. She knows everything about me, from my Wharton MBA to my current role as the head of one of the most successful hedge funds in New York City.
After we place our order with the waiter, I learn that Emmeline is thirty-one years old and a graduate of Harvard Law. For the past three years, she’s headed a nonprofit foundation providing legal services for abused women and children. She’s passionate about her work and spends over eighty hours a week on the foundation; it’s not just a hobby for her, though her family is wealthy enough that she could’ve done absolutely anything career-wise—or nothing.
“My great-great-grandfather made a fortune in railroads way back when,” she says, smiling. “And my family has somehow managed to retain and grow it over the past century and a half. So yes, I’m one of those trust fund babies.” Her smile holds a self-deprecating charm that softens the aristocratic lines of her face, and I find myself genuinely liking her.
Emmeline is the real deal, the woman I’ve been hoping to meet ever since I decided to set my sights on yet another marker of success: the ultimate trophy wife.
As the waiter brings out our food, we discuss everything from world events to the recent volatility in the market, and I find that Emmeline’s views closely align with my own. She’s knowledgeable and thoughtful in her opinions, her legal training evident in her well-reasoned approach to most issues. I enjoy listening to her, and she seems interested in what I have to say as well.
It also doesn’t hurt that she’s beautiful to look at, in a sleek, thoroughbred kind of way. Her long-sleeved sweater dress is stylish without being trendy, her accessories are expensive but understated, and her smooth dark hair is cut in flattering layers around her perfectly oval face.
She’s a strikingly attractive woman, yet as I observe the graceful way she holds her fork, it suddenly dawns on me that I’m not attracted to her. I like the way she looks, but it’s the same kind of appreciation I might have for a visually pleasing piece of art or sculpture—a purely intellectual pleasure that’s the complete opposite of my visceral reaction to the redhead.
No. Stop. Before my mind can travel further down that path, I force all thoughts of Emma away. Emmeline is the woman I’ve always wanted, and I can’t fuck it up by following the urgings of my suddenly unruly cock.
For a while, I succeed in focusing solely on Emmeline. She’s a good conversationalist, and as we eat, we exchange amusing stories about school and work. I tell her about the trader in my fund who wears orange sneakers as a good-luck charm, and she tells me about her sister’s penchant for dating long-haired hipster boys. Midway through the meal, I have to excuse myself to take an important call from work, and she doesn’t bat an eye at that. Nor does she look the least bit put off when I have to fire off a few urgent emails upon returning to the table. It’s obvious she understands the demands of a high-pressure job like mine. Still, I apologize, and she laughs it off, explaining that her father, a high-powered corporate attorney, hadn’t gotten through a single dinner during her childhood without a work emergency of some kind. We chat about her family for a while—they’re all as successful as she is—and then we return to more serious topics, like the political climate and what it means for the global economy. It’s when we’re in the middle of discussing the new mayor—whom Emmeline knows personally—that she glances at the corner of the booth and says, “Oh, look. Someone forgot a phone here.”
My pulse leaps with inexplicable excitement. “A phone?”
Emmeline nods and holds up a smartphone in a battered pink case. “I found it in the corner of the seat. Here, let me go give it to our waiter…” She moves to slide out of her seat, but before she can get up, I reach over and snatch the phone from her hand.
“No need.” I fight to keep my voice even as I pocket the device. “I know who this belongs to. There was a woman sitting here before us; it must’ve fallen out of her bag. I’ll make sure it gets back to her.”
“You will?” A frown creases Emmeline’s smooth brow. She’s confused by my behavior, and she’s not the only one.
“I’ll have my assistant take care of it,” I lie. “She’s good at stuff like that.” That last part is true—Lynette is highly resourceful—but there’s no way I’m getting her involved.
I want to return this phone personally. No, I need
to return it. The urge is practically a compulsion. I have to see the redhead again—if only so I can confirm that my insane attraction to her was a fluke, and she’s not nearly as appealing as my dick remembers.
“Okay, if you’re sure…” Emmeline is still looking at me like I lost my mind, so I give her my most engaging smile and shift the conversation back to the mayor. My pulse is hammering with anticipation at the thought of tracking down Emma, but I’m not about to fuck things up with Emmeline.
Once I return this phone, Emma will be off my mind, and I’ll be able to focus on what I really want: a wife who’ll be as big of an achievement as the billions in my bank account.
5
Emma
Asshole. Jerk. Sleazeball liar. Fuming, I stomp down the street, barely cognizant of the pedestrians getting out of my way. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so mad. My blood is all but boiling in my veins.
How dare he write to me with a fake profile and then act like I’m a disappointment? Okay, so maybe I did put up my more flattering pictures on the dating app, but what woman doesn’t? It’s not like I used someone else’s photos or even particularly old photos. The two pictures I uploaded were taken less than a year ago, when I was actually a few pounds heavier than I am now. So if anything, I look better now—or skinnier, at least. In any case, I don’t see how he could’ve been disappointed by my physique—I’d even put my height and weight in the profile. And the cat thing? What the hell was that about? Why would he claim to love cats and then act like I’d confessed to having the plague?
In general, why would a man like that—good-looking and obviously successful—want to mess with a random girl from a dating app?
I’m so angry I make it to the subway and onto the train on autopilot. It’s not until I’m a couple of stops away from my station that my temper cools enough for me to go over what happened without choking with fury.
Taking a calming breath, I review the facts. Key point number one: The man at the café insisted that I call him Marcus instead of Mark, though he wrote to me as Mark. Key point number two: He turned out to be thirty-five years old with no cats, and he looked nothing like the blurry pictures in his profile. As I put those facts together and analyze them without the jerk’s proximity scrambling my brain, an embarrassing possibility occurs to me.
Could I have approached the wrong man after all?
Emmeline, he’d called me. Is it possible? Could he have been meeting someone by that name and mistaken me for her? The odds of Mark/Marcus and Emma/Emmeline on a blind date in the same place are slim, to say the least, but weirder things have happened. When Grandma met Gramps for the first time, he mistook her for one of his cousins and decided to prank her by dunking her in a pond—where a neighbor’s secretly kept alligator promptly latched onto her foot. Grandma still has scars from that incident, and Gramps looks guilty whenever Grandma recounts that story—which is often.
So, yeah, crazy stuff happens, and just because something isn’t likely doesn’t mean it’s impossible. Going by that logic, it’s entirely possible that Marcus is not a total asshole.
He’s just not Mark.
Groaning mentally, I snake my hand into my purse and rummage around for my phone. If I’m right, I probably have an email or a text from the real Mark, wondering where I am and why I stood him up.
It takes a full minute of rummaging for me to realize that I’m not finding the phone.
My heartbeat spikes, and a sick feeling twists my stomach. No. Please, no.
My hands shaking, I dump the contents of my bag onto an empty seat next to me and survey them in horror.
On the plastic orange seat next to me are a worn leather wallet, a few wadded-up tissues, a green scrunchie, a bottle of Tylenol, my apartment keys, a laser pointer, and an ancient pack of bubblegum—but no phone in a bright pink case.
Not even a hint of a phone.
I must’ve lost it somewhere.
Tears spring to my eyes, blurring my vision as I stuff everything back into my purse. I know that in the grand scheme of things, losing a phone is not a big deal. If Gramps saw me so upset over a thing, he’d give me a stern talking-to and remind me about what really matters: family, health, and doing what you love. And while I know all of that to be true, I simply can’t afford that kind of hit to my bank account right now. A couple of my regular editing clients ran into some difficulties with their latest novels, so I haven’t had a lengthy editing gig since the summer, leaving me with only my bookstore cashier’s salary to live on. Normally, that would suffice—I know how to stretch a penny—but between the interest rate spike on my student loans and the vet bill for Cottonball’s scratched nose two weeks ago, my account is a few dollars away from an overdraft fee.
I’m literally living paycheck to paycheck, and a new phone is not something I can afford.
Stop whining, Emma, and think. Where could you have lost the phone?
I can practically hear Gramps saying that to me, so I suck in a deep breath and push away my panic. I tend to get overemotional—it’s the Irish in me, Grandma says—and I need to get a grip on myself. Freaking out won’t solve anything.
Ignoring the stares from the other passengers on the train, I get down on all fours and peer under my seat on the off chance that the phone fell out at some point during the train ride.
Nothing—or at least nothing resembling my phone. There are gum wrappers and weird sticky-looking stains, but that’s not what I’m after.
I get back on my seat and rub my hands together to brush off the floor cooties. The panic is bubbling up again, but I push it away and concentrate on mentally retracing my steps.
Did I have my phone with me on the ride to the café? Yes. I remember playing Angry Birds during the subway ride.
Did I have it when I got out of the subway? Yes. I used Google Maps to guide me from the subway to the café.
Did I check it at the restaurant? No. I was too occupied with the jerk.
Did I check it when I left the restaurant? No. I was too busy fuming about the jerk, plus I remembered where the subway was without needing to check the maps.
The mental Q&A calms me a bit, as does the realization that I must’ve lost the phone at some point between the café and now. Maybe if I’m really lucky, it’s still in the café, and if I go back, I’ll be able to find it.
Thus resolved, I get off the train at the next stop and go across the platform to get the one heading in the opposite direction. It takes a solid twenty minutes before it comes—stupid MTA with its endless delays—but finally, I’m on the train heading back to the café. I still haven’t had dinner, so I’m both tired and hungry, but I’m determined.
If my phone is at that café, I’m getting it back.
I can’t let this date from hell become a complete disaster.
6
Marcus
I know it’s not the best thing for my future relationship with Emmeline, but as soon as we’re done eating, I order an Uber instead of inviting her out for drinks. I use her morning flight to Boston to justify the early end of our date, but in reality, I’m anxious to begin my search for the redhead.
As ridiculous as it is, I need to return that phone.
The Uber ride to Emmeline’s hotel takes about a half hour in traffic. I come out of the car to open the door for her and walk her to the hotel entrance, where I give her a gentlemanly peck on the cheek and promise to call her. It’s a promise I fully intend to keep—Emmeline is what I want, after all—but tonight, I need to get away from her.
I have to locate Emma and rid myself of this budding obsession.
The moment Emmeline disappears through the revolving hotel doors, I step to the side and pull out the pink phone. It’s an older Android model, and fortunately, there is no password required to unlock the screen.
I start by pulling up the pictures to make sure that it is, in fact, Emma’s phone. At first, all I find are snapshots of fluffy white cats—how many does she have?—but soon, I com
e across a smiling selfie of a redhead in a tank top and loose pajama pants.
It’s Emma all right.
My heartbeat speeds up, and my suit pants suddenly feel tight. There’s nothing in that picture that’s meant to be seductive—she’s sitting with her knees pulled up to her chest, so I can’t even see the shape of her breasts—but something about the pale curves of her shoulders, the scattering of freckles across her nose, and the dimples in her cheeks makes me harder than an iron rod.
Fuck. What am I doing?
Lowering the phone, I lean back against the outside wall of the hotel and squeeze my eyes shut. There’s something seriously wrong with me today. I never act impulsively or irrationally, yet I just cut short a date with the woman of my dreams and let her go back to her hotel room without so much as an attempt to kiss her—all so I could chase after a girl who is the complete opposite of what I need.
Maybe I should have my assistant return the phone to Emma. If I had such a strong reaction to her picture, it’s probably not a good idea for me to see her in person again.
Opening my eyes, I look at the pink phone again. Emma’s softly rounded face, framed by a halo of wild red curls, looks back at me, her gray eyes full of mischief.
Mischief and something so warm and seductive I can’t help reacting to it.
Something I can’t help wanting.
Staring at that picture, I understand for the first time how powerful the lure of temptation can be. Smoking, drugs, unhealthy foods, laziness—those have never been my vices. My self-discipline is legendary among my friends and colleagues. Once I set my mind on something, I do it, and I don’t let anything stand in my way. Whether it’s running a marathon in two and a half hours or graduating from college in two and a half years, I’m able to set goals and achieve them, and I’ve never understood people who say they want to do something but lack the willpower to make it happen.