by Anna Zaires
Yet here I am, staring at a selfie of a woman I know would be bad for me. She’s chocolate and lazy days on the couch, Netflix binging and a pack of cigarettes. She’s everything I can’t have and shouldn’t want—an unhealthy temptation that can ruin everything. The smart thing to do would be to go home and hand over this phone to Lynette first thing in the morning. That way, I can get a good night’s sleep and call Emmeline tomorrow to set a time for us to meet again—maybe even arrange a trip to her hometown of Boston.
That’s the smart thing to do, but I don’t do it. Instead, my hand seems to move of its own accord as my fingers swipe across the screen to get to the contacts icon. My heart thuds in a heavy, expectant rhythm as I scroll through the list of names until I get to H, where I find the entry called “Home.”
Sure enough, there is an address there. When I pull out my own phone and type it into Google Maps, I see that it’s in Bay Ridge, a neighborhood in Brooklyn that’s not too far from here.
If I hurry, I’ll make it there before it’s late enough for my visit to be creepy.
Giving in to temptation for the first time in my adult life, I order another Uber to Emma’s address in Bay Ridge. It’s not so bad, I tell myself as I get in the car. Once I get rid of this phone, I’ll forget the little redhead once and for all.
I won’t let this strange new weakness of mine ruin what I’ve worked so hard to build.
7
Emma
“You didn’t find anything? It’s in a pink case…” I can’t hide the disappointment in my voice, and the waiter gives me a sympathetic look.
“No, sorry,” he says. “Wish I could help. The couple who were sitting there just left, and they didn’t say anything about a phone.”
“Do you mind if I take a look around the table?” I ask, glancing over at the booth where I’d approached Marcus—who may or may not be an asshole, depending on his true identity.
“Sure, go ahead,” the waiter says.
I walk over to the booth, trying not to think about the man who’d sat there, but I’m not entirely successful. For some reason, my skin feels uncomfortably warm, and my breathing picks up as I picture his cool blue eyes and big hands. And if his hands are that size, how big is his—
No, stop. Focus on the phone.
With effort, I push away the graphic images flooding my mind and crouch to peer under the table.
Nothing.
I look all over the seats next.
Nothing.
Disappointment presses down on me, making my empty stomach roil with anxiety. I didn’t see the phone on the street as I was retracing my steps, and if it’s not in the restaurant, then it’s well and truly lost. Maybe even stolen—in which case the phone-tracking app on my computer, which I was planning to check as the next step, would not help either.
Exhausted and dispirited, I trudge back to the subway. At this point, I’m almost light-headed from hunger, so I buy a banana from a street vendor—I can still afford that—and munch on it as I go down the steps to the train.
All I want is to get home, take a hot shower, and curl up with my cats.
This day is officially a disaster.
I’m never, ever using a dating app again.
8
Marcus
Where the hell is she?
Standing by the side entrance of an ugly old brownstone, I ring the doorbell for the second time, with the same lack of results.
Emma Walsh is not home.
I know her last name thanks to her Facebook profile, which I accessed by tapping on the Facebook icon on her phone. According to that same profile, she’s single (which I already suspected), twenty-six years old, and a graduate of Brooklyn College. She loves books and does freelance editing when she’s not working at a small, family-owned bookstore. Oh, and she definitely owns cats—three of them, judging by her frequent posts about them on Facebook.
Knowing all this about a woman I met by accident makes me feel like a stalker, a feeling that’s only exacerbated by my inexplicable desire to learn more. I played a bit with her phone on the way here—to make sure I had the right address, I told myself—and in the process, I’ve looked at everything from her photos to her email. I didn’t read any of the email because that would’ve been really wrong, but I did glance at the subject lines. It seems like most of her inbox is occupied by messages related to her editing jobs, though there are a bunch of emails from someone named Kendall, too. Same goes for texts, though most of those are from “Grandma” and “Gramps,” who I’m guessing are her grandparents.
Fuck, I am being a stalker.
Disgusted with myself, I turn to leave so I can give the phone to my assistant tomorrow and forget this madness, but at that moment, a small, shapely figure with curly hair approaches from the street… and freezes in place, her hands flying up to grab at the strap of her cheap purse.
In a flash, it dawns on me how I must look to Emma, with my features cast in shadow by the tiny light hanging over the door. If I were a young woman confronted by an unknown six-foot-three man on her doorstep in the dark, I’d probably be shitting my pants right about now.
“It’s me, Marcus,” I say quickly, wanting to reassure her. I might’ve acted like a stalker, but I don’t mean her any harm. “From the café, remember?”
She takes a step back, still gripping her purse strap.
“What—what are you doing here?” She sounds breathless; I must’ve really scared her. “How did you find me?”
“Your phone,” I explain, pulling the pink smartphone out of my pocket. “I found it in the booth after you left and wanted to return it to you.”
“Oh.” She approaches uncertainly. As the over-the-door light illuminates her pale face, I see that her expression is a mix of relief and confusion. Stopping a couple of feet away, she says in a slightly calmer voice, “Thank you. I was looking for that phone. I was almost home when I realized that I didn’t have it, so I went back to the café, and the waiter said they didn’t find anything and—” Cutting herself off, she takes a deep breath and says, “I’m really glad you found it, but you didn’t have to come all the way here. I could’ve just met you somewhere tomorrow or—”
“It’s not that far out of my way,” I say. It’s a lie, but I’m not about to admit the full extent of my insanity. “I figured you might worry, so I brought it.”
She stares up at me, her gray eyes dark in the evening shadows. “Oh. Okay, well, thank you. That’s very kind of you.”
She extends her hand, and I give her the phone. She’s careful to take it in such a way that our fingers don’t touch—something I irrationally resent. Even worse, the moment the phone is out of my hands, I regret giving it to her so quickly. That phone was the only thing linking us together, and now I have no reason to be here—except my inexplicable desire to get to know her.
“Emma, listen,” I say as she pockets the phone with evident relief. “I think I made a mistake earlier, at the café.”
“You were supposed to meet someone named Emmeline?” A small smile appears on her lips, and I realize she’s figured it out too.
“That’s right.” I grin at her. “Let me guess. You were supposed to meet Mark?”
“Yep.” Her smile widens, exposing small white teeth and the same cute dimples I saw on the selfie. “What are the odds, right?”
“I can have one of my analysts look into that if you want,” I say, only half-kidding. Researching the answer to her rhetorical question would give me an excuse to stay in touch—something I badly want. With that dimpled smile, the little redhead looks so fucking adorable I want to lick her like an ice cream cone. “I’m sure we can figure it out if we run some statistics on naming trends in the population,” I add.
Emma blinks, her smile dimming. “One of your analysts? Do you run a think tank or something?”
“A hedge fund,” I say. “We employ a multitude of strategies to stay ahead of the market, everything from traditional equity analysis to quant-driv
en trading.”
The dimples disappear completely. “Oh, I see.” She looks disappointed, a reaction that’s the complete opposite from the one I get when women realize I must have some serious dough. Pasting on a new, less sincere smile, she says, “Thanks again for returning the phone, Marcus. I really appreciate you coming all the way out here. If you’ll excuse me…” She gives me an expectant look, and I realize I’m still standing on her doorstep, blocking the door.
I should move—that would be the polite, gentlemanly thing to do—but I don’t. Instead, I ask bluntly, “Do you hate Wall Street or something?”
I know I’m borderline harassing the girl, but I can’t let her go like this. Once she gets into her apartment—a shithole place, judging by the rundown state of the door—it’ll all be over. She’ll go about her life, and I’ll return to mine, and I’m not ready for that to happen.
“Um, no. I don’t have anything against your profession. I mean, not really.” She gives me a wary look. “I just—” She inhales. “Look, Marcus, I really appreciate the gesture and all, but I’m hungry and exhausted, and I still need to feed my cats and answer some emails. We can debate Wall Street ethics some other time.”
Some other time? Something tense inside me relaxes. Though she undoubtedly meant her words as a polite brush-off, I’m going to take them at face value.
I’m going to see Emma again and figure out what it is that draws me to her.
Stepping aside, I say, “Sounds good. Goodnight, Emma. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“Same here. Goodbye, Marcus, and thanks again,” she says, pulling her keys out of her purse as she steps around me.
I watch her open the door, making sure she gets inside safely, and when the door closes behind her, I order another Uber and make a note on my phone about the next steps. My pulse is thrumming with excitement, and my muscles are coiled tight in anticipation of the new challenge.
I’m acting completely unlike myself, but I no longer care. Emma might not be what I need for the long term, but she’s what I want for the moment, and for the first time in my life, I’m going to live in the present.
I’m going to have the lush little redhead for dessert and worry about consequences later.
9
Emma
My legs are shaking as I make it into my apartment and hang up my coat by the door. Whatever little energy I got from eating the banana is long gone, and I’m all but passing out from hunger. Despite that, I have the strange sensation that I’m floating on air, my heart racing from the aftereffects of adrenaline and dizzying excitement.
Marcus—tall, arrogant Marcus with his perfectly tailored suit and a coat that costs more than my quarterly rent—came to my apartment and returned my phone.
It seems impossible, surreal, yet it clearly happened, as I’m holding said phone in my hand. He gave it to me, and now instead of worrying about the hit to my bank account, I’m unsettled for a completely different reason. My breathing is panic-attack fast, my palms are sweating, and I feel so wired I could bounce off the walls despite my exhaustion.
Holy. Fucking. Shit. Marcus came to my apartment.
When I first saw him standing there, looking like some kind of caped villain in his unbuttoned knee-length winter coat, I thought he was a burglar and nearly had a heart attack. Because why else would someone be lurking on my doorstep so late in the evening? I was a second away from screaming my head off and sprinting away when he spoke, and then my knees went weak for a different reason.
The man who was on my mind all through the subway ride home—the man I was convinced I’d never see again—was by my door, being the complete opposite of an asshole.
Right now, I’m too tired and hyper to figure out what that whole encounter meant, so I don’t even try. Instead, I focus on my cats, who are all rushing toward me, meowing loudly. Mr. Puffs, as the biggest, pushes Queen Elizabeth and Cottonball out of the way and stakes his claim on me by winding his giant furry body between my legs as I attempt to make my way to the kitchen.
“Stop it, Puffs,” I order, but he ignores me, rubbing himself on my calves to mark his territory. His siblings follow in a calmer fashion; as usual, they let Mr. Puffs be the annoying one.
“Oh, come on, just give me a second,” I say in exasperation, nearly tripping over his tail. “I’m getting you food, I promise.”
Cottonball lets out a loud meow at the mention of food, and Queen Elizabeth joins in with her softer, more delicate voice.
Even when hungry, she sounds like a lady.
When I finally make it into my tiny kitchen, I grab three cans of cat food and open them, putting their contents on three individual plates. My cats are very particular about their food, so I’m careful to put on each plate the precise flavor and brand that cat prefers. Queen Elizabeth likes Fancy Feast Wild Salmon, Cottonball likes variety so he’s getting the Chicken Feast Classic today, and Mr. Puffs has developed a taste for Purina Seafood Stew Entree. Once Puffs finishes his portion, he’ll eat some of Queen Elizabeth’s and Cottonball’s too, but he has to start with his own plate.
I suspect it’s because he feels more like the boss that way.
As soon as I put the plates on the floor, the cats dive in, and I’m free to feed myself. Fortunately, I got my bookstore paycheck on Monday, so my fridge is full. I have fruits, vegetables, bread, and some deli meats, so I slap together a quick sandwich and devour it while standing in the kitchen. Then, feeling infinitely more human, I check to see if I got any messages from the real Mark.
To my disappointment, the answer is no. He must’ve taken offense to being stood up and decided to forego all contact with me. Though I’m exhausted, I write him a quick email with an apology and explanation about the mix-up, and then I finally head to the shower.
I have to rinse off the city grime before I get into bed.
By thinking about ways to get new editing clients, I manage to keep my mind off Marcus all through the shower. It’s only when I’m lying under the covers, surrounded by my cats, that I realize I’m still far too hyper to sleep. It’s as if an electric current is buzzing under my skin, keeping my heart rate elevated and my body uncomfortably warm.
Marcus was waiting by my door when I came home. He came all the way here to return my phone.
It still feels unreal, partially because it’s hard to believe he went to such trouble just to be nice. Though our meeting in the café was brief, Marcus didn’t strike me as much of a good Samaritan. Nor is his choice of profession indicative of a man who’s particularly altruistic. I was an English major in college, but I know several finance majors who went to work on Wall Street after graduation, and all of them are highly ambitious, driven to maximize their productivity and monetize (their terminology, not mine) every hour of their time. They’re Type A in the extreme, and if Marcus runs his own hedge fund, he must be that, times a hundred.
It doesn’t make sense for a man like that to spend his limited free time returning a phone to a stranger—not unless he had some other agenda. Only I can’t think of what that agenda might’ve been. Unless… Could he have been hoping I’d reward him financially?
Crap. I didn’t think about it, but I should’ve probably offered him some money for his trouble.
For a moment, I feel awful, but then I remember his suit and coat—not to mention his Italian leather shoes—and my guilt fades. I doubt Marcus needs my twenty bucks, certainly not enough to go out of his way to get them. So why did he come? My phone doesn’t require a password to unlock, so he could’ve just emailed me from my own email, and I would’ve picked up the device from wherever Marcus told me to meet him.
Hell, he could’ve had one of his analysts—say, the one he was planning to task with researching the odds of our meeting—return the phone on his behalf.
The only other explanation that occurs to me is so ridiculous that I dismiss it right away. There’s no way he’s interested in me in that way. I’m not particularly insecure about my looks—I got over
that in college—but I am realistic. I know I’m nowhere near Marcus’s league. He undoubtedly has gorgeous women falling all over themselves for the privilege of decorating his arm; he wouldn’t need to go after a short, frizzy-haired redhead with too-wide hips. Besides, wasn’t he meeting someone? This Emmeline that he mistook me for? With a fancy name like that, I bet her hips are in perfect proportion to her body, and her hair magically behaves at all times.
Okay, maybe that last bit is complete conjecture, but still, I’m almost certain I’m not Marcus’s type.
So why did he come tonight? The question torments me as I toss and turn, trying to get comfortable enough to fall asleep. It’s only when Mr. Puffs lies down on top of my head, pinning me in place, that I’m able to drift off.
My dreams that night are filled with big, hard-faced burglars in capes… and sex.
Lots and lots of steamy, dirty sex.
10
Marcus
“You want me to do what?” Lynette gapes at me, her round tortoise-shell glasses sliding down her long nose.
“I want you to send flowers and some cat food to the address I emailed you,” I repeat, frowning at my assistant. “Is that a problem?”
“No, of course not.” Lynette quickly regroups, her professional mask falling into place. “Do you have a preference when it comes to the type of flowers and the brand of the, um… cat food?”
“Roses—pink and white,” I say. “At least a dozen of each. No, make that two dozen of each. As far as cat food, I don’t know. What do cats like?”
“Depends on the cat, I think,” Lynette says, sounding more like her efficient self. “Some owners feed their cats only wet canned food; others do a mix of wet and dry. Do you happen to know about the cat in question?”