by Anna Zaires
I can do one date with Mr. Hedge Fund.
In fact, I’m looking forward to it.
14
Marcus
I’m on Emma’s doorstep at 6:45 p.m. sharp despite the usual rush-hour traffic. My regular driver, Wilson, is excellent like that. Through some uncanny combination of driving apps and instinct, he always manages to get me places on time—a virtual impossibility in New York City.
Taking a breath to steady myself, I ring the doorbell. Anticipation curls through me as I hear a loud meow, followed by light, rapid footsteps.
“Stop it, Puffs.” Emma’s irritated voice is muffled by the door. “Come on, you evil creature. Shoo!”
A second later, the door swings open, and I see her standing there, flushed and a little disheveled. Instantly, heat surges through me, centering low in my groin as images of how she’d look after I fuck her slide through my mind.
Focus, Marcus. Deep breath.
It’s obvious she’s made an attempt to tame her red curls, but one stubborn one is already sticking out sideways, and her well-worn beige coat is askew and covered with white cat hair—the source of which must be the three cats in the hallway behind her. One is calmly licking its paw, the other one is swishing its tail, and the third one—a giant one—is giving me what I can only interpret as a glare. In the next moment, the giant cat streaks toward me, and Emma bends down to catch him.
“Hi,” she says breathlessly, straightening with the wriggling cat held tightly against her chest. “Sorry about that. Mr. Puffs gets jealous when men come over.”
“Really?” My voice is tight. To my shock, I understand exactly how the white fluffy creature feels, because the thought of men coming over to Emma’s apartment makes me want to strangle someone. Swallowing down the irrational surge of jealousy, I force my tone to lighten. “Possessive, is he?”
“Oh, yeah. Big time.” She blows at another messy curl to get it out of her eyes. “Hold on, let me grab my bag.” Straining to hold the cat with one arm, she reaches for the brown purse I saw her with before, and I help her by grabbing it off the hook by the door.
“Thanks,” she says, bending down again to lower the cat to the floor. He tries to rush at me again, but Emma expertly blocks him with her legs, snatches the bag out of my hand, and says, “Let’s go.”
I step outside, grateful to be out of the cat-infested hallway. When I was a boy, I used to like dogs and cats, but pets are no longer my thing. I dislike the idea of taking care of them, plus there is the whole messy and unsanitary aspect of having animals indoors.
Not your problem, I remind myself as Emma manages to step outside sans cats and turns around to lock the door. If I were actually considering Emma for a relationship, this would be a stumbling block, but I’m not.
I’m here to satisfy this odd craving and get her out of my system.
Done with the door, Emma turns around to face me and gives me a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that. My cats can be a bit of a handful.”
“No problem.” I politely offer her my arm, and my stomach clenches when her small hand slips through the crook of my elbow. She’s tiny next to me, the top of her head barely coming up to my shoulder, but there is nothing childlike about the sensual sway of her hips as I lead her toward the car.
Emma Walsh might not be my type, but I want her too much to care.
15
Emma
Marcus leads me to a fancy black car parked at the curb and opens the door for me. I climb into the back seat, my face hot despite the chilly November wind as he takes a seat next to me. The car is large and spacious, but with Marcus there, it feels stiflingly small. It’s not just his large frame, either; it’s everything about him. He takes up space in a way that goes beyond the physical, commanding the very air around him.
Next to him, I feel like an asteroid caught in Jupiter’s orbit—small and powerless to escape the massive planet’s pull.
“The restaurant, please, Wilson,” Marcus says to the driver, and I see the man nodding in the rearview mirror as the car starts moving. The fact that Marcus knows his name makes me wonder if Marcus hired the car for the evening, or if Wilson is his personal or company driver. Do people even have personal drivers these days?
Before I can ask, Marcus transfers his attention to me. “So, Emma,” he says, his deep voice tugging at that something in me again. “Tell me about yourself.”
“What would you like to know?” I ask, hoping I sound like a confident woman instead of the nervous twelve-year-old who seems to have taken up residence in my body. I have the unsettling sensation that I’m at an interview—an impression heightened by the fact that Marcus is wearing a suit and tie under his unbuttoned winter coat. I know he probably just came from work, and his wearing a suit doesn’t mean I’m horribly underdressed, but I feel that way: awkward and uncertain and out of place.
Stop it, Emma. He’s just a guy. A hot and intimidating one, but still just a guy.
“Have you lived in Brooklyn long?” he asks, his pale gaze shadowed in the darkened interior of the car.
“All my life,” I say, striving for a casual tone. “Born and raised. How about you?”
“I was born on Staten Island,” he says. “So I’m a New Yorker like you.”
“Oh. Are you from an Italian family, by any chance?” That could explain the olive tint to his skin.
“On my mother’s side.” His words are curt, as if I’d touched a nerve.
“I’m mostly Irish,” I volunteer, hoping to smooth over whatever error I made.
“I guessed as much.” Marcus’s reply is wry, and as the car stops at a streetlight, I see a hint of a smile on his face.
I instinctively touch my hair. “It’s pretty obvious, huh?”
“It was just a lucky guess,” Marcus says, and I grin at him, some of my nervousness ebbing.
We continue to make small talk for the rest of the fifteen-minute ride, and I learn that Marcus lives in Tribeca while his office is in Midtown. I’m not surprised; if anyone could afford to live and work in Manhattan, it would be a hedge fund manager. My Wall Street salary index is fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure those guys make bank.
“What’s your fund called?” I ask, remembering Kendall’s question as the car comes to a stop in front of a small, cozy-looking restaurant. My friend will undoubtedly drill me on this, so I better gather all the facts.
“Carelli Capital Management,” Marcus replies as he opens the door and climbs out, then holds open the door for me. As I step out, he gently clasps my elbow, making sure I don’t trip, and warmth floods my cheeks again. Even through the thick wool of my winter coat, I feel the restrained strength in his grip, the power that could be devastating if unleashed.
He doesn’t let go of my arm when I’m out of the car, and my heart pounds heavily as I stare up at him. The streetlights illuminate his mouth and the hard cast of his jaw, leaving his eyes in shadow, and for a brief, fanciful moment, I feel like a small animal caught in a hunter’s snare. Something hot and electric arcs between us, the moment fraught with tension—then he releases my arm and turns, offering me his elbow.
“Shall we?” His tone is calm, as if he’s completely unaffected by whatever just passed between us, but I see his jaw flex and know he’d felt it too.
My mouth feels dry as I slip my hand through the crook of his elbow, trying not to think about how thick and solid his arm feels. It’s like holding onto a curved tree trunk—albeit one that’s covered by expensive cashmere-wool.
“Do you come to this restaurant a lot?” I ask, trying not to pant audibly as we walk toward the restaurant. Marcus’s legs are so long I have to take two steps for every one of his, and the exertion, combined with the heat thrumming under my skin, makes me feel like I’ve just run up three flights of stairs.
“I’ve been here a few times,” he says, opening the door for me. I step inside and appreciatively inhale the rich, savory aroma of basil, roasted garlic, and fresh-baked dough. It smells like Papa
Mario’s, but the ambiance is infinitely better. The restaurant is small, but clean and cozy, with about a dozen tables covered by white linen tablecloths and topped with vases with real flowers. Even though it’s a Thursday night, each table is occupied except the one in the far corner.
This dinner might be worth the hit to my budget.
Unbuttoning my coat, I smile up at Marcus. “This looks like a very nice place. Thanks for suggesting it.”
“My pleasure. Here, let me take your coat.” He reaches for it, and I have no choice but to let him help me. His fingers brush over my shoulders in the process, and despite my sweater wrap, a tingle of heat radiates from the spot where he touched me.
God, if he ever puts his hands on my bare skin… Just the thought of it makes my insides tighten.
A short, dark-haired man of indeterminate age approaches us. “Mr. Carelli, welcome.” His Italian accent is strong, and his dark eyes twinkle brightly in his thin face. “Please follow me.”
He leads us to the corner table. As we walk, Marcus places his hand on the small of my back, and I suck in a breath, stunned by the unexpectedly possessive gesture. My heart hammers faster, and the hot tingling spreads throughout my body, centering low in my core. Marcus’s touch is light, solicitous, but there’s no mistaking the purely male intent behind it. He’s staking a claim, announcing to the other patrons in the restaurant that, for this evening at least, I belong to him.
It’s something a man might do with a woman he’s had sex with—or one he intends to have sex with very shortly.
Stop it, Emma. He’s just being a gentleman. Even as I tell myself that, my pulse picks up further, and the images from my sex dream return in all their graphic glory.
“Are you okay?” Marcus asks, glancing down at me, and I realize my burning face must match my hair.
“Yes, of course,” I say, trying to ignore the feel of his large palm resting on my back. “I’m just a little hungry, that’s all.”
“Then let’s feed you,” he says, dropping his hand as the waiter pulls out a chair for me. Marcus steps around the table to his side, and I sit down, grateful for the reprieve from his devastating nearness.
“What would you like to drink?” the waiter asks, hovering next to our table.
“Just regular water for me, please,” I say.
“Same for me,” Marcus says without missing a beat.
I smile, pleased he didn’t try to force an alcoholic beverage on me. Some men like to do that, as if a woman drinking plain water somehow offends their masculinity. I’m no stranger to alcohol—I got puking-drunk in college more than once—but I don’t enjoy the taste of wine and beer enough to have it with every meal.
Picking up the menu, I study it carefully. The only thing that looks to be within my price range is the pizza appetizer, so that makes my choice easy. I look up to find Marcus watching me with strange intensity.
“What is it?” I ask, feeling self-conscious.
“Nothing.” One corner of his mouth turns up. “You’re just really cute when you’re concentrating.”
Treacherous heat blooms in my cheeks again. “Um, thanks.” The words come out on an awkward mumble. Clearing my throat, I ask in a steadier tone, “What are you getting?”
“I’m thinking of the calamari for the appetizer and the squid ink risotto for the main course. You’re welcome to share either or both with me,” he says, closing his menu. “What about you? Anything in particular look appealing? If you’d like, I can recommend a couple of dishes, depending on what you’re in the mood for.”
“Oh, no, I’m good, thanks. I’m going to get the pizza appetizer.”
He smiles. “Good choice. It’s excellent here. What about the main course?”
“I’m not that hungry, so I’ll just stick with the appetizer.” It’s not a lie, because I had a peanut butter sandwich before leaving the house. It’s my way of ensuring I don’t get starvation jitters while waiting for the food to arrive—and that I don’t blow through my monthly food budget in one meal.
“Are you sure?”
He’s frowning at my about-face, so I give him my best not-hungry smile. “Yep. The pizza appetizer is plenty for me.”
“Okay, if that’s what you want.”
He motions for the waiter to come over, and we order our food. Then the waiter leaves, and it’s just the two of us at the semi-private corner table. We stare at each other, and I feel that electric tension again, growing and expanding until it engulfs us in a strange kind of bubble. We’re in a crowded restaurant, but it’s as though we’re completely alone. I’m cognizant of him to a degree that scares me; every movement of his hands, every breath that expands his chest—I feel it so completely it’s as if an invisible string joins us together. Desperate to break the spell, I say, “So, Marcus—”
“So, Emma—” he begins at the same time, and we both burst out laughing, the tension bubble popping like an overfilled balloon.
“You go first,” Marcus says, grinning, and I all but melt into a puddle on my seat. He has the best smile, all strong white teeth and sexy grooves in his lean cheeks. It softens his hard features and warms his cool blue eyes, taking him from intimidatingly good-looking to panty-wetting hot. It’s not an exaggeration, either, because I actually feel my underwear getting damp. If I had my vibrator right now, it would take me less than two minutes to come. Maybe three minutes, tops.
God, Emma, get your mind out of the gutter.
Fighting a blush that threatens to color my face again, I say, “I was just going to ask if you ever ended up connecting with Emmeline. You know, the woman you were supposed to meet that night?”
Marcus’s smile fades. “I did, yes.”
“Oh?” My chest constricts for some reason. “And what happened?”
He shrugs. “We ended up having dinner. How about you? Did you ever meet up with Mark?”
“No, I didn’t,” I say, the tightness in my chest intensifying as I recall Kendall’s warning. “I think he must’ve been upset by what happened, because he never responded to my apology email.”
“I see.” Marcus takes a sip of water. His gaze is inscrutable as he studies me over the rim of his glass. “Are you disappointed by that? Who was this Mark guy, anyway?”
“Just someone from a dating app,” I say. Marcus is clearly trying to keep the focus on me, but with Kendall’s words ringing in my ears, I’m not so easily deterred. “What about this Emmeline of yours?” I ask, keeping my tone casual. “Who was she, and how did your dinner go?”
“She was also from something like a dating app,” he says, leaning back in his chair. His face is expressionless, and that, combined with his lack of reply to my second question, makes me even more curious about the topic.
“What’s ‘something like a dating app?’” I ask, reaching for my own water glass. I was just joking with Kendall about drilling Marcus, but some instinct is telling me to pursue this.
“A matchmaker,” he says bluntly.
I choke on a sip of water. Coughing, I sputter out, “A what?”
“A matchmaker,” he repeats, his blue gaze chilly again. “It’s not that different from a dating site or app, just more personalized and exclusive.”
“Right.” I gulp down more water to hide my shock. I hadn’t really thought about why Marcus was supposed to meet a woman he didn’t know. I’d just sort of assumed he’d been set up on a blind date by a friend, or that he has a casual profile on a dating app, like I do. Lots of people do that these days; online dating is no longer just for losers. A matchmaker, however, is a different matter.
A matchmaker implies he wants something serious—and possibly quite particular.
“Are you, um…” Crap, how do I phrase it without freaking him out? “Are you looking to get married or something?”
“Of course.” His expression cools further. “Isn’t that the very definition of the service a matchmaker provides?”
“Well, yes…” I know I sound like an idiot, but I
can’t help it. I’ve never known the male of the species to seek out a relationship with the goal of marriage. From what I’ve seen, if a guy proposes, it’s because he either wants to please his girlfriend, or he’s met the right person and realizes it’s the logical next step. I’m sure there are men who want marriage for the sake of marriage, but I’ve never come across such a creature personally. Even my super-clingy ex in college didn’t think much of the institution; he just wanted us to be together all the time. Of course, my experience is with guys in their teens and twenties. Marcus is thirty-five—a man in his prime, not a boy still trying to find himself.
Before I can come up with something clever to say, the waiter brings our appetizers. He places both the pizza and the calamari in the middle of the table, likely assuming we’re going to share them. Saliva pools in my mouth at the delicious smell. I wait impatiently until the waiter leaves, and then I grab a slice of the pizza, nearly burning my fingertips in the process.
“So you are hungry, after all?” Marcus asks, spearing a circle of calamari with his fork.
“For pizza? Always.” I bite into the slice and close my eyes, almost moaning out loud as the taste of gooey melted cheese and perfectly seasoned tomato sauce fills my mouth. Swallowing the bite, I open my eyes to lick the drop of sauce from my fingers—and pause at the hungry look on Marcus’s face.
“Want a slice?” I offer, realizing I’m being rude by hogging the entire pizza to myself. It’s a small one, but that doesn’t mean I can’t share. Marcus is watching me eat so intently it’s as if he wants to devour me instead of the pizza.
“No, thanks.” His voice is slightly hoarse as he reaches for his glass of water. “You’re welcome to the calamari, though.”