by Anna Zaires
I want her, and I’m going to have her—but first, I have to know that I’m stronger than my addiction.
I have to make it through this week without her, to prove to myself that I’m in control.
49
Emma
Since my flight is not until 6:25 p.m., I was planning to go into work for half a day on Wednesday. However, as I watch the howling fury of the storm through my narrow window, I know it’s not happening—and most likely, neither is my flight.
It’s already midnight, but I can’t sleep, my bed again uncomfortably cold and empty. And lumpy. Why have I never noticed before how lumpy my mattress is? It’s nothing like the plush memory-foam expanse of Marcus’s king-sized bed. That had been so comfortable, so soft and warm, especially with his big, powerful body wrapped around me—
No. Stop. I squeeze my eyes shut to keep out the memories, but they flood in anyway, adding to the hollow pain in my chest. I miss him. I really, truly miss him. We’d only spent two nights together, but it had felt more like a month, like a dozen dates crammed into one life-altering, amazing weekend. I keep picturing his eyes, his smile, his laugh… the quiet amazement on his face when I put Cottonball on his lap. He’d handled the cat as carefully as a newborn baby, his big hands extraordinarily gentle on his fur. Watching him, I’d felt my heart swell and break a little, a fissure opening to let him in.
God, why had he done this to me? Why go after me so hard, make me think there could be something real between us, only to dump me so cruelly?
I expected it, of course, told myself it was bound to happen, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. If anything, I feel extra stupid. I shouldn’t have agreed to see him when he sent me those gifts.
No, scratch that. I shouldn’t have agreed to go out with him in the first place. All along, I’d known I was playing with fire, and I did it anyway.
I let him leave a third-degree burn on my heart.
The storm outside now seems more like a hurricane, the wind roaring and the snow piling up by my only window to block out what little light from the street lamps was seeping in. And as I stare into the darkness, my eyes burning with unshed tears, I make myself a promise.
I’m never going to date a man out of my league again.
50
Marcus
The storm is still raging outside when my alarm goes off at 5:30 a.m., so I send an email directing everyone at the fund to work from home, and then I get up to do the same. Geoffrey has the day off, but he prepped today’s meals in advance, and it takes mere minutes to warm the quiche he made and down it with a cup of coffee before heading into my home office.
As I answer emails and go over research reports, my thoughts turn to Emma again. They said on the news some areas of Queens and Brooklyn have lost power. Could that have happened in her neighborhood? In general, how is she faring in her basement studio? Something like a foot of snow has already fallen, enough to block that just-above-the-ground window in her apartment.
Could she be stuck there in the dark, without electricity and heat?
No, that’s ridiculous. She’s in Brooklyn, not some shack in the mountains, and it’s an early winter storm, not Armageddon. I’m sure she’s fine. She’s most likely asleep, enjoying an impromptu day off like most of the city. Or if she’s awake, she might be packing for her flight to Florida tonight. Speaking of which…
I pull out my phone and check her flight status, like I’ve been doing every couple of hours since the storm hit.
Still not cancelled.
Fuck.
I’m not planning to see her this week, so I don’t know why that bothers me, but it does. Maybe it’s because I don’t want her to fly in this weather. The snow is supposed to stop by noon, but ice on the planes’ wings might be a problem for a while. Not that the airlines will fly if they don’t think it’s safe, but still.
I don’t want her getting on that plane.
I really fucking don’t.
Realizing I’m obsessing over her again, I force my attention back to my computer screen and succeed at focusing for another couple of hours. Then I check on her flight again.
Still on. Not even so much as a delay.
Cursing, I get up and head into my home gym. I almost wish her flight number hadn’t been in the investigator’s report. If I didn’t know it, I wouldn’t be checking the airline app with the frequency of a schoolgirl refreshing her Instagram feed. Hopefully, a good, hard workout will clear my mind. With the insane workload of the past couple of days, I’ve been squeezing in quick runs before breakfast, but I haven’t lifted weights since Saturday morning, when Emma lay sleeping in my bed.
Fuck, I’m thinking about her again.
With effort, I concentrate on my gym routine, pushing myself to the limit with each set. By the time I’m done, I’m drenched with sweat, my muscles shaking from exhaustion. But I’m still restless, my fingers twitching with the urge to reach for my phone and check on her flight.
And maybe on her.
Just a quick text to make sure she’s okay in this storm.
But no. That will seem odd since I haven’t contacted her since Sunday. At this point, I owe her an explanation, if not an apology, for my disappearance. Not that I’m going to tell her about the private battle I’ve been fighting; work will suffice as an excuse. And to further smooth over any ruffled feathers, I’m going to ask her out to dinner that same night, so we can pick up where we left off.
All of this once she returns from Florida, naturally. I have to go at least a week without her, to make sure that I can.
To keep myself from doing something stupid, I dive into my pool and do three dozen laps. Then I shower and head into my kitchen to grab lunch, noticing as I pass by the window that the snowfall has stopped and the snowplows are out in full force.
That’s good. Hopefully, that means they’ll restore power to those neighborhoods that lost it soon. Especially if Emma—
Stop. Don’t fucking think about her.
Opening the fridge, I take out a tuna salad sandwich and sit down at the bar to eat it. As I chew, I glance at the microwave clock.
11:43 a.m.
Emma is definitely awake by now.
Dammit. I really can’t control myself, can I? If I’m going to be spending that much time thinking about her, I might as well be with her.
I pause, a half-eaten sandwich in my hand as I process that thought. Maybe I’ve been going about it all wrong. Maybe by trying not to think about Emma, I’ve been ensuring that she’s at the forefront of my mind. It’s like the classic “white bear” experiment in psych class: If you’re told not to think about a white bear for a specific period of time, it’s going to be the only thing occupying your thoughts.
Yes, of course, that’s it. I should’ve seen it before.
Emma is my white bear.
By trying to resist my addiction to her, I’ve been making it infinitely worse.
What I need is the complete opposite approach—to gorge myself on her. Not the way I went about it this weekend, to the point of neglecting my work, but in a more controlled manner. And I know exactly how to make it happen.
I have to get her to move in with me.
The solution is so glaringly obvious I don’t know why it hasn’t occurred to me earlier. It’s pretty much Economics 101. The problem right now is that Emma is a scarce resource. With her living in Brooklyn and not wanting to leave her cats alone for long, I simply can’t get enough of her in the limited time we have together. No wonder I dropped the ball at work this past weekend: with her leaving for the trip and refusing to spend two nights in a row at my place, it was all but inevitable that I’d focus on her to the exclusion of everything else.
Because that’s how scarcity works.
It makes the scarce item extra desirable… practically irresistible.
Of course, living together is a major commitment—which is probably why I didn’t think of this before. Actually, no, I did in a way. My desire for her t
o be at my place all the time was likely my subconscious proposing this very solution. And the more I think about it, the more I like it.
All the things I want—having her with me every night, seeing her as soon as I get home from work—are going to be so much easier if she’s living in my penthouse. And commitment-wise, it’s not as big of a deal for me as it is for most people. Partially, it’s all the financial logistics that make living together a big step. A dating couple often has to lease or buy a new place, plus cover the moving expenses for one or both individuals. My penthouse, however, is big enough for a family, much less just the two of us, and I can cover Emma’s moving costs with my pocket change. I can also lease another apartment for her if we end up going our separate ways in the future.
The only downside as far as I can see is that the cats will move in too, but it’s a small price to pay for such a neat solution.
Yes, that’s it, I decide, my heartbeat speeding up with dark anticipation. I’m going to finish my lunch, then call her and apologize for my disappearance. Afterward, as soon as the roads are cleared, I’ll have Wilson drive me over to her place, and we’ll talk before she leaves for her flight—or maybe we’ll do so as I give her a ride to the airport, in case she wants to get there early. The trickiest part will be convincing Emma to get over her financial hang-ups, but I have some ideas in that regard.
If all goes well, by this time next week, she’ll be safely ensconced in my lair, and I’ll have exactly what I want.
Emma always within reach.
51
Emma
My phone rings as I’m on the floor, wrestling with the zipper of the suitcase. Thinking it’s my grandparents, I grab the phone from the bed without looking and hit “Accept”—only to freeze in disbelief, staring at the name on the screen.
It’s Marcus.
He’s calling me.
Right now.
“Emma?” His voice is rich and deep, audible even without the loudspeaker being on. “Emma, kitten, can you hear me?”
Jumping to my feet, I end the call. My finger hits the red button on the screen without my conscious decision.
Then, blood drumming in my temples, I stare at the phone in my hand.
Did I hallucinate this, or did it really happen?
The phone rings again, Marcus’s name appearing on the screen.
I hit “Decline” again, my heart hammering so fast I can hardly think.
What does he want?
Why call me now, after disappearing for days?
I cried last night. At three a.m., when I still couldn’t sleep, I cried because it hurt so much, knowing I’d never hear that voice again. And here he is, calling me “kitten” as if nothing happened.
Unless… unless something did happen.
Ice crystals form in my veins, my stomach twisting with an awful fear as it occurs to me that lack of interest is not the only reason someone might disappear.
What if Marcus was in an accident?
What if he’s in the hospital, hurt so badly that he couldn’t text or talk?
I’m already pressing the button to call him back when his name pops up for the third time.
“Marcus?” I sound semi-hysterical, but I can’t help it. The thought of him injured, his big, strong body broken and covered by blood… “Marcus, are you okay?”
“Me?” To my relief, he seems startled. “Yes, of course. I’m working from home today, and there were no downed power lines in Manhattan. How about you? Do you have power and heat?”
For a moment, I have no idea what he’s talking about, but then I recall the storm.
Is he for real right now?
I cried over him last night, and we’re talking about the fucking weather?
“So you’re not hurt?” I clarify, my voice tight. “You weren’t in the hospital or jail or otherwise unavoidably detained?”
“No, of course not.” There’s now a wary note in his tone. “But I did have an insane few days at work. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. Speaking of which—”
“Did you fix it?” I interrupt. “The bad trade, I mean?”
He audibly inhales. “Yes, mostly. Listen, Emma, I’m sorry I—”
“Okay, I’m happy for you. Goodbye.” I hang up before my voice can break. I’m shaking from a surfeit of adrenaline, my intense relief that he’s all right combining with hurt and growing fury. I wasn’t angry at him before—only at myself, for being foolish enough to play with fire—but I am now.
It’s one thing to barrel into my life, toy with my emotions, and disappear, another to blithely expect a repeat of the same.
The phone rings again, and I send it to voicemail with a jerky swipe across the screen. My pulse is racing so fast that I’m dizzy, my breathing fast and ragged as I throw the phone on the bed and start to pace.
Why did he call? Why now?
Why reappear just when I’ve become convinced he never would?
Not that it matters.
Whatever his reasons are, I just can’t do this. Maybe other women can handle their lovers blowing hot and cold, but I can’t. I’m not cut out for these games. Kendall was right: Marcus is not like the harmless boys I’ve dated. I’ve only known him for a short time, and he’s already turned me inside out. I’ve never cried over either of my two boyfriends—nor, come to think of it, any other man.
And that’s the crux of it, I realize with a twisting pain.
Marcus isn’t like any other man I’ve known. With my exes, I’d been able to keep a certain distance, to give a portion of myself while holding back the rest. Not with him, though. In just a couple of dates and one mindfuck of a weekend, he’d decimated all of my defenses, bulldozing straight into my heart.
Even knowing that what we had was temporary, I fell for him—and I fell hard.
The realization is like a wrecking ball into my stomach.
I’m in love with him.
With Marcus.
That’s why it’s hurting so much.
Shaken, I sit down on the bed, letting Cottonball climb into my lap as I stare blankly at my phone.
I’m in love with Marcus. Not the handsome billionaire who gave me more orgasms than I can count, but the man who talked with naked gratitude about his second-grade teacher and answered my grandparents’ questions with calm patience and respect.
The man who told me that I’m nothing like my mother before sharing about his own painful past.
My phone dings three times, the screen lighting up with incoming texts.
What do you mean, goodbye?
Did you hang up on me?
Emma, call me back, right now. I can explain.
Each word is like a blade puncturing my lungs, stealing my breath with every blow.
Because I want to call him back.
I want it more than anything.
But if I do—if I give in again—the next time he walks away, I’ll be left in pieces.
And there will be a next time… because I’m not Emmeline.
I’m not the perfect wife candidate he needs.
52
Marcus
I stare at my phone, my heart thudding with mingled chagrin and fury.
She hung up on me.
Cut off my apology with a “goodbye” and hung up.
I call back, in case it was a bad connection, but I get voicemail right away.
Swearing under my breath, I fire off three texts and wait.
Nothing.
No moving dots to tell me she’s in the process of responding, nothing to give any indication of her intent.
Drawing on every ounce of my patience, I call again.
Voicemail.
Straight to fucking voicemail.
She’s either turned off her phone, or she’s rejecting my calls.
The phone in my hand feels like a bomb ready to explode—or maybe that’s the ball of fury in my chest. Twice she’s done this to me now.
Twice she’s tried to make me go away.
&n
bsp; And the last time, I went. Like a fucking idiot, I walked away, almost letting her ruin what we have.
Well, not this time.
She’s not getting on the plane until she takes back that fucking “goodbye.”
I’ve cooled down slightly by the time Wilson gets me through the freshly plowed streets to Brooklyn. In hindsight, maybe not contacting Emma since Sunday wasn’t well done of me. It might’ve been only three days, but if she feels our connection as intensely as I do, it would’ve seemed infinitely longer.
I’m still pissed she hung up on me, but I can understand it.
In any case, as the car pulls up to the piles of snow left on the curb by the snowplow, I’m fully prepared to grovel. In addition to explaining just how crazy things were at work, I’m going to offer my most sincere apology and swear never to ghost her again. Not that I did—I just held off on contacting her for a bit—but that’s how she must’ve perceived it.
It’s the only explanation for that out-of-nowhere “goodbye.”
I’m wearing my waterproof boots, but snow gets in through the leg openings as I wade through the thigh-high piles on the way to Emma’s door. Ignoring the icy wetness soaking my feet, I ring the doorbell.
Nothing.
No response.
I give it a couple of minutes, then ring the doorbell again.
Still nothing.
Frustrated, I tromp over to the basement window around the corner. As expected, it’s covered with snow, so I bend down and begin brushing it away with my bare hands.