Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 408(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 408(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
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.