“She packed a little something for you,” Gramps says, apparently reading my mind. “It’s in the cooler in the backseat. She figured you’d be hungry after the flight.”
I wasn’t, until Grandma made me hungry with all those cookbook-worthy descriptions, but what are you going to do? Twisting around, I grab the cooler and start munching on cut fruit and cheese sticks as Gramps launches into a story about a new couple he and Grandma have befriended, along with random goings-on in their community.
Flagler Beach, their little town on the northeast coast of Florida, is about a ninety-minute drive from Orlando, but Gramps hates I-4, the most direct route that goes through downtown Orlando, so we end up taking the longer way. According to Gramps, it’s worth it, as the extra twenty minutes buys him peace of mind.
“Won’t get stuck in traffic this way,” he informs me, and I refrain from pointing out that by taking the longer route each time—even in the off hours, when the probability of a traffic jam is low—he spends more time on the road overall than by always taking the I-4 and occasionally getting stuck.
In any case, it’s almost midnight by the time we pull up to their house. To my surprise, Grandma, who normally goes to sleep around ten, is wide awake and nicely dressed as she greets us in the driveway, where a sleek white Mercedes is parked next to Grandma’s ancient Beetle—likely as a favor to some neighbor.
“You should’ve gone to bed,” I chide, embracing her, and she laughs, her gray eyes gleaming with barely suppressed excitement as she pulls away, leaving behind a cloud of her favorite jasmine perfume.
“To bed? When my favorite granddaughter is coming home? I’m not so old that I can’t stay up for a couple of hours past my bedtime. Besides, I couldn’t go to sleep with such a big surprise waiting for you,” she says, beaming, and I realize that in addition to wearing perfume and going-out clothes, she still has her daytime makeup on.
“What surprise?” Gramps, who’s coming up behind me with the suitcase, sounds as puzzled as I feel. “And whose car is that?” He glances over his shoulder at the Mercedes.
Grandma grins. “Come inside and see.” She hurries ahead, and Gramps and I exchange confused looks before following her in.
I enter first, with Gramps wheeling the suitcase behind me, but I only make it two steps before my feet grow roots and I freeze in place, gaping at the sight in front of me.
In the middle of my grandparents’ living room, standing next to their gently worn couch, is a tall, powerfully built man with hard, strikingly masculine features. Thick dark eyebrows, a sharply cut jaw, high cheekbones above lean cheeks darkened by a hint of stubble—everything about the bold lines of his face heats my blood and sends my pulse into overdrive. Instead of his usual perfectly tailored suit, he’s dressed in a pair of designer jeans and a casual white button-up shirt—the same outfit I saw him in at the JFK airport in New York less than five hours ago.
When he kissed me.
And asked me to move in.
And looked at me like I stabbed him in the heart when I refused and got on the plane.
Marcus Carelli, the Wall Street billionaire I fell in love with despite my better judgment, is here, in my grandparents’ house, his cool blue gaze trained on me with the intensity of a hawk tracking his favorite prey.
3
Marcus
Emma’s gray eyes are so huge I could drown in them, her freckles standing out in stark relief as all color leaves her already-pale face. Her curls are wilder than usual, floating around her head like a halo of fire, and her small, curvy body is stiff with shock as she stares at me from across the room, her equally stunned grandfather behind her.
“Hi, kitten,” I say calmly, even as dark anticipation boils in my blood, mixing with lingering fury and hurt. “Guess what? I wrapped up my work early and decided to surprise you.”
“He flew into the Daytona Beach airport and got here a half hour ago, can you believe it?” Mary Walsh exclaims, all but bursting from excitement. “I wanted to call you, but Marcus thought it might be more fun to greet you when you got here. We’ve been having tea and cookies and—”
“Excuse me,” Emma says tightly. Recovering from her paralysis, she marches toward me, grabs my arm, and faces her grandparents. “Marcus and I need to talk.”
Mary’s face drops as she realizes her excitement isn’t shared. “Of course, I’m sure you two need to…” I don’t hear the rest of what she says because Emma drags me out of the house. Not literally, of course—she’s tiny compared to me—but by tugging on my arm with enough force that I wouldn’t be able to resist without her grandparents catching on that my presence isn’t exactly welcome.