25
Emma
I’m in a state of panic throughout the entire morning. At my request, Wilson drove me to my apartment before work, so I could pick up a dress for tonight—a long-sleeved, wrap-style piece I found on a department store clearance rack a few years ago. At the time, it looked nice and stylish, the gray material draping over my curves with a subtle flair, but after a dozen encounters with a washing machine, it more closely resembles something out of a cat’s butt.
Still, I grabbed it this morning because it’s the only business-y thing I own. In fact, I was going to wear it to job interviews, back when I still had hopes of getting a position with some big-name publisher. The interviews never materialized, so now I just wear the dress whenever I need to look a little more put-together—like, say, when I’m going out to dinner with half a dozen individuals whose monthly income exceeds what most families earn in a lifetime.
And that’s not an exaggeration. I asked Marcus for their names this morning and looked them up. Let’s just say he won’t be the only person at our table tonight who’s been featured by Forbes.
Dammit. What am I doing? I still can’t believe Marcus got me to agree to this. I must’ve still been out of it after that intense sex session, because instead of panicking right then and there, I’d been equal parts shocked and flattered that he wants to introduce me to his investors.
After all, I’m about as far from being “an asset at social functions” as a girl can get.
But Marcus had been insistent that he wants me there, and I’d given in, partially because of the flattered bit and partially because he promised to stop pressuring me about moving in. Then he started making love to me again, and that eliminated all possibility of thinking. It’s only when I woke up this morning that I realized the dinner means I won’t be able to go home tonight, as it would likely run late and packing up my cats would take at least an hour—longer if I have to chase them around the spacious penthouse.
They really like Marcus’s place, so much so they spent all night running around and exploring. I only saw them briefly this morning, when they jumped into bed with me for a few minutes of obligatory cuddles. Thankfully, Marcus was in the shower by then; I’m not sure how he would’ve felt about furry paws on his pristine white sheets.
He may not think he’s a neat freak, but he totally is. Even his briefs are arranged in perfectly folded squares.
In any case, it’s clear to me now that I’ve been outmaneuvered. Again. Thanks to this dinner, I’m going to end up staying at Marcus’s place two nights in a row, which is what he was after all along. What’s worse is I committed to accompanying him to an event that I’m completely unequipped for, and not just because all he’d packed for me were jeans and sweaters.
I have literally never been to a business dinner, much less one with people this rich and powerful. One of Marcus’s investors manages the California Teachers’ Union pension fund; another is a real estate tycoon; a third is a Russian-born tech billionaire; a fourth is an up-and-coming fitness mogul; and the last two are pretty much invisible online, which likely means they’re some type of secretive old money.
Meanwhile, I’m an introverted bookstore clerk whose most professional outfit is a cat’s butt dress.
Naturally, when I realized all this upon waking up and tried to back out, Marcus offered to buy me whatever I needed to feel comfortable—an offer I immediately declined, claiming I have everything I need. But that pretty much committed me to going—hence me literally breathing into a paper bag during my lunch hour.
“Emma, are you okay?” Mr. Smithson asks, finding me in an armchair at the back of the store, and I lower the bag to give my boss an overly bright smile.
“Yep. Just testing out a new meditation technique.”
“Oh, I see.” His expression clears as a knowing grin appears on his face. If we were in a comic book, there’d be a thought bubble above his head that says, Millennials. Should’ve known better than to ask.
Satisfied that I’m not about to throw up on the latest row of thrillers, he ambles away, and I resume breathing into the bag, hoping against hope that this calms me down.
It doesn’t. If anything, I feel extra jittery.
Ugh. Why did I agree to this? And why does Marcus want me there, anyway? We’ve just started dating, and I’m nowhere near the type of girlfriend a billionaire would be dying to show off. My table manners are okay—my Southern grandmother made sure of that—but all the rest of it, like small talk and schmoozing, is beyond me.