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)
I can discuss the latest New York Times bestsellers, but that’s about it.
Come to think of it, there’s no way Marcus was going to bring me to this dinner when we stopped by my apartment after the flight. Otherwise, he would’ve packed something fancier than jeans for me. Unless he was planning to buy me clothes? But no, he knows how I feel about stuff like that.
This was definitely an impulse invitation on his part, which makes it all the weirder that he was so insistent I accept. In general, his behavior after dinner yesterday was strange, with that uber-intense sex and the children query and all. He even seemed upset when Geoffrey showed up with the morning-after pill and I took it… as if Marcus himself wasn’t the one who sent him on the errand.
It’s as though something happened, only for the life of me, I can’t think what. Marcus was adamant it wasn’t Mr. Puffs breaking the sculpture. But that’s about the only mishap that occurred after we finished dinner. Unless… was it something at dinner?
Maybe he was upset I’d brought up his father?
“Emma. Earth to Emma.”
“Yes, Mr. Smithson?” Lowering the bag again, I look up at my boss, who must’ve been standing there for a while. And he’s not alone. With him is his blond nephew, the aspiring urban fantasy author I showed around the bookstore a couple of weeks ago.
Pushing all thoughts of Marcus aside, I rise to my feet and smile brightly. “Hi, Ian. How are you? How’s your book coming along?” The last time we spoke, he’d been very excited about it, and I told him about my freelance editing services, in case he decided to go the self-published route.
Never hurts to drum up a little business.
My boss beams at me, and I wince internally, realizing he’s again matchmaking—and misinterpreting what he’s seeing. Though the shy, geeky Ian is what I’ve always thought of as “my type,” my only interest in him is as a potential client.
Not only am I officially dating Marcus now, but from the moment I met my Wall Street titan, I haven’t felt so much as a smidgeon of attraction to another man.
Ian’s fair skin flushes, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he adjusts his glasses. “I’m, um… almost done with the first draft. I think I’ll finish this week.”
“Oh, good for you. Do let me know if you need any editing help once you get to that point.” That’s a little pushier than my typical MO, but I want to make it clear to Mr. Smithson that I’m seeing his nephew purely as a business opportunity.
Unfortunately, my boss is undeterred. With a huge smile, he says to Ian, “Yes, definitely talk to our Emma. She knows good books.”
And winking at me, he ambles away, leaving me alone with his nephew.
* * *
The good news is that talking to Ian—or rather, listening to him explain every plot point of his book in yawn-inducing detail—serves as a distraction from my anxiety about the dinner. The bad news is that an hour later, when Ian finally departs, I’m right back to freaking out.
Seriously, why did I agree to this? More importantly, is it too late to back out?
I grab my phone to call Marcus, but then I recall that he’s supposed to be in meetings all day today—something about the start of the month and strategizing for the upcoming Alpha Zone conference. I have no idea what Alpha Zone is, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a werewolf get-together, which is where my shifter-romance-reading brain goes whenever I hear the word “Alpha.”
Given the context, it’s probably some obscure investing term. I should really look it up, if only because it’s good for an editor to know these things.
Either way, I end up calling Kendall instead of Marcus and spilling my entire dilemma to her. “Do you think I should fake an illness, maybe?” I say when I’m done. “It is flu season, and—”
“Don’t you dare!” she interrupts, and I hear a car honking in the background. She must be outside, running one of the million errands her boss always sends her on. “Are you crazy?” she continues when the honking stops. “He’s bringing you to a business dinner. Don’t you know what that means?”
I take a breath. “Well…”
“It means it’s serious, Emma! He’s integrating you into his life, the most important parts of his life.” Two more honks interrupt her words, and I picture her jaywalking across a busy intersection like the fearless New Yorker she is. “A man like him would never ask a casual lay to an investor dinner. This is next-level shit. Even you, Miss Oblivious, have to know that.”
“Well, duh, of course I know that! That’s why I agreed: because I was flattered to be asked. But these people—”