21
Emma
Marcus is looking at me like he’s never seen a woman devour a gyro before—and maybe he hasn’t. I bet all the supermodel types he dates survive on kale juice and broccoli. Then again, he’s been eyeing me like this ever since I paid for my portion, so maybe it has something to do with that.
His driver certainly looked shocked when I gave him the twenty.
Of course, it’s also possible that he’s not used to seeing a woman eating on her bed, surrounded by cats who have no compunction about stealing pieces of meat straight out of her gyro. I try to shove them away from my plate, but it’s useless.
There are three of them, and the gyro has too many points of access.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sit here?” he asks again from his seat at my desk, and I shake my head, my mouth too ful
