27
Emma
Taking a deep breath, I smooth my palms over the dress Geoffrey ironed for me and try to rub away the scuff marks on my high-heeled boots—the newish ones I’d worn on my first real date with Marcus. Inside my dimly lit studio and on New York’s muddy streets, they’d looked fine, nice even, but here, in the middle of Marcus’s bright, gleaming entryway, there’s no hiding what they really are: cheap knockoffs that have seen better days.
Oh, well. At least my gray dress and the beige woolen coat I’m about to put on are blessedly cat-hair free, again courtesy of Geoffrey. I left work a half hour early in case of traffic, but Wilson got me to Manhattan in record time, so I decided to stop by Marcus’s place and make myself as presentable as possible before heading over to the restaurant.
