Titan’s Addiction: Wall Street Titan: Book 2

Chapter 4

4

Emma

My grandparents’ happy smiles greet us as we step into the house holding hands, and I know I did the right thing by letting Marcus stay—even if it means further heartache for me.

Because I meant what I said.

I’m not moving in with him.

I’m not even going to see him again after we return from Florida.

For now, though, I have no choice but to pretend he’s my boyfriend. Or at least a man I’m dating. Because I don’t want to have to explain to my grandparents at half past midnight why I’m sending away a man who flew all the way from New York to be with me—a handsome, successful man who’s undoubtedly everything they want my future partner to be.

Well, except for the part where I’m nothing like what he wants—and explaining that to Grandma and Gramps would’ve been far too painful. I would’ve broken down in tears, and they would’ve been devastated on my behalf. And very, very disappointed.

They clearly got their hopes up, so much so they told their neighbors about him.

Of course, I’ll need to tell them the truth eventually, but it doesn’t have to be tonight—or at any time during this trip, really. Because Marcus was right: it would ruin my grandparents’ Thanksgiving. It’s their favorite holiday, which is why I always try to fly in to spend it with them. They’re both meh about Christmas—too commercial, according to Grandma—but they love all the traditions of Thanksgiving.

No, it’s best if I tell them about the breakup once I’m back in New York. They’ll still be upset, but it’ll be easier to pretend I’m fine over Skype. Right now, my emotions are too tangled, too raw, especially with Marcus showing up like this. I don’t understand why he’s here, why he’s trying to make it sound like we could have a future when it’s beyond obvious that—

“You two lovebirds resolve everything?” Gramps asks, getting up from the couch as we enter the living room, and before I can respond, Marcus nods and smiles broadly.

“We did, thank you. Emma was just upset that I spilled the beans to Mary. She wanted to be the one to tell you both that we’re moving in together.”

I see red. I literally do.

At first, I’m afraid the blood vessels in my eyes have popped from the explosion of fury blasting through me, but then I realize some of my hair has fallen into my face. Pushing it out of my eyes, I open my mouth to rip into Marcus—there’s only so much pretending I’m willing to do—when Grandma lets out a girlish squeal and rushes forward.

“Oh, this is so exciting,” she gushes, enveloping us both in a perfumed hug. Stepping back, she turns to beam at Gramps. “Isn’t it just the best news ever, Ted?”

“Indeed,” Gramps says as Marcus sneezes for some reason. “We’re so glad Emma will finally be out of that basement studio. Mary told me she’ll be moving into your place, right?”

“That’s right,” Marcus says as I try to find the right words to refute this madness. “My apartment has plenty of room for Emma and her cats.”

“What about your work?” Gramps asks me. “Your bookstore is in Brooklyn, so how will you get there if you live in Manhattan?”

“Oh, I’ve already asked that,” Grandma answers before I can get a word in. “Marcus’s private driver”—she grins at that—“will take her to the bookstore and bring her back every day. And since the apartment is in Tribeca, just a few blocks from the tunnel, the drive won’t take that much longer than her current commute—you know, what with walking to the subway, waiting for the train, and all.”

They’ve discussed the logistics of my commute?

I’m speechless with rage. Literally speechless.

“Indeed,” Marcus says as I struggle with my paralyzed vocal cords. “It’ll be so much safer for her, too. You know the state of those trains these days. Besides, this winter is forecasted to be colder than usual, and she’ll be snug and warm in the car.” Gazing down at me with a tender expression, he presses me to his side and drops a kiss on the crown of my head.

Grandma looks like she’s about to melt into a puddle of joy, and even Gramps sniffles, as if he’s on the verge of happy tears.

The scathing retort I was about to unleash dies on my lips. Because what kind of an asshole would I be if I spoiled this for them? For as long as I can remember, my grandparents have fretted over me, first worrying that my sociopathic mother—their daughter—was neglecting me, then that my childhood with her had left lasting scars on my psyche. Mixed with that worry is deep-seated guilt that their daughter turned out the way she did, along with regret that they didn’t sue for custody of me when I was little.

“I kept thinking she’d turn around and change her ways, that she’d realize how damaging her behavior was to you, her child,” Grandma confided in me tearfully after my mother died and I, being a dumb eleven-year-old, told them what it had been like to live with her. “But she never did, did she? We should’ve taken you away from her years ago, and to hell with lawyer fees and courts favoring the mother.”

Gramps feels the same way—which is why, after I graduated from college, it took every persuasion tactic in my arsenal to convince the two of them to finally retire and move to Florida. They’d been beyond reluctant to leave me alone in Brooklyn, but I knew that year-round sunshine and beachside living was their lifelong dream, and I stood firm, claiming that I was an adult and needed my independence.

And so they gave me that—only to continue worrying about me. Though they’d lived in New York for decades, everything about the city scares them now, from the crowds to the winters to the way it’s a constant target for terrorists. And the fact that I’m living there completely on my own makes it infinitely worse, as they keep picturing me getting sick or hurt and having no one around to look after me.

Which is why it’s so appealing to them, what Marcus is promising right now. Safety, warmth, love, and support—he’s homed in on the exact things my grandparents want for me. And by doing so, he’s backed me into a corner.

I can’t deny them this joy, even if it only lasts for a short while.

So instead of blasting Marcus with the full force of my outrage, I unobtrusively step out of his embrace and say, “It’s getting late. Let’s talk more about it tomorrow.” After I’ve had a chance to yell at the lying, manipulative jerk in private.

“Of course.” Grandma beams. “Come, I’ve prepped the guestroom for you two.”

Wait a sec. Guestroom, as in one room? This being Florida, my grandparents have two spare bedrooms, one of which doubles as Gramps’ lounge/office—and I’d assumed they’d put Marcus in one of them and me in the other, as befits propriety. But that’s not what seems to be happening.

A sinking feeling invading my stomach, I follow Grandma out of the living room, with Marcus on my heels.

“Here we are,” she says, throwing open a door to reveal a cozy, softly lit room with a neatly made queen-sized bed and an attached bathroom. “All nice and ready for you two.”

Oh God. Shoot me now.

I’ve never had a boyfriend sleep over at my grandparents’ place before, as the last time I was seriously dating someone—my college boyfriend, Jim—they still lived in Brooklyn, in a converted two-bedroom that I shared with them. It was barely larger than my current studio and the walls were super thin, so Jim and I would go to his parents’ house in Long Island to hang out.

Which is to say that I don’t have any precedent to compare this to. Still, logic would dictate that most grandparents—even liberal ones, like mine—wouldn’t encourage their granddaughter to engage in premarital s*x under their own roof.

Of course, my grandparents have never been like most, but is a little prudishness too much to ask for?

I really, really don’t want to share a bed with Marcus.

Or rather, after those brain-melting kisses outside, I want it way too much.

“Thank you, Mary. It looks lovely. We really appreciate your hospitality,” Marcus says—again taking the lead before I can figure out how to deal with this development. And why is he on a first-name basis with my grandmother?

Did they get all buddy-buddy while waiting for Gramps and me to arrive?

Stepping around me, he walks into the room, my suitcase in one hand and a duffel bag that must be his luggage in the other. He probably grabbed them from the living room when I wasn’t looking—except how does he even have luggage in the first place? To get here so quickly, he had to have jumped on a plane right after I left.

Does he keep an overnight bag on his private jet in case he wants to chase some woman on a moment’s notice?

Wait, why am I worrying about his luggage when we’re about to be forced into sharing a bed? This is not a viable sleeping arrangement. At all. Given Marcus’s intense s*x drive and the fact that I go up in flames if he so much as breathes on me, it’s pretty much a given that as soon as that door closes, we’re going to be horizontal—and for the sake of my sanity, that can’t happen. I definitely need to ask Grandma for separate rooms. Only how do I do that without fessing up to the whole deception? She and Gramps have seen me in a robe at his place, so I can’t exactly pretend our relationship hasn’t progressed that far.

As I’m wrestling with this dilemma, Marcus sets down both bags and begins to unpack my suitcase, taking out my clothes and setting them in neat piles on the bed with the calm self-assurance of a man who has every right to handle my things. At any other time, my jaw would be on the floor, but after everything that has gone down tonight, his temerity barely fazes me.

What does bother me is that my grandmother beams brighter at this arrogant display. To her, it must look like we’re already perfectly comfortable with each other, kind of like an old married couple. She probably thinks Marcus is being helpful by unpacking for me, instead of seeing his actions for what they are: a ruthless takeover of my life. I can just see her telling Gramps all about what a nice man Marcus is, so domesticated and caring and organized.

At this very moment, he’s hanging my T-shirts. Actually hanging them in the guestroom closet. Oh, and ordering them by color, light to dark, like a serial killer.

He must be the one with OCD, not his butler.

“Goodnight, sweetheart. Goodnight, Marcus,” Grandma says before I can come up with a solution to the bed problem. “Sleep well.”

With a quick hug, she hurries away, and then there’s no choice left.

Feeling like I’m entering a dragon’s lair, I ball my fists and step into the guestroom.