Wall Street Titan (Wall Street Titan #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,10

he claim to love cats and then act like I’d confessed to having the plague?

In general, why would a man like that—good-looking and obviously successful—want to mess with a random girl from a dating app?

I’m so angry I make it to the subway and onto the train on autopilot. It’s not until I’m a couple of stops away from my station that my temper cools enough for me to go over what happened without choking with fury.

Taking a calming breath, I review the facts. Key point number one: The man at the café insisted that I call him Marcus instead of Mark, though he wrote to me as Mark. Key point number two: He turned out to be thirty-five years old with no cats, and he looked nothing like the blurry pictures in his profile. As I put those facts together and analyze them without the jerk’s proximity scrambling my brain, an embarrassing possibility occurs to me.

Could I have approached the wrong man after all?

Emmeline, he’d called me. Is it possible? Could he have been meeting someone by that name and mistaken me for her? The odds of Mark/Marcus and Emma/Emmeline on a blind date in the same place are slim, to say the least, but weirder things have happened. When Grandma met Gramps for the first time, he mistook her for one of his cousins and decided to prank her by dunking her in a pond—where a neighbor’s secretly kept alligator promptly latched onto her foot. Grandma still has scars from that incident, and Gramps looks guilty whenever Grandma recounts that story—which is often.

So, yeah, crazy stuff happens, and just because something isn’t likely doesn’t mean it’s impossible. Going by that logic, it’s entirely possible that Marcus is not a total asshole.

He’s just not Mark.

Groaning mentally, I snake my hand into my purse and rummage around for my phone. If I’m right, I probably have an email or a text from the real Mark, wondering where I am and why I stood him up.

It takes a full minute of rummaging for me to realize that I’m not finding the phone.

My heartbeat spikes, and a sick feeling twists my stomach. No. Please, no.

My hands shaking, I dump the contents of my bag onto an empty seat next to me and survey them in horror.

On the plastic orange seat next to me are a worn leather wallet, a few wadded-up tissues, a green scrunchie, a bottle of Tylenol, my apartment keys, a laser pointer, and an ancient pack of bubblegum—but no phone in a bright pink case.

Not even a hint of a phone.

I must’ve lost it somewhere.

Tears spring to my eyes, blurring my vision as I stuff everything back into my purse. I know that in the grand scheme of things, losing a phone is not a big deal. If Gramps saw me so upset over a thing, he’d give me a stern talking-to and remind me about what really matters: family, health, and doing what you love. And while I know all of that to be true, I simply can’t afford that kind of hit to my bank account right now. A couple of my regular editing clients ran into some difficulties with their latest novels, so I haven’t had a lengthy editing gig since the summer, leaving me with only my bookstore cashier’s salary to live on. Normally, that would suffice—I know how to stretch a penny—but between the interest rate spike on my student loans and the vet bill for Cottonball’s scratched nose two weeks ago, my account is a few dollars away from an overdraft fee.

I’m literally living paycheck to paycheck, and a new phone is not something I can afford.

Stop whining, Emma, and think. Where could you have lost the phone?

I can practically hear Gramps saying that to me, so I suck in a deep breath and push away my panic. I tend to get overemotional—it’s the Irish in me, Grandma says—and I need to get a grip on myself. Freaking out won’t solve anything.

Ignoring the stares from the other passengers on the train, I get down on all fours and peer under my seat on the off chance that the phone fell out at some point during the train ride.

Nothing—or at least nothing resembling my phone. There are gum wrappers and weird sticky-looking stains, but that’s not what I’m after.

I get back on my seat and rub my hands together to brush off the floor cooties. The panic is bubbling up again, but I push