Page 26 of The Billionaire's Princess

8

Damon

“What on earthdo you think you’re doing?”

The blast of Carly’s irritated voice from her intercom the following night makes me laugh as I stand outside on her stoop.

“Feeding you as promised,” I say, carefully balancing my grocery bags. I’m pleased to confirm that—as I’d expected—her building seems solid and safe. Inside, a security guard watches me with some amusement from his post behind a marble desk. I’m not sure why my dumb ass seems to suddenly think I’m personally responsible for this woman’s well-being, but there’s no shaking the feelings of protectiveness and satisfaction. “I can’t feed you by eight if I don’t get started early. Are you going to let me up?”

“You’re forty-five minutes early,” she says, her tone now suggesting that she’s going to use her sharpest chef’s knife to divest me of my balls the second I set foot in her apartment. “And I was promised a fancy restaurant.”

“No, you weren’t. If anything, I promised you a delicious meal. Which I will provide. But I want privacy and your undivided attention.”

“That’s all well and good, but I’ve just got out of the shower. I haven’t done hair or makeup. I look like the hag from all the Grimm brothers’ fairytales.”

“Doubtful. Buzz me in. I’m not here to see how good you are with hair and makeup. I want to see you in your natural state in your natural habitat.”

“Be careful what you wish for, you foolish man,” she mutters darkly as the door unlocks.

I emerge from the elevator a couple minutes later to find her waiting for me down at the end of a long and elegant hallway, her you’re dead glower firmly in place as I approach. She’s wearing a tank top and running shorts, a combo that wins my wholehearted approval because it shows the long stretch of her shapely legs and the intriguing straps of a pink bra across her pale shoulders. On her head? A white towel wrapped tight. And her flashing light-colored eyes are now, finally, brightly lit enough for me to detect their color.

“Blue,” I say softly, mesmerized as I stare down at her fresh face, which features a sun-kissed sprinkling across her nose. “With freckles.”

“Well done,” she says, a smile reluctantly trying to break through. “You’ve demonstrated your proficiency with primary colors and solved a pressing mystery.”

“Everything about you is a pressing mystery, princess. But you don’t listen very well, do you? What’d I tell you about your hair?”

“You’re far too demanding and far too interested in my hair. I’m tempted to shave it all off just to smite you. Nip your fetish in the bud.”

I shrug easily. “Everything about you is a fetish. Tick-tock.”

She rolls her eyes. Blushes furiously. And removes the towel to reveal wet spirals of fiery hair that tumble across her shoulders and frame her head in a glorious halo.

“Anything else before I let you in? Any other ridiculous demands?” she asks.

“Yeah. Start getting your head around the fact that you’re gorgeous. Just like that. Anything else is putting a cherry on top of a flawless diamond.”

Her breath hitches. “Are you trying to turn my head?”

“Hate to tell you, but we’ve already given each other whiplash. At this point, we don’t need to impress each other. We need to get to know each other.”

If I’ve told a bigger lie in the last ten years, I can’t think of it. Not the part about getting to know each other. That’s a thousand percent true. So is the part about her not needing to impress me. But me not needing to impress her?

Big-ass lie.

I’m all about impressing her. Hence the cooking tonight. I want to show her my real estate holdings, my investment portfolio and my bank account balances. I can’t wait to show off my various luxury cars and the jet. Don’t get me started on my penthouse with its 360-degree views that include the rivers or our family home in the Hamptons.

I want her to see all of it. To understand that I plan to hit the billionaire mark—both with the company and personally—or die trying.. To know that I can afford and protect a woman like her.

And none of it has to do with the fact that she’s a royal.

When I get a minute, I’m going to think about how ironic it is that I’m positive both that Percy could never be the man for her and that I am the man for her, yet equally positive that she will wise up to me and/or I will blow it if given half the chance.

Can I pedal hard and put a good face on it? Yeah, sure.

But the bottom line, independent of my financial bottom line, is that I’m a worthless loser who drives people away no matter how hard I work to keep them. My mother walked out on me. Carly has already walked out on me once. The clock is ticking on when she does it again.

My only job? To impress her enough to make her think twice before she does it.

---