Page 30 of The Billionaire's Princess

Does my relentless desire to win at everything and have the most money have anything to do with my mother leaving my father for his richer best friend?

What do I look like? A shrink?

I freeze, knowing I’ve said too much as I await her judgment.

“You sound like me, you know,” she says, a shadow crossing her expression. “The part about doing what you’re doing because it’s what your family does. Not because it’s what you decided to do or wanted to do. Just because it’s always been that way, so why not? Only…is that the right way? Doing it so you won’t rock the boat?”

I get the feeling she’s asking herself as much as me.

“Isn’t it? Is there some other way?”

“I hope so,” she says thoughtfully. “Because I’m not marrying Percy because my family want me to or expect it. I’ve got to put my big-girl knickers on and tell my grandmother I’ve ended the engagement. And that I don’t want to serve as patron for every bloody boring charity committee just because someone higher on the food chain can’t be bothered. That’s not what I want for my life.”

“What do you want for your life?” I ask, the sudden urgency my voice catching me by surprise.

“I don’t want to be stuck in the English countryside. I want to stay here. I love New York.”

“Works for me,” I say with quiet triumph. “What else?”

“I’m afraid to say it aloud,” she says with a rueful laugh. “My father thinks it’s a crazy idea.”

“What?”

“I’m a painter. I’d love to sell my work. See if I can make a living with that somehow.”

“Are you any good?”

She hesitates. I get the feeling that her innate humility or lack of confidence slows her down, but then, much to my pleasure, she takes a deep breath and nods.

“I’m excellent.”

“Then why would that be a crazy idea, princess?”

She lights up, blossoming like a June rose right in front of my eyes. A smile like that feels like a tiny taste of winning the lottery.

“You know something about art, right? I’d love to show you some of my work in the spare bedroom later. I use it for a little studio.”

“I’d love to,” I say.

“Good.” Her smile widens until she glows. Glows. And if someone snuck in, tapped me on the shoulder and asked what I wouldn’t do to keep seeing that exact smile, I’d say a clear and heartfelt nothing. “Any idea what you want for your life?”

You,whispers something inside me. I want you, Carly.

I swallow the words back with difficulty. They don’t seem to want to stay in my mouth. It takes me longer to manufacture a socially acceptable answer.

“I’ll have to give that some thought.”

“I think you should,” she says seriously. “Assuming that building apartments in Tokyo isn’t the only thing you can think of for fulfillment. What about charity work? Do you have a foundation?”

“We have the literacy foundation that my father started.”

“So you’re passionate about that?”

“About people learning to read? Let’s call that a yes,” I say.

“I’m going to chuck this bar towel right at your smug face if you don’t start giving me serious answers,” she says, taking aim. “How would you like that?”

I laugh again. Swear to God, I’ve laughed more in the last ten minutes with her than I have in the last six months.

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