Page 31 of The Billionaire's Princess

“Right now, I’m serious about getting dinner on the table before eight. I don’t want to risk you getting hangry on me.”

“Fair point,” she says, slinging the towel over her shoulder. “You get to work.”

I produce a stellar pasta dinner, which she eats with gusto. None of that pushing the food around on her plate bullshit I’ve encountered when dating models. She finishes the dishes like a champ, further confirming that she’s no princess when it comes to housework. After that, we settle on the sofa with the last of our wine. That’s when I notice the spread on her coffee table. Mystery books by Mary Higgins Clark and—

“What’s with all the cat info here?” I say, studying a page printed from some animal shelter website.

“I’m thinking about getting a cat,” she says happily. “I love having my own space, but it gets a bit lonely, doesn’t it? I think a cat might be good company. Do you like cats?”

“Cats are cool.”

She shuffles through the papers and produces a picture that looks like a dust mop with eyes. “How about this one? Her description says she likes to snuggle.”

“I’m guessing she also likes to shed.”

“You’re right,” she says, frowning as she tosses the paper back on the table. “I hadn’t thought of that. This whole cat business is all very complicated.”

“You’ll figure it out,” I say, surrendering to the temptation to touch her and smoothing her hair behind her ear.

“I feel so unsettled in my life,” she says quietly. “It was always the plan for my roommates to move out after graduation. But now it feels like there’s too much space. Not enough company. And it’s not that I don’t like to be alone with my thoughts. It’s just… I don’t know. I’m blathering. You probably don’t get lonely, do you?”

And there goes another one of her complicated questions, detonating over my head like a missile strike.

On any other day, if anyone else had asked me if I felt lonely, the answer would be simple. Fuck no. I’m too busy building my empire to be lonely. I careen from meeting to meeting, phone call to phone call, country to country. I’m surrounded by people. I’m sick of people. A lot of the time, my fondest wish is to shipwreck myself on an island in the South Pacific with only a bottle of tequila and my e-reader to keep me company while I devour espionage thrillers. As for female companionship? An hour in bed a few times a week to address our bodies’ needs and to help me blow off steam is good, thanks. No need to linger, and don’t let the door hit you on the ass on your way out.

But this isn’t any other day. This is Carly asking. And she’s nailing me with her vivid blue x-ray vision while she’s at it.

I think about all the meals I eat alone. All the times I walk into my empty apartment after a long day or a grueling trip and there’s no one there to be happy I’m back or even to have noticed that I was gone. Which is every time I walk into my apartment. I go to bed and wake up by myself. I’m always the unmatched singleton at dinner parties. I managed a personal best time at the New York Marathon last fall, the third time I’d run the race, and there were plenty of people to grab breakfast with after. But no one to give me a hug and kiss and say, I’m so proud of you, honey. No one to fuss over my aching muscles and give me a massage. I’m already in training for this fall’s marathon. I pound out all those miles alone.

Alone. Alone. Alone.

I open my mouth because Carly is starting to look at me funny. Out shoots the real answer, and it’s a doozy. One I probably would never have recognized, much less admitted, until she asked me.

“I get lonely, yeah.”

She nods, looking reassured that she’s not the only one. “I don’t know about you, but I’m taking drastic action to nip this self-pitying lonely nonsense in the bud,” she says crisply. “Hence the cat. I’m also thinking about volunteering at the cat shelter, because I really love cats. I like to stay busy.”

“Me too.”

“Also, I’m thinking about joining a running group,” she says, pointing to a pair of battered running shoes parked under a console in the hall. “I’m quite good, actually. I’ve run several short races, but I’m thinking that with some training I could work up to the city marathon next— Why are you looking at me like that? Have I got pasta stuck in my teeth and you didn’t tell me?”

I stare at her, frozen inside my astonishment, and desperately try to get a grip. She’s lonely. I’m lonely. She likes to run. I like to run. Big freaking deal. It’s not like I just discovered that she’s the reincarnated soul of Juliet and I’m Romeo. No star-crossed lover bullshit here.

But, I gotta tell you, all these little things about her are starting to add up to something that feels pretty fucking significant.

“I, ah…” Sudden hoarseness forces me to clear my throat. My fidgety hands need something to do, so I rub my thighs a couple of times. “No, I just need to, ah, head home.”

Her expression falls until she looks like a kid watching the Grinch steal every single present under the tree on Christmas Eve. Then, in a flash, she locks it all away where I can’t see it and presents me with the aloof façade she wore when she walked into Bemelmans and into my life.

“Of course.” Cool smile that never touches her eyes as she stands. “I’d thought that we might watch a movie, but you probably wouldn’t want—”

“Don’t,” I say, taking her hand and squeezing it because I can’t keep my feelings to myself any better than I can stand to witness the veiled hurt on her face. I stare up at her, eager for her to see my sincerity. “I want. You know I want. I’ve got a shit-ton of emails to get through and calls to make tonight, and I would love to set up a workstation on your dining room table just so I could watch you watch TV while I do it. But I’m not sure you know what you want when it comes to me. I’m only here to give you a taste of the way things could be if you figure it out. I’m not playing games here. This is not a game to me. So think about that.”

She nods, her expression shadowed. Then, as though she can’t help herself, she pulls her hand free and cups my head on both sides, scratching my scalp with her short nails as she grips my hair and pulls me close enough to hug. Close enough for me to press my face between her breasts and absorb her scent.

But this taste of Carly is more than I can take. Like I said, I’m not playing games. And she’s already got me teetering on the edge of my self-control.

So I give myself one second—one short second—to nuzzle her breasts and squeeze her hips before I push her away and stand beside her.

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