Page 48 of The Billionaire's Princess

13

Carly

I dialDamon’s number as soon as I arrive back in my apartment that Friday evening, tossing my keys and my stack of accumulated mail on the foyer console and kicking my sandals into their basket. These transatlantic flights are always hell on my neck and shoulders, so I lean my head back and forth, trying to work out some of the kinks.

“You home?” he asks before the phone manages a single full ring.

I can’t stop my grin. We’ve talked and texted all week, but he’s no better at hiding his eagerness to see me again than I am at hiding mine.

“Well, hello to you too. Just walked in.”

“On my way.”

“Hang on,” I say quickly. “Give me an hour or so, because my friend Michele is on her way and I haven’t seen her for—”

But the line is already dead.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter.

I’m still laughing over his impatience when my phone rings.

“It’s me,” Michele says when I answer.

“Come on up,” I say, buzzing her in.

We squeal with girlish delight when she appears in my doorway, carrying on the way we did when we both got high marks on our first sketches back in freshman composition. I consider her my best-friend soul mate, probably because she doesn’t give two fucks about my royal status and has never hesitated to tell me the unvarnished truth in all its messy detail. It’s been about a month since I’ve seen her, during which time she’s reworked her braids into a bun on top of her head. Her ivory linen sundress highlights her perfect skin, which is the beautiful color of the finest English toffee, and her dimpled smile threatens to swallow her entire face.

“You look amazing, you gorgeous witch,” I tell her when I finally let her go and steer her over to the sofa, where we settle. “All glowing and summery. While I look rumpled and pathetic.”

“Stop the nonsense. Like you’re not wearing a great dress.” She flaps a hand at my coral maxi dress. “Love the wavy hair. Glad you finally started listening to me about not straightening it all the time.”

I try to disguise my blush by tucking my hair behind my ear, deciding that now is not the moment to mention that Damon’s comments about my hair, not hers, are responsible for the change.

“Well, it’s much less work. That’s for sure.”

“So how’s Granny? What did she send me?”

Michele has traveled back home with me several times over the years, spending breaks and vacations at our various homes. She and my grandmother have become thick as thieves, bonding over their shared love of yappy little dogs and Kentucky bourbon.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t pretend you don’t see the big tin of Scottish shortbread sitting right there on the coffee table waiting for you.”

“Perfect!” She claps her hands, then tucks into the shortbread with gusto. “And don’t expect me to share.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ve already eaten my body weight in shortbread this week, anyway. So I’m off it now.”

“Good. Before I forget to mention it, I told the landlord to add you to the lease next month,” she says around crunches. “I can’t wait to have you back in the studio with me. The band is back together!”

Michele is an accomplished portraitist and has started making quite a name for herself among the Upper East Side set, all of whom are eager to pay top dollar for paintings of their little darlings and furry children.

“I know. I’m so keen to start painting again. I can’t tell you. I’ll be moving all my supplies and canvases back to the studio. And getting some things out of storage. Oh, and framing some of the older paintings.”

“Good deal. Are you excited about this new chapter of your life?”

“Yes. Well, I’m scared to pieces about trying to make my own way financially.”

“Aren’t we all, sister?”

“True enough,” I say, laughing. “But some of us have had more practice at it than others.”

---