Page 122 of Puck Prince

“No,” I grit through clenched teeth. “You are not.”

Part of the reason I’m doing this is to get some space from Owen Sharpe. I’m hunting for a secret lair where I can grow a baby in peace. Him helping me find it defeats the purpose… I think.

“Can we play a different game? Like, why did you leave without saying anything this morning?”

“Because I need to look at apartments!” I stomp back into the living room in a short, black summer dress and slip into a pair of strappy flats I left at the end of the couch.

“Perfect. I can help. I know where all the good ones are, which ones to avoid, all that kind of stuff.”

“I can figure that out on my own.”

“How do you feel about Windshire versus the Meadows?” he asks.

“What?” I ask.

“Or the Commons at Greenway? Or the Ello House on South? It’s been popular, but I heard?—”

“Okay, fine!” I snap just so he’ll stop smirking at me with that deliciously distracting mouth. “You know the area better than I do. You can come.”

“Thank you.” He holds the door open, a smug grin on his face.

“But under one condition: you don’t talk the whole time. You let me look for myself. And you keep it within my budget. Don’t make me fall in love with something I can’t afford.”

“That’s three conditions.” Before I can change my mind and tell him he actually can’t come, he continues. “But I’ll keep mymouth shut, let you lead, and three stars only—like the Holiday Inn. Got it.”

“You promise?”

Owen draws an X on his chest with his finger. “Cross my heart, hope to die.”

Here’s to hoping.

Owen glances over at me from the driver’s seat. “So this guy at Pour Boys…”

I whip my attention over to him. “It’s been ten minutes, and you’ve already broken rule number one. You’re really bad at this, you know?”

“And you’re really bad at downplaying something that obviously is a big deal.”

“It’s not a big deal, Owen,” I snap back. “He was there, he left, and it’s over now. Besides, I’m moving. I’ll be harder to track now.”

“Do you actually believe that? You’ve heard of the internet, right?”

I let out an angry sigh. “It’s called optimism—you should try it. Meanwhile, I’m trying not to smack you, but only because you’re driving and might crash the car.”

Owen sucks in air between his teeth. “Fine. I won’t bring it up again.”

“Thank you.”

He sticks to his word—mostly. For the next two hours, we ride around town, touring one apartment after another.

Also for the next two hours, Owen has a complaint about every one of them.

By hour three, I’m ready to leave him on the side of the road.

“Well, I think this is going swell,” Owen has the audacity to say as we pull up to what I’m hoping is the final complex.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“We’ve narrowed it down substantially. That’s progress.”

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