Page 15 of Grumpy Billionaire Bad Boy

I guess it doesn't help that London is one of the most infuriating humans on the planet, not quite setting me up for success with my new housemate.

What was I thinking in allowing her to stay? It goes against everything I've been trying to put in place. I'm disrespecting myself and my boundaries by going back on what I've told everyone—the second she stepped foot on my doorstep, everything started to crumble. Time has only proven that I'm not ready to be a part of society yet, nor should I be socializing with other people.

Washing my body, I notice that London has moved everything around in my shower. What's so hard about putting things back in their place? Why did she find it necessary to move the men's products? How does that even make sense? I close my eyes and let the water wash over my face, my hand rubbing the soap off my body, my fingers caressing the base of my shaft, noting just how hard I am for no fucking reason. I grip my traitorous cock as it thickens in my grasp and plant my other hand against the back of the shower, my entire body in the stream of water pouring down.

I stroke my cock, long and lazily at first, only to tighten and speed it up, almost ashamed of myself for being turned on right now. I don't mean to, but London's voice comes into my head, her snarky comments setting fire under my skin the same way her delicate hand did when she slid it into mine.

I finish abruptly, intensely, and am left there, my breath ragged and my chest heaving. "Fuck," I mutter.

But it isn't even a moment later that the realization hits me like a ton of bricks.

London is no longer in my apartment, meaning I am not watching over her, and my promise to Silver that I would keep her safe is nothing but a few meaningless words drifting away like my orgasm down the drain.

How could I let her get to me so badly that I'd do something as stupid as let her leave here with no money, no cell phone, no protection?

A minute later, I'm wrapping a towel around my soaked body and rushing out to my computer. In less time than it took me to get out of the shower, I've located London on a street camera outside of my apartment complex, only a few doors away.

I exhale, reposition my ass on the chair, and watch her through the screen. In preparation for her to move, I pull up two more angles and tap into the camera of the store she walks into, some overpriced boutique I've walked past a million times but never gone to.

The audio on the camera inside the store is muffled by the music playing in the background. I study London as she enters, her shoulders thrown back, fully confident she belongs there. The two women at the counter whisper something I can't quite make out and one nudges the other.

London skims a section of clothes, her fingers grazing each one.

The shorter of the two women steps around the counter and waltzes over to London. "May I help you?"

"I'm just looking, thanks," London replies in an even tone.

The woman clears her throat. "There's a clearance section over there that might better suit your needs."

London pauses, her body stiff and still, and I go tense with her, wondering how she's going to react given I've only known London less than a day and she's done almost nothing except argue with me about literally everything. Finally, without turning toward the woman, she says, "You should really stop trying to pass these last-season trousers off as this season." She grabs the hanger off the rack and shoves it toward the woman. "Are you so out of touch that you think anyone would pay full price for an off-the-rack, out-of-season knockoff?"

The woman gasps. "It's not a knockoff."

London points at something I can't quite make out. "See this stitching. Dead giveaway. This lockstitch is pathetic. Giovanni's uses their signature herringbone here."

"But I…" The woman looks to her coworker for assistance, but by the time she turns toward London, London is already making her way out the door, her face pressed into a hard line, unbothered by the interaction.

Immediately, I click on another box, pulling the street angle of London up as she glances in both directions, deciding to go a bit farther away from my apartment. She isn't so far that I couldn't chase after her if something happened, but I don't love the distance she's putting between us, testing my ability to keep her safe.

She pops into another clothing store, this one less sterile inside than the last.

A round-faced woman greets her immediately. "Welcome into Charlotte's, can I help you find anything?" Her gaze meets London, and the second it does, she stops folding the clothes in her hands and focuses on London. "Oh my gosh, are you okay?" She rushes over, her fingers lingering in the air between the two of them like she wants to do something, but she's not sure what.

London inches back slightly. "Oh, I'm fine, yes. I do need some new clothes, though."

The woman nods her head. "Yes, of course, whatever it is you need, I can help you. I'm Charlotte, by the way."

"Charlotte Charlotte?" London motions around at the space inside the store.

"That's me." The woman smiles a sweet and innocent smile.

I lean into my chair, my bare back sticking to the seat. I ignore the awkward sensation and watch London look around the store.

"Are those the Rocco Couture from Italy?" London hobbles her best over to a table near the center of the place.

Charlotte follows her close behind. "Yes, they're lovely, aren't they? You're familiar?"

London nods and picks up one of the seemingly plain shirts, turning it front to back. "I'll take one in every color, small."

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