Page 65 of Grumpy Billionaire Bad Boy

London sits up, holding the mass of her towel-covered hair, and looks at me, a hint of suspicion lining her brow. "Why are you being nice to me?"

"I'm not. I'm just trying to avoid hearing you complain for an hour." I wipe off the counter and grab the supplies, taking them back to the bathroom where they belong. "Come on," I call out to her.

Once I've put everything away, I plug the blow-dryer in and point to the counter for her to sit on.

London scoots on top and turns to face the mirror.

I brush through her hair carefully, not tugging too much on the tangles that appear, and not scraping her with the bristles when I get near her face. Each motion is slow and steady, my attention too focused on such a mundane task. It takes me at least ten minutes to fully blow-dry London's hair, our gazes meeting in the mirror from time to time. I go over it one last time and shut the thing off, twisting the cord around it and setting it under the sink.

"I was thinking about braiding it," she says, her fingers reaching for her red locks.

"I saw you trying to braid it a few days ago," I admit. "Can I try?"

"Sure." London lowers her arms and steadies a breath as she watches me in the mirror.

A strange pressure falls on my shoulders, a sort of performance anxiety I've never experienced in the past. I push the sensation aside and focus on my task, divvying her hair into three sections at the top and desperately trying to remember the instructions from the countless YouTube videos I scoured. After smoothing out the rest of the hair, I cross the sections, bringing hair into each one on the other side. I repeat the movement, adding hair and crossing it over, only getting hung up twice and having to backtrack. Once I'm at the bottom of her head, I finish the braid without adding any more hair, and hold it steady while I reach into the drawer for a hair tie.

Examining my creation, I doubt myself and come to terms with the fact that doing hair is not in my level of expertise. It's sort of bumpy, and some of the sections are bigger than the others, not to mention it's crooked.

"Let me start over," I say but London moves from my grasp, her hand gently skimming the hump of the braid.

"Holy shit, big boy. I didn't think you had it in you." She turns her head and checks it out in the mirror, pivoting and moving all about to get all the angles. "You braid better than me without a cast on."

I chuckle and rub at my neck. "You don't have to lie."

"I'm not lying," London tells me and hops off the counter. She approaches, right in front of me, and stands on her tiptoes, pressing her lips on my cheek. "Thank you."

I remain there a long moment after she's gone, unsure of what just happened.

We went from arguing, to hooking up, to the silent treatment, to her thanking me for doing her hair.

Just when I think I've gotten things figured out, she goes and throws me completely off.

London doesn't take much longer to get ready, which only continues to confuse me. In the little over a week I've known her, nothing she does is quick, and some things I'm not mad about…

I dismiss the thought of my lips on her pussy and watch her as she makes her way to the front door, the brown purse I bought her in her grasp. "Are you coming or not, big boy?"

"Right behind you." I follow her over, grabbing my keys off the table near the door. "Want to take the bike?"

She glares at me and it sends a strange satisfaction coursing through me. I'm not one for purposely antagonizing someone, but she dishes it enough to take it from time to time.

I make certain the lock is secure, checking it twice before continuing. My feet stop in their tracks when my sights land on Camille coming up the stairs. "Shit," I whisper, knowing damn well London has already spotted her.

"Arch, hey!" Camille says once she spots me. I wasn't sure how mad she'd be at me for what I did to Drew, but so far she doesn't seem bothered. Maybe he was too much of a coward to mention it.

"Hey, Cami." I awkwardly wave and catch London's questioning stare.

She darts right around me, extending her hand toward Camille. "Hi, Camille, I'm London."

Camille shoots me a glance and shakes London's hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Same to you," London continues. "Listen, I don't mean to be too forward, but I heard you're going to be subleasing your apartment. I'd love to be considered."

"Oh, you're in the market for a place?" Camille studies London from head to toe, probably trying to determine whether she can afford to live in this neighborhood.

"I am. I'm new to town. I'd love to stay around here." London clears her throat. "I'm sure Archer would vouch for me, right?" She turns toward me, her expression looking like a mix of "please help me" and "if you don’t, I'm going to kill you."

"Uh, yeah. Definitely," I lie. Even if London didn't drive me insane, she's a mess. I'd never willingly let her rent from me, especially if I wasn't there to pick up after her. London will destroy Camille's place in a week, two max. But right now, I'd rather keep that a secret because there's no way Camille is going to choose London over any of the other applicants who have no doubt a better renter’s history than her.

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