Page 85 of Grumpy Billionaire Bad Boy

Chapter 22

Archer

My head aches but it's nothing compared to the regret I have of saying things I should have kept to myself. London and I shared trauma, I'm not convinced either of us has shared with others, and I don't know whether it's a good or bad thing.

I feel closer to her, but I hate showing weakness. I hate how vulnerable it makes me.

But then there are moments from last night I don’t hate—like slow dancing in the living room and laughing at each other while we were eating. I didn’t mind opening up to her, it’s just everything else that comes along with it.

Feelings…gross.

London steps out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around both her body and her hair. It’s sort of a gut punch seeing she no longer needs, or even wants, me to wash her hair. I had gotten used to it, looked forward to it even, and I regret not enjoying it a bit more when it was happening.

Life's strange like that—you don't realize in the moment that it's the last time and once it hits, there's nothing you can do to turn back the clock.

She doesn't look in my direction as she makes her way into the bedroom and shuts the door behind her, a coldness to her today that wasn't there yesterday.

Did I share too much? Did I overstep? Did a wedge get put between us that can't be removed?

I shake my head and remind myself that it's better this way. She's doing me a favor by icing me out. Because that's what we both should be doing. It's clear that we aren't compatible—it must stay that way.

Still, that doesn't mean we don't have insanely palpable chemistry that is off the fucking charts. Just the memory of how sweet she tastes is enough to make my cock ache for her.

I continue my task, typing away at my computer, slyly removing funds from one account and moving them to another. I might be a bad man, but there are worse men out there, and I fucking love stealing from them and donating to charities they'd never be caught supporting.

I do this seven more times, stealing over three million dollars to spread across various charities, my actions completely untraceable. I'm double-checking my family's investments when London comes out of the bedroom, her towel-dried hair hanging over her shoulders.

"Do you want help with that?" I ask her.

"I'm good," she says and goes into the bathroom.

I chew at my lip and try to force away the rampant thoughts of not fully understanding where her head is at. Maybe she's hungover, too. Maybe she regained some freedom from getting the casts off and just wanted to wash her hair herself. I can't imagine asking for help in the first place was easy for her, so not needing it now, it makes sense for her to go back to her old ways. Still, I wish she knew I wasn't bothered by helping her. I enjoyed it.

It's nice to feel needed.

After a quick recap of the whereabouts of Joe Vito, I mark him off my to-do list for the day. The guy is boring, predictable, and honestly, a total fucking waste of oxygen. He spends most of his time at the same few clubs, spending entirely too much on bottle service to buy friendships, and has his hand in countless illegal activities that I would never approve of. Don't get me wrong, I've done my fair share of shady shit, but I draw the line at women and children. I don't respect men because they don't deserve it, but women are doing their best to survive so there's no way I'm adding to the shit they have to worry about.

Call me a feminist, or maybe just a decent fucking human being.

The sound of the muffled blow-dryer comes through the bathroom door, and I picture myself in there, drying and brushing through London's red hair. I got pretty okay with it toward the end, picking up a few new braiding techniques and learning how to use a round brush to style her hair while drying it. I had no idea so much went into doing hair until I wanted to make sure she was happy with hers.

My phone rings, and a picture of Ivy lights up the screen.

Reluctantly, I answer. "Hey, sis," I say into the receiver.

"Arch. How are you? What's going on?"

"Not much," I tell her while keeping my eyes on the bathroom door. It's not like she can leave without me seeing it happen; I don't know why I'm so fucking drawn to where she is. I wouldn't put it past London to accidentally drop the blow-dryer in the sink with the water running, though. She's accident-prone like that, and a bit ditzy. "What's up with you?"

"Busy with work, as always. You know, August keeping me busy."

"How is he?"

Ivy sighs. "He told me you called the other day."

"Oh great. What did he say?"

"Something about you're paranoid the Manor brothers had something to do with a robbery in your neighborhood."

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