Page 88 of Grumpy Billionaire Bad Boy

London clears her throat, my attention returning to her faster than it should. "I'm leaving," she says. "I'll be back in a few hours."

I stand, not sure what else I'm supposed to do, and fight the urge to rush across the room and kiss her.

God damn it, Archer, pull yourself together.

"Okay," is all I can get out.

London hesitates like there's something else she wants to say. She drags her bottom lip into her mouth, tugging on it before meeting my gaze. "Can you do me a favor?"

Instinctually, my foot moves, then the other, my body gravitating toward her. "Anything."

She tilts her head up at me as I approach. "Can you please give me some privacy tonight? I know you like to keep a close eye on me, but for a change, can you just accept that I'm safe, and I'll letyouknow if something happens?"

My stomach drops. I hate the idea of not following her out of this apartment. It goes against everything in me. I'm supposed to keep her safe, how can I do that if I'm not watching her closely? What if this is the one time something bad happens because I was respecting her wishes?

"London, I…"

"Please, Archer." London stares up at me and it's everything I can do to keep my cool with the way her eyes meet mine.

I fucking hate that I feel this way, that I feel like I'm losing my cool.

I swallow the lump in my throat, along with my pride. "You swear to me, you'll be careful?" I ask her.

She nods. "And if I need anything, you'll be the first person I call." London pulls out her phone, pushes my contact, and lets it ring once before hanging up. "See, now you're all the way at the top."

Agreeing with her terms goes against everything in me, but I don't exactly have any other options unless I forbid her from going. And London has made it clear she's not a fan of being told what to do. Things are already sort of weird between us, I don't want to make it worse by disrespecting her wishes.

"Okay," I finally say.

Her face lights up and she stands on her tiptoes to press a soft kiss on my cheek. "Thanks, Archer." London leaves without another word, my heart going out the door with her.

I smack myself and mutter, "Get it together, you idiot. You barely know her. This isn't real."

London has been in my life for just shy of four weeks, and we've been stuck in forced proximity together, that has to be the reason I'm so fazed by this. I've spent the last few years alone, only going out when necessary, and doing everything I can to avoid any and everyone. I got quite used to living life that way. Then came London, like a fucking tornado, wrecking everything in her path, my life and peace included. Sure, we have this strange chemistry unlike anything I've ever experienced, but it's because we're both so different, which means we'd never actually be compatible. I have to get it through my head that this isfleeting and the only reason I'm interested is because it can't happen—it would never work, not in a million years.

Not to mention London has put distance between us since our drunken night together. I was under the impression it brought us closer, but her coldness the past week tells me otherwise, and if I'm not mistaken, I'm pretty sure she can't wait to get out of here. If I really care about her, I can't stand in the way of that.

Sliding into my computer chair with a sigh, I come to terms with the fact that I'd rather make London happy than keep her to myself, despite the tugging at my chest to do the opposite.

I can't be selfish, not with her.

So I go to work, typing away until I've infiltrated Camille's Wi-Fi next door, and scan the data to find her banking information. Twenty minutes later, I deposit money into her account and send her a text message.

Hey, Camille, it's Archer. London mentioned subleasing your apartment, so I went ahead and sent you the first and last months' rent and the first year. Let me know if you need more. You know where to find me.

If I can't have London here, at the very least I could have her next door. I just hope it's enough freedom to not push her any further away than I already have.

I sit back, my eyes glued to my computer monitor, my fingers practically begging to locate London. I cross my arms, uncross them, sit forward, run my hand through my hair, and rise to my feet. Maybe if I move away from my computer, I won't be compelled to break my promise of not stalking her.

Pacing around the living room, I fight with myself and the desire that's building like a volcano ready to erupt. I could justtake a quick peek and make sure she's fine, and perhaps that would settle the urge.

"No," I tell myself and march to the kitchen, dragging out the remains of the bottle of tequila we shared together. I flick the cap onto the counter and tip the bottle back, taking three heaping gulps. It warms my chest, burning and temporarily distracting me, but not long enough.

With zero self-control, I return to my computer, not even sitting down before my hands find the keyboard, my fingers having a mind of their own as they type away. It takes me an embarrassingly short time to find her and when I do, I pause, my finger resting above the button that will bring up the camera feed.

I shouldn't do it. I can't do it. I won't do it.

But my finger keeps inching closer, and closer, until I do the very thing I shouldn't.

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