Page 8 of Bossy Wicked Prince
Pippa starts to answer, but she’s drowned out by a bunch of beeping car horns.
“Shit, sorry, traffic’s moving again,” she says.
“Good timing, my break is over in like”—I check the time—“two minutes ago, actually.”
“Call you later?”
“Later, Pips.”
The next sixhours of my shift go by in a flash. The restaurant is so busy on Friday nights, I barely have time to think about anything except whether my section has their drinks refilled.
Luckily, I get a great table of older ladies out celebrating after their 35th high school reunion. They’re not only sweet and funny as hell—they also think I’m adorable, and tip me almost 30 percent, which puts me well on my way to making rent.
Even though my muscles are sore and my feet ache like they’ve been run over by a herd of buffalo, I’m feeling good. Heck, I’m actually humming as I leave the building to walk home.
I haven’t gotten more than a quarter of a block from the back parking lot when a sleek black sedan pulls up beside me. The window rolls down, revealing a man with salt and pepper hair curling under a chauffeur’s hat.
Craning my neck, I look around for the person he’s clearly looking for, but then he says…
“Excuse me, Caitlin Daniels?”
I stop. “Um, yes?”
I try on a smile, but I know it won’t erase the confusion I can feel pulling between my brows.
“How do you know my name?”
This guy doesn’t seem like a creep, but I’m almost certain I’ve never met him. Maybe I served him at the restaurant?
He puts the car in park and gets out, hustling over to the passenger door closest to me. Reflexively, I step back, putting an extra few feet of space between myself and the stranger.
“Nathaniel Walsh sent me to drive you home,” he says as he opens the door and gestures for me to get inside.
“Who?” I blurt out, needing him to repeat himself. Did he actually sayNateasked him to drive me home?
Apparently, the guy doesn’t let a woman stay around for longer than one night. So why would he even remember my name?
The driver frowns, his confusion now a match for my own. “Mr. Walsh said you knew him.”
“No, I know him,” I explain. “I just—I’m surprised, that’s all.”
And honestly, I’m not sure if I even believe this guy.
Telling a girl a billionaire wants to offer her a chauffeured drive home seems like a pretty crafty way to get said girl into your car so you can ax murder her.
“Well, Mr. Walsh expressed some concern for your safety. You shouldn’t be walking the streets so late at night, not by yourself.”
I sigh.
Apparently, Nate’s got a thing for playing white knight, so he sent one of his vassals off to see me home. Of course, a rich dudelike him would think it’s impossible for a girl to walk home by herself without being in imminent danger.
But I’ve been walking home through the city at night for years. Maybe Nate thinks I’m some helpless little waif just because I’m short and avoid confrontation. I’m way tougher than I look, though. I don’t need a ride, not from a guy who barely knows me.
“That’skindof him, but I’m good,” I tell the driver. “I like walking.”
He stares at me like he’s not sure if he heard what I said correctly.
“You’ll walk?” he repeats.
