Page 23 of Wicked Prince

He sends back a smartass kissy-face emoji.Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't.

Doesn't leave much on the table, does it?

Touché.

I can't help but smile to myself. Even if I don't plan on sticking around for the whole semester, I have to admit, it's nice to have someone to confide in.

When I look up to see where we are, I realize the pricey suburban mini-mansions have turned into hip condominiums and coffee shops. There's a neon sign across the street leading into a basement stairwell that looks like some sort of poorly hidden underground nightclub.

Lorenzo definitely picked a good spot for his nest of debauchery, I'll give him that. And why not? He can have anyone he wants. Why should he limit himself to the menu on campus?

The car slows to a stop in front of a tall apartment building with sleek reflective sides. It's not quite a skyscraper, but it's close. The penthouse has a terrace wrapped around it that overlooks the city below. Something tells me that's Lorenzo's place.

"We're here, Miss," the driver says, glancing back at me in the rearview mirror. He keeps a straight face, so I assume I'm one of the dozens if not hundreds of women he's dropped off like this. He gets out for my door, and I'm used to the drill by now.

"Top floor?"

He seems surprised, but says, "Yes. There's a private elevator. You can go on up."

"Thanks," I say, walking toward the building. I pause at the curb and glance back. "Um. Is there any chance you can wait here for like ten minutes? I won't be long."

He cocks an eyebrow. I'm pretty sure it's the first time he's heard that. "Mr. Rossi can send for me as soon as you'd like to go home."

"Right..." I sigh. "Well, see you soon."

He doesn't look convinced, so I head inside. The lobby is empty, but it's every bit as swanky as I imagined. There are palms on either side of the room and a big lounge that looks like some exclusive airport waiting room you'd have to fly a billion miles to qualify for.

There's a set of glass elevators across the room next to a stairwell, but that can't be it. Too easy. Too pedestrian. This is Lorenzo Rossi's apartment, dammit, and it has to be over the top.

Sure enough, there's a hallway not far from the main elevators that houses an unassuming-looking elevator marked PENTHOUSE.

That's the one.

I press the button for the doors and get onto the elevator, kind of relieved it's not made of glass. I'm not particularly afraid of heights, but the building is tall enough.

I don't know why I'm expecting there to be at least a lobby or something when the elevator finally makes the climb up to the top floor, but instead, the doors open and I'm spit out onto the set of someTwo and a Half Mensequel.

The apartment is stupidly, ridiculously huge. I expected that in theory, but seeing it is another matter entirely. All three walls I'm facing are made of glass panes overlooking an admittedly breathtaking view of the quieter edge of the city. The lights sparkle like the chandelier dropping down over the center of a sectional sofa that’s larger than my entire dorm room. There's a white area rug in the center that matches the accent pillows on the sleek gray sofa.

The whole thing is so painfully minimalist, it feels like a magazine.

Leave it to Lorenzo to hire an interior designer for his love shack.

At first, I don't see any sign of him, but once I step into the main area, I notice him at a liquor cart across the room, opening a bottle of champaign. Of course.

He turns over his shoulder and gives me a knowing smile that would probably stop most women in their tracks. And yeah, I can admit, it makes my heart flop a little, but my brain is still on the right side of things. If I can get them both in line, this night might actually be productive toward making sure my existence at Bainbridge isn't any more hellish than necessary.

"Just in time," he says, carrying over two high-fluted glasses filled with light, bubbly champagne. "Care for a drink?"

"I'm good," I say, folding my arms to make my response clear. “I'm not going to be staying long anyway."

He hesitates like he doesn't believe me before shrugging and setting the glasses aside. "Suit yourself."

His gaze travels over me, darkening like I'm not just wearing jeans and a plain T-shirt. I felt immediately underdressed the moment I stepped into this place, even if he's still business casual with dark slacks and a button-down shirt just fitted enough to be an advertisement for his personal trainer. Like most prominent mobsters, I doubt he owns a pair of jeans. If you showed him a pair of sweatpants, he'd probably just think it was something the servants used for wiping down his car without scratching the paint job.

"Was the ride comfortable?" he asks.

"It was unnecessary, but thoughtful," I reply, knowing I have to choose my words carefully. It feels like walking a tightrope, and falling off one side or the other means either encouraging his bullshit or turning him into an enemy.

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