The Billionaire Prince’s Stubborn Assistant by Leslie North Page 0,7

and his way was into the future. Still, she was attracted to him. She couldn’t deny that. For God’s sake, she’d kissed a prince!

But, she assured herself, the kiss was history—and not the kind of history she was interested in preserving. No matter how drawn in she was by his charisma, no matter how attracted she was to his physical presence, she couldn’t move any further with this man. He was not on the same page as her, not even in the same book. And she’d seen what happens when two people don’t see eye to eye. Her parents’ differences had destroyed their marriage, causing her mother to eventually leave. She would never allow herself to fall for someone who didn’t envision the same future as she did.

But damn, those lips…

3

“What do you mean, ‘moved up’?” Edward asked into the phone. “Three months earlier? Listen, James, that’s imposs—” but before he could finish his sentence, Jonathan Stokes, president of the historical society met him with a clear threat.

“If you can’t get it done, we’ll begin fighting for the old courthouse, the farm with the covered bridge, as well as the brownstones along the river. We have to please the people one way or another.”

A dial tone buzzed at him from the other end of the line.

He stared at the phone, fuming, his eyes wide and throwing angry embers.

He could not afford to lose those other sites. They were integral to his metropolitan proposal. The courthouse site would serve as a park, surrounded by thriving businesses, artsy coffee shops and performance spaces. He was already in talks with an international corporation to build a retail chain at the farmhouse location, and the brownstones would be much-needed corporate space. He needed those sites.

How dare the historical society expect him to move the deadline for restoring the castle up three months? Not only was the castle a shambles, but he was at the mercy of contractors who came and went as they pleased. If they didn’t feel like showing up for a project, they ghosted. He didn’t have the connections in the restoration industry to hire better candidates.

But he knew someone who did.

A pair of steely blue eyes filled up his thoughts.

Clementine Wicke likely knew her way around a renovation project. She would know who to call for painting, reconstruction and woodwork. She had the expertise he needed.

She also had very soft lips and curves that refused to vanish from his memory. He could certainly get used to working in the same vicinity as her.

But would she agree to work with him?

Edward stood from his desk and shoved his phone into his back pocket. Miss Sticky Fingers owed him one. He hadn’t turned her in for stealing from a construction site. She could repay him by helping him get the historical society off his back.

He strode from his office and into the light of a promising Sovalon afternoon.

Wicke Salvage was located on the East Side of the Fumay River, on a bumpy cobblestone side street in a commercial district that might as well have been a ghost town. But the business itself didn’t seem to realize its time had passed. The sign was clearly old but beautifully maintained over the brick-faced storefront. The contrast was stark with the businesses on either side that looked to have been closed down for quite some time. This street was the perfect example of why so much of Sovalon needed a major remodel. Edward could easily imagine razing the entire block and putting up gorgeous townhouses on either side of the street. One side would boast a view of the river, the other would overlook a quaint square where shops and eateries were still at least half-alive.

He vowed to keep his ideas to himself as he pulled open the creaky door and stepped into a room filled with what looked to him to be mass amounts of junk. Sawdust filled the air, and he let out a hearty sneeze.

“God bless you,” said a pudgy-looking man from behind a counter.

Edward wrinkled his nose. “Apologies, sir.” He approached the counter where the man was refinishing what looked like a piece of a balustrade—the source of the sawdust.

“I’m looking for a Clementine Wicke,” he told the old man, who raised his eyebrows.

“And who should I tell her is hunting her down today?” The man stood up from a rickety stool and shuffled out from behind the counter.

Edward held his hand out for a shake. “Edward Ashton,” he said.

Instead of shaking