The Billionaire's Princess - Ava Ryan Page 0,26

just said. I don’t want to get confused or…”

She trails off, leaving a ghostly imprint of the word she didn’t say.

Hurt. She doesn’t want to get hurt.

Well, neither the fuck do I.

“The only thing you need to be clear on at this stage is that you’re not marrying Percy.” I realize that I don’t want to see her reaction to this pronouncement and hastily turn away, my face burning. Normally, if a gorgeous woman wants to hop into bed with me, I don’t ask questions. As long as I’ve got a string of condoms and her husband/boyfriend/girlfriend/significant other isn’t using the butt of a pistol to pound on the bedroom door, I’ve got no problems. Her personal life is none of my business. I’m too busy empire-building to give a fuck. Too busy trying to cross that billion-dollar mark. Which is another indication of how different and scary this thing with Carly is. Matter of fact, this entire conversation is threatening to give me hives, so I grab the pot and head to the sink to fill it. “That, and make sure you don’t cut yourself while you’re working on the salad. I’m not planning on making a run to the emergency room tonight.”

I brace myself for stinging comeback, but there’s a welcome interruption in the form of my vibrating phone.

“Sorry,” I tell her as I pull it out of my pocket, my ears still hot. “This is Griffin. We’re working on a huge deal. I need to talk to him before he heads into a conference call with Tokyo.”

“Of course,” she says, looking flustered. “I’m running to the loo anyway. I’ll leave you to it.”

I wonder what the hell I’m getting myself into here as I watch her hurry off—I’m betting she feels as grateful for the reprieve as I do—then hit the button.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Trouble in paradise,” my brother says. “I’m hearing rumors that their funding will be an issue.”

“Shit.”

“I’ll keep you posted. I’ll have a chance to call again during the break.”

“So what are our chances of this thing going through?” I say, experiencing a tension spike through my shoulders. Without Tokyo, my billion-dollar dreams are shot, for this year at least. Not the end of civilized society as we know it, but maybe my ambitions wouldn’t burn so bright and I could turn down the volume on the fucking loser soundtrack always playing in the back of my mind. “Fifty-fifty?”

“Eh, probably better than that. Keep a positive thought. Gotta go.”

“Fuck,” I say, hanging up and putting the phone away just as Carly reappears in the kitchen doorway.

“Oh no,” she says with an exaggerated frown. “You’re looking very grumbly now. What’s happened? Do I need to take your phone away while you cook dinner? I don’t want to be forced to eat overcooked and under-seasoned pasta.”

Just like that, she shifts my mood again. One of the reasons she’s such a joy to have around.

“We’re trying to close on a huge deal in Tokyo. There’s a funding issue. Makes life messy.”

Her attention sharpens. “Yes, you’re a real estate magnate, I believe?”

I laugh. “Yep. That’s what I put on my tax returns. That or Real Estate Emperor.”

“Now I don’t feel so bad,” she says, grinning as she picks up her knife and begins to chop. “Guess what I have to put on my forms when someone asks my profession?”

“What?”

“Princess of the United Kingdom.”

I grimace. “That’s horrifying.”

“I know! So what’s this building, then? It must be particularly important, judging by the look on your face when I walked in. Center for curing cancer? Ground zero for the war on climate change?”

I stifle a snort of laughter. “Real estate is not a laughing matter. Kindly give me the absolute respect and deference that I deserve. High-rise apartments. What else?”

“Sounds fancy,” she says, showing impressive skills with her knife. “Did you always want to be in real estate? Growing up?”

I think that over. “Did I always want to pull together funding and structure these complicated deals? No. Did I want to work with my father to rebuild his company and make him proud of me? Yes.”

“Well, I certainly understand making parental figures proud,” she mutters, pursing her lips. “Trying to, anyway.”

“Yeah?” By now I’ve progressed to seasoning the chicken, but I pause, intrigued. “Is there a story there?”

“Course. But we are talking about your story right now. Stop trying to distract me. So you’re happy being a real estate emperor?”

I have a tough time coming up with an answer to this baffling