The Billionaire's Princess - Ava Ryan Page 0,29

cat shelter, because I really love cats. I like to stay busy.”

“Me too.”

“Also, I’m thinking about joining a running group,” she says, pointing to a pair of battered running shoes parked under a console in the hall. “I’m quite good, actually. I’ve run several short races, but I’m thinking that with some training I could work up to the city marathon next— Why are you looking at me like that? Have I got pasta stuck in my teeth and you didn’t tell me?”

I stare at her, frozen inside my astonishment, and desperately try to get a grip. She’s lonely. I’m lonely. She likes to run. I like to run. Big freaking deal. It’s not like I just discovered that she’s the reincarnated soul of Juliet and I’m Romeo. No star-crossed lover bullshit here.

But, I gotta tell you, all these little things about her are starting to add up to something that feels pretty fucking significant.

“I, ah…” Sudden hoarseness forces me to clear my throat. My fidgety hands need something to do, so I rub my thighs a couple of times. “No, I just need to, ah, head home.”

Her expression falls until she looks like a kid watching the Grinch steal every single present under the tree on Christmas Eve. Then, in a flash, she locks it all away where I can’t see it and presents me with the aloof façade she wore when she walked into Bemelmans and into my life.

“Of course.” Cool smile that never touches her eyes as she stands. “I’d thought that we might watch a movie, but you probably wouldn’t want—”

“Don’t,” I say, taking her hand and squeezing it because I can’t keep my feelings to myself any better than I can stand to witness the veiled hurt on her face. I stare up at her, eager for her to see my sincerity. “I want. You know I want. I’ve got a shit-ton of emails to get through and calls to make tonight, and I would love to set up a workstation on your dining room table just so I could watch you watch TV while I do it. But I’m not sure you know what you want when it comes to me. I’m only here to give you a taste of the way things could be if you figure it out. I’m not playing games here. This is not a game to me. So think about that.”

She nods, her expression shadowed. Then, as though she can’t help herself, she pulls her hand free and cups my head on both sides, scratching my scalp with her short nails as she grips my hair and pulls me close enough to hug. Close enough for me to press my face between her breasts and absorb her scent.

But this taste of Carly is more than I can take. Like I said, I’m not playing games. And she’s already got me teetering on the edge of my self-control.

So I give myself one second—one short second—to nuzzle her breasts and squeeze her hips before I push her away and stand beside her.

“I may have to go to Tokyo,” I tell her, my voice husky.

She nods, two blazing patches of color concentrated in her cheeks. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you in London this weekend. At your father’s.”

“Okay.”

“Doesn’t your grandmother live in London?”

“She does,” she says with a startled laugh.

I nod with grim satisfaction. “Good. I hope you get your shit together this weekend. With her and with Percy, just in case you two have any lingering loose ends to tie off. Because I’m not sharing you.”

This, naturally, makes her bristle. She straightens her spine.

“I’m not a bag of crisps to be shared or not shared. If I want to respond to Percy when he texts me, I’ll do that. I’m allowed to be friends with him if I choose to and if he wants it.”

I feel a humorless smile tug on one corner of my mouth. This woman is so smart, sexy and beautiful. So intriguing. So maddening.

“I’m not arguing,” I say flatly. “I’m not getting into semantics. Whatever the fuck you are? You belong with me. And we both know it. So get your shit together. This weekend.”

9

Carly

“I do hope I’ve made your trip across the pond worthwhile, Damon,” my father says that Saturday night at our family seat in Kent outside London, leading the way into the blue salon for drinks before dinner. His charm offensive is in full swing, including that wide smile of his and a conspiratorial tone. “I’m rather