The Billionaire's Princess - Ava Ryan Page 0,36

Carly and her unfolding domestic drama, and I’ve tried to deal with my surging adrenaline. Tried. I went for a five-mile jog on the paths around the manicured lawn and gardens of this insane estate. I came back, did roughly a hundred thousand push-ups and sit-ups because I was still strung tight, then showered. I ate the dinner they sent over for me, which now sits in my belly like a fifty-pound barbell.

Now here I am, sitting at the dining room table in my boxer briefs, staring blindly at my paperwork, getting steadily drunker by the second as I down the duke’s whiskey, wonder what the hell Carly said and did with Percy and how I can find out one way or the other.

The one thing I won’t do is pick up my phone and call her. My ridiculous pride is on the scene again, making an appearance like a meerkat poking its head out of a hole. And my pride says that since I already put it on the line for Carly—in front of an audience, no less—I need to sit and wait to see how this all unfolds. Be patient.

Too bad my pride doesn’t know that I was only born with about one microgram of patience, and I used that all up in the first five minutes after I walked out earlier.

Carly, man. Carly.

I rest my elbows on the table, plant my face in my hands and rub my forehead hard enough to reveal my skull. She’s got my balls in a pair of pliers, which I could deal with. It’s the emotional roller coaster and the unshakable sensation of my thoughts and feelings being trapped in a blender that threaten to bring me to my knees.

It’s having hope that we might get together again when, for all I know, she’s now got Percy’s engagement ring back on her finger and has forgotten about me picking my nose and waiting for her down here at the cottage.

Funny how I told her the other night that I went to her apartment because I wanted to see her in her natural habitat. What a fucking joke. That was a nice apartment. This is her natural habitat. Estates and servants. Priceless antiques and a father who’s a duke. A grandmother who’s a queen. A gilded life filled with the kinds of titles, privileges and wealth that a guy like me could only dream about. And yeah, my family and I have money. But it’s wobbly and probably tacky new money, the kind that could still be yanked away or lost with one wrong move. My father demonstrated that. This money? Carly’s money? It’s been here for generations. Will be here for generations.

She belongs in this world. She and her father the duke.

And Percy. Let’s not forget good old Percy, who was also to the manor born. Unlike me.

Funny how I felt so certain that I’m the guy for her. Not Percy.

But that was before I saw all this.

Let’s get real. Part of me is wondering when security will show up and toss my ass out of here.

Sure, I’ve heard whispers about her dad’s financial difficulties, but does that even matter when you’re talking about a member of the royal family? Isn’t this kind of wealth in your blood?

I don’t have this. I can tell you that much. I can work my fingers to the bone and add that ninth zero to my bottom line this year, but I’ll never have this.

My morale hits the negative digits.

Hell, I already knew I was punching above my weight when it came to Carly, and that was back when I thought she was a regular civilian woman. Now I know in my gut that I’ve got no chance. Why would she stick around for a loser like me when she could have this? Because I’m so special? Yeah, sure. I’m so special that I couldn’t even get my own fucking mother to stick around.

But I want Carly.

I want her.

The idea that she might end up with some other guy before I even get a real chance with her has me knotted with jealousy. That’s not something I do. Jealousy? Me? Please. Why get jealous when your biggest ambition with any particular woman is a couple of hours of undiluted pleasure between the sheets? Isn’t one sexy and experienced person roughly as good as any other?

So tell me why I’m just looking for an excuse to rip Percy to shreds and feed his fleshy remainder to