The Billionaire's Princess - Ava Ryan Page 0,44

of that. I grab her wrist, being careful of her tea.

“There you go again,” I say. “Knock it off.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” she says, correctly reading my thoughts. “I’m going for a jog. You’re welcome to come with me if you like. The grounds are amazing.”

“I do like,” I say, surprised and delighted. “But what about your dad and the staff? You don’t care about them seeing us together at the crack o’dawn?”

“Course not,” she says, scowling. “What do you Americans say? Grown-ass? I’m a grown-ass woman. It’s my life.”

“Works for me,” I say, stifling a laugh. “But aren’t you afraid the staff will blab to some tabloid?”

The suggestion seems to shock her. “No. My father has everyone sign their souls away in confidentiality agreements. And these are mostly people who’ve been with the family for years.”

“Well, if you’re cool with us going public, you’re welcome to hop a ride back on my jet. Whenever we’re ready to go. I just need to be back in time for my Monday morning meeting.”

“Oh, but I’m still spending time with Granny on Thursday, remember? You’ll have to go back without me.”

Not exactly the end of the world, but the reminder still hits me like a thirty-pound bag of concrete dropped on my foot. I have the wild impulse to ask if she’s insane. Because why else would she think I could stagger all the way to the end of the week without her?

“Thursday?”

“Yes, but my flight’s on Friday.”

“Friday?”

“You’ll be fine, darling,” she says, laughing at the look on my face. “I know you can barely imagine a second without me, but you’ll soldier on.”

I’m not entirely sure I will. And she’s right. The seconds without her sure seem a hell of a lot longer than the seconds with her in them.

But we’re both here now. And I plan to make the most of it.

“We’ll have to stockpile some orgasms for our time apart, then,” I say, then I take the tea, set it on the nightstand with a thunk and pull her back into bed with me and the cat.

13

Carly

I dial Damon’s number as soon as I arrive back in my apartment that Friday evening, tossing my keys and my stack of accumulated mail on the foyer console and kicking my sandals into their basket. These transatlantic flights are always hell on my neck and shoulders, so I lean my head back and forth, trying to work out some of the kinks.

“You home?” he asks before the phone manages a single full ring.

I can’t stop my grin. We’ve talked and texted all week, but he’s no better at hiding his eagerness to see me again than I am at hiding mine.

“Well, hello to you too. Just walked in.”

“On my way.”

“Hang on,” I say quickly. “Give me an hour or so, because my friend Michele is on her way and I haven’t seen her for—”

But the line is already dead.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter.

I’m still laughing over his impatience when my phone rings.

“It’s me,” Michele says when I answer.

“Come on up,” I say, buzzing her in.

We squeal with girlish delight when she appears in my doorway, carrying on the way we did when we both got high marks on our first sketches back in freshman composition. I consider her my best-friend soul mate, probably because she doesn’t give two fucks about my royal status and has never hesitated to tell me the unvarnished truth in all its messy detail. It’s been about a month since I’ve seen her, during which time she’s reworked her braids into a bun on top of her head. Her ivory linen sundress highlights her perfect skin, which is the beautiful color of the finest English toffee, and her dimpled smile threatens to swallow her entire face.

“You look amazing, you gorgeous witch,” I tell her when I finally let her go and steer her over to the sofa, where we settle. “All glowing and summery. While I look rumpled and pathetic.”

“Stop the nonsense. Like you’re not wearing a great dress.” She flaps a hand at my coral maxi dress. “Love the wavy hair. Glad you finally started listening to me about not straightening it all the time.”

I try to disguise my blush by tucking my hair behind my ear, deciding that now is not the moment to mention that Damon’s comments about my hair, not hers, are responsible for the change.

“Well, it’s much less work. That’s for sure.”

“So how’s Granny? What did she send me?”

Michele has traveled back home with me