Page 101 of Bossy Wicked Prince

“Thank your stylist for me,” I tell him.

“Not this time. I picked the coats myself. We should hurry, though. Our reservations start soon.”

He takes my hand and slides it into the crook of his arm, then leads me out to the narrow elevator. That’s the only downside I’ve found to Paris—the elevators are ancient, tiny, and downright terrifying. I decide a distraction is in order.

“I haven’t seen any emails about our schedule for the next few days,” I say. “Are the meetings off the books? I don’t have to know everything, but I’d like to know what I’m preparing for.”

I feel the muscles tense in Nate’s arm. “I’ll fill you in over dinner.”

Hmm. There’s something he’s not telling me, but I guess I’ll find out soon enough.

The other dinersare perfectly Parisian chic in their draped silk blouses, structured wool trousers and blazers, and undone hair. A few women wear cocktail dresses like mine, and for a second, I think I might actually be able to pass as French.

Then I see the view from the restaurant and gasp so loudly that everyone in the restaurant immediately knows I’m a tourist.

But how can I not? The Eiffel Tower is sparkling through the windows, lighting up the night sky. It’s utterly magical.

Nate smiles down at me. “You like the view?”

“Who wouldn’t? It’s unreal.”

The maître d’ leads us through the dining room to a door in the back. Through it’s a private dining room with two chairs set up so Nate and I can sit on the same side of the table, both admiring the view. Candles everywhere cast the room in soft light, and there’s a big vase of pink peonies and roses in the center of the table.

It’s all beautiful, but did we really need a room all to ourselves? I’m sure this restaurant is one of the best in the city, so how much more did Nate pay to get us a private room? I know how much we would charge for this at Terrace. Nate’s dumping thousands of dollars out all for dinner with me, a dinner I don’t really need.

He could feed hundreds of people.

Instead, he’s wasting it on me.

Nate pulls my chair out for me before the maître d’ can get to it, and I try to dispel my spiraling thoughts with a coy look up at Nate as he slides my chair into the table.

“Careful,” I warn. “Chivalry looks good on you. Might start rumors.”

Despite the maître d’s presence, a tiny chuckle escapes him.

“A brut rosé to start, and the chef will be out soon with your first course.”

“I ordered ahead,” Nate says before I can ask.

Ordered ahead?

And booked a private dining room?

Guilt knots in my stomach. I know I’m being irrational. It’s not like I told him to spend money on me—a nice dinner like this is just pocket change to him. But being given all this, knowing how many people are outside, hungry and cold…it just doesn’t sit right with me. I settle into my seat and try to swallow my guilt while a server pours us champagne.

God, I think all those new articles about me being a gold digger are getting me a hell of a lot more than I thought they were.

The champagne is delicious, of course, but everything still feels a little too perfect, and I just can’t seem to relax enough to enjoy it.

What would they say now? If they could see me here in this room with the clothes that aren’t mine, eating an extravagant dinner I didn’t pay for?

Would they say I’m trying to trap him?

Or worse, would they say he’s trying to buy his way into my panties?

Stop, Cat.

It doesn’t matter what people think, I tell myself, repeating the affirmation in my mind as I sip my champagne.