Page 67 of Bossy Wicked Prince

Technically, that’s true. Whatever we’ve been doing, tonight is the first date-like thing we’ve ever done, and it hasn’t happened yet.

Eleanor scoffs. “Don’t bother lying to me. I know you’re together. You proved it, unlocking the door with your own key, and showing up with some cheap bread and wine.”

I’ve never felt smaller. I spent the whole afternoon picking up all my favorite things to share with Nate, and she’s already dismissed them as trash. My taste—hell, my whole lifestyle—is never going to match with someone who grew up wealthy.

It’s all too easy to imagine all the ways I could embarrass Nate if we were together. I’d show up to events in the wrong clothes and order the wrong wine at restaurants. All the invisible manners that are second-nature to people like Eleanor are gibberish to people like me.

I hang my head, staring at the floor so she won’t see the tears stinging my eyes.

Eleanor sighs. “I have an appointment to get to. Do tell my son I was here. Even a secretary with no experience should be able to forward a message, I’m sure.”

Her high heels clack on the hardwood floor as she walks toward the elevator. I don’t dare turn around until I hear the doors swoosh closed.

Nate’s luxury apartment feels massive and empty. Every breath feels like it echoes against the white walls and high ceilings.

Last night, I imagined that Nate and I could be something…more. My daydreams about dinner dates and nights spent tangled in each other’s arms feel profoundly stupid now. Eleanor made it very clear how people in Nate’s circle would see our relationship. To them, I’d be just some incompetent assistant who only got her job because the boss wanted to fuck her.

Maybe that’s what I really am.

So what the hell am I doing here?

Eleanor might be a snooty bitch, but she’s right. I shouldn’t be sucking my boss off in his office or making him dinner in his apartment. It’s inappropriate, and it’s never going to turn into something real.

I quickly type out a text to Nate.

Cat

So sorry, something came up. I have to cancel tonight.

Picking up all my bags again is next to impossible. As soon as I get outside, I’m finding a trash can for the flowers. The food I’ll eat at home, but there’s no need to pretend I’m on a romantic date by myself.

It’s time for me to stop pretending and go home.

21

NATE

Sweat trickles down between my eyes, making them sting even after I wipe it away with the back of my hand. My T-shirt is soaked, sticking to my back and chest like a second skin. I’ve just run on the treadmill for over an hour, running until I saw black spots in the corner of my eyes.

I haven’t eaten this morning. I burned through my energy reserves, and if I kept going, the odds were good I’d pass out.

I finished the mile anyway. Because for six precious minutes, I didn’t think about the unanswered texts on my phone. My mind and body were completely consumed with keeping me upright, keeping me running toward a landmark I’ll never reach.

Now that I’m sitting on the weight bench with my legs trembling, it’s obvious what an idiot I was. Running like that was self-destructive and dangerous. If my legs went out from under me, I would have gone flying backward and hit the floor like a rock. I could have ended up with a sprained ankle or worse.

I swipe my phone open to my texts, hoping I somehow missed a notification. But there are just the same messages I’ve been staring at for days.

Nate

I understand. Hope everything’s okay.

Did everything turn out alright yesterday?

I’m free tonight if you want to reschedule.

How are you? Have you been by the shelter recently?

Do you have the confirmation for my meeting with Gabriel at Edmonton next week?