Page 87 of Bossy Wicked Prince

Nate

I don’t want you walking alone. It’s not safe.

I can picture him frowning down at the phone, annoyed. Even though I normally wouldn’t spend the money on a ride, some part of me doesn’t want to disappoint him.

Cat

Fine. I’ll Uber.

Nate

Share your ride details with me.

Cat

Seriously??????

Nate

Seriously.

You should always share your ride details with someone.

I roll my eyes. If I thought he was paranoid before, this is a whole new level. But I know how stubborn Nate is, and I’m just not in the mood to argue with him tonight.

Cat

Fine.

I shove my phone in my purse, determined not to think about Nate until I leave and call a car.

Once Pippa’s back, we take our time browsing through the books. We end up buying a book apiece—a Sally Rooney book for me, and for Pippa, a buzzy, smutty werewolf romance, and something she said was basically Dramione fanfic, whatever thatis. She reads anything and everything, bringing it all into her writing. Just looking at her TBR list gives me a headache.

By the time we walk outside and request our rides home, I’ve succeeded in not thinking about Nate…that much.

Pippa’s car arrives first, and she squeezes me tight. “Love you, kitty Cat. Text me when you’re home safe, okay?”

“You too.”

She climbs in her car, and I wave as it drives away. I really have to make sure I don’t miss any more Wine Wednesdays, even if it means giving up a shift. Being around Pippa is good for me—it reminds me to take care of myself, and gives me a chance to relax and have fun.

I check my Uber, but the app says it’s six minutes away. It’s said the same thing for the past few minutes, but maybe the car got stuck in traffic or something.

Then, the app updates:Ride canceled.Ugh.

I request another ride, but the app doesn’t assign me a driver. It just keeps saying “requesting your ride” over and over. I wonder if there was a major traffic accident keeping the drivers busy, or I’m just getting unlucky.

I sigh, and my breath turns into a white cloud. It’s chillier than I thought it would be, and I haven’t bought myself a warmer coat yet. I bounce from foot to foot, moving to keep my temperature up. My hands would be warmer if I put them in my pockets, but I don’t want to miss it if Uber finally sends me a car.

When I hit fifteen minutes of waiting outside, I’ve had enough—I could have walked to my apartment by now. I hit cancel and shove my icy hands deep in my jacket pockets.

Much better.

As I walk toward my apartment, I wish I could put on my headphones and listen to music or a podcast or something. It’s boring having nothing to listen to, but if I’m going to ignoreNate’s request and walk home, I can at least do it as safely as possible.

I’m stopped at a crosswalk when I get a weird feeling at the back of my neck—the kind you get when someone’s watching you. I look back over my shoulder, trying to be subtle about it. There’s a guy about a half a block behind me wearing a hoodie that puts his face in shadow.

Danger, danger, my internal alarm system blares.