Page 98 of Bossy Wicked Prince

“Of course, I’d love to go, Nate. Trading my shifts won’t be a problem. But maybe you should check the Toronto Tea before you buy my ticket.”

The other end of the line is silent, and I pray I haven’t ruined the trip, or this nascent thing building between Nate and me.

“I’ll read it, but don’t worry about anything they say,” he says eventually. “I’ll handle it. Once we’re in Paris, it won’t matter.”

31

NATE

Ryan

How’s my favorite cold, controlling, grumpy little prince?

Iroll my eyes. Of course, Ryan thinks the Toronto Tea post was hilarious. He texted all our friends immediately with highlights of his favorite sections. I would probably be furious at him if I didn’t currently have everything I want.

Namely, an espresso in my hand, Cat seated next to me, and clouds rolling by the window of my private jet. We’ll land in Paris soon. I’m used to late nights, so I worked for most of the trip, getting ahead of everything I plan to neglect the second we land.

Cat, on the other hand, spent a few hours napping in the jet’s small private bedroom. Now, she’s sipping her own coffee while she flips through a guidebook, putting a Post-It on every page she wants to go back to. I don’t have the heart to point out that she’s flagged almost every page. There’s no way we’ll see even a fraction of her list in the three days we’re there.

I like seeing her like this, her legs curled up underneath her, one hand idly twirling a strand of hair while she reads. It’s tooeasy to imagine a world where she travels with me wherever I go, not as my assistant, but as my girlfriend.

No, that word isn’t even close to describing what I want her to be to me. It feels tawdry. Insignificant. But even thinking of the word I’d prefer to use makes my stomach churn.

I have no idea if I’ll ever get to call her mine, but the idea of her ever becoming anything other than Mrs. Nathaniel Walsh makes me want to ask her the question right this second just to stop anyone else ever doing it.

Granted, shethinksshe’s on this trip as my assistant. I plan on surprising her tonight when we have dinner at my favorite restaurant. Fuck, I hope it’s a good surprise.

She needs to know how I feel about her. That I’m willing to do whatever I need to make this work.

Yesterday, my PI delivered the results from the project I asked him about a few weeks ago—the one I started to try to help her with the guilt she feels around her father’s disappearance. What I learned is…painful. I was hoping to surprise her with good news, but now I’m not even sure if it’s a good idea to tell her anything at all.

She didn’t seek this out on her own, so it feels wrong to share it with her before she might be ready to hear it. On the other hand, it doesn’t feel right to know the truth when she doesn’t.

Cat clears her throat, and I push my thoughts to the back of my mind. Whatever I decide, I want to give her the Paris trip she’s always dreamed of first.

“When is our first meeting?” she asks. “I want to make sure everything’s ready for it.”

“Not today,” I hedge. “I’ll give you the details later. Don’t worry about it.”

“But I haven’t gotten any email invites yet. I don’t even have the itinerary.”

“Everything’s booked already. I told you, I took care of it.” Truthfully, I did ask Susie to help plan parts of the trip. She was thrilled—she seems to have a soft spot for Cat, and she’s always had a serious romantic side.

Cat’s lips purse. “If everything’s worked out, then why am I here? You don’t really need me.”

“You’re here in case of any unforeseen circumstances. I’d rather have my assistant and not need her than have you stuck in Toronto.” I hope that sounds convincing.

Truthfully, I wasn’t sure if Cat would accept the trip as a gift. She’s so resistant to letting herself have anything nice, especially if she can find someone needier to give it to. I’m trying to spoil her like she deserves. It’s turned out to be harder than I anticipated.

When I glance up at Cat, she’s frowning. Her guidebook is closed, and she’s looking down at her phone like it insulted her.

“What’s wrong?” I demand.

“Look, Nate. How did they get this? I didn’t see any paparazzi.”

She passes me her phone. It’s open to the Toronto Tea, showing a photo of Cat and I on our way into the airport. I’m opening the door for her while she glances back at me. It’s grainy, obviously taken on a cell phone from far away, and zoomed in. We look less like a CEO and his assistant and more like a pair of celebrities hiding from the paparazzi.

“It wasn’t paparazzi. Some amateur photographer must have recognized us and taken this at the airport. They probably sold it to the Tea for a few hundred dollars,” I explain.