Page 12

12

ASHER

“ H appy Monday,” Lauren says unenthusiastically as she carries an elongated box into my office and sets it on my desk.

Papers whoosh around me, and a few flutter to the floor.

“What’s this?”

The box exudes luxury—that much is certain.

“Not sure,” she replies, picking up the mess. “It was just dropped off.”

The sign I hung across my window last week is still in place.

Lauren glances at it, then meets my eyes. “This fight is a waste of time.”

“That’s your opinion,” I reply.

I don’t want to think about Billie today. That woman has been on my mind since I stupidly slid my lips across hers on Saturday night. Every waking hour has been pure torture, a living nightmare I can’t escape.

I’d expected to feel nothing , but somehow, I felt it all. Suddenly, I was a twelve-year-old boy again, kissing my first crush. And I’m fucking pissed about it. Billie Calloway and I can never happen.

“Did someone burn both sides of your toast this morning?” She blinks at me, her eyes wide with curiosity.

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” I explain, recalling how I tossed and turned for hours.

“Okay. I hope you can get some rest tonight. You need it.” She leaves me to myself.

I scoot the box closer to the edge, opening it, only to reveal tissue paper wrapped around something inside. On top is an ivory envelope with Banks written in elegant cursive.

Still thinking about that beautiful suit I ruined and how it was a crime against fashion. Please accept my apology—yes, I mean it—and this replacement.

—B

“ Ice Queen ,” I whisper as I peel back the tissue paper to reveal a charcoal-gray suit with a light-blue liner—exactly the shade of her eyes.

I pull the coat from the box, holding it up. It’s Dolce then you can fuck off too.”

He chuckles, completely unfazed. Lauren leaves, and I rip down my disrespectful sign, tossing it aside.

Nick grabs the new one off the conference room table, and we climb some step stools to put it up. Once we finish taping it, we both climb down.

Billie and Harper stare at us from across the way.

“Oh shit,” Nick mutters as Billie storms out of her office.

Harper flips me off and rushes toward her .

“Guess it was the right message,” I say. “Anyway, I need to step out and clear my mind. I’ll be back this afternoon.”

I grab my cell phone and head for the door.

“What if you could be together?” Nick asks again.

I glance back at him. “Stop with this. We’d destroy each other, and I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

“But she is your worst enemy, and there is chemistry,” Nick replies. “Can’t believe you’d pass up love because you’re too fucking stubborn to see it. Keep this up, and you’ll end up just like me and Dyson. Alone.”

I’m too pissed to have this conversation. I take the elevator down to the street, craving fresh air.

Paps quickly follow, their camera clicks giving them away. I roll my eyes, almost forgetting I’m on a watch list, thanks to the ice queen invading my space.

It wouldn’t surprise me if she had them tracking my every move. I know her family’s relationship with the media and how the Calloways love to spin their curated tales. Just like the Louis one.

A guy points a short-lensed camera in my face.

“Did you know Billie was with a royal?” he asks. “What happened with you two?”

I avoid eye contact and shove my hands in my pockets. In moments like this, when my thoughts are jumbled, it’s better to stay silent. I’ll play my cards close to my chest—at least for now.

While I grew up in the limelight, it was nothing compared to what the Calloways faced. The three of them were the picture of what wealthy American kids were expected to be. Billie had full spreads in teen magazines, detailing her academics and interests, along with her fashion sense.

Those who don’t want to be a Calloway want to fuck one. There’s no in between.

Roosters is just ahead on the corner, and I slip inside, relieved for the escape. As I rush in, I’m not paying attention and accidentally bump into the woman in front of me. I reach out to steady her and realize my hands are on the ice queen.

She groans. “Let me go. Jeez.”

“Why are you everywhere ?” I ask.

“I was here first. You probably saw me and decided to follow me,” she says, glancing past me. “Oh, and you brought the paps. Great. Good job, Banks. ”

“ You did. Had I known you were here, I wouldn’t have come. Just like that fucking party,” I reply, meeting her gaze. It’s a mistake. It makes me miserable.

“Next time, I’ll text you to let you know I’m leaving the office so we don’t accidentally bump into each other. You’re rude as hell. And your sign was stupid. No one was even talking about us,” she whisper-hisses, clearly frustrated. “You’re obsessed with the narrative.”

“Obsessed?” I burst into laughter. “You fucking wish.”

The barista stares at us, and I gently place my hand on the small of Billie’s back, urging her to move forward. A jolt of electricity races through me at the slightest touch.

“Now order. I have things to do, and you’re wasting my fucking time, per usual,” I say, aware that pictures and videos are being taken of us.

This encounter, combined with my sign, is bound to get everyone talking. I can’t help but smile at the thought.

Billie orders a hot tea—Earl Grey with a splash of milk. I guess she doesn’t always grab a double shot of espresso.

“I’ll pay for whatever he wants,” she says, glancing back at me. Her eyes flicker from my lips to my eyes.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I say, narrowing my focus on her.

“Like a human?” she retorts.

I take a step closer, leaning in to whisper in her ear, “Like you’d fuck me in the bathroom.”

She draws a ragged breath. “You’re projecting. ”

I know photographers are at the windows, capturing every moment.

“So, is that all?” the barista asks, annoyed but also invested in our exchange.

“You’re so damn frustrating,” Billie sneers. “He’ll have a mocha, large, with two percent milk and one raw sugar. Extra hot because he loves to make my life a living hell,” Billie instructs the barista.

The barista rings it up, and Billie swipes her card.

“How did you know what I order?” I ask, genuinely shocked.

“I know a lot about you,” she mutters, not bothering to look my way as she moves across the room, away from me.

The barista glances at me, head tilted in curiosity, and I let out a sigh.

This is exhausting. My goal is to break her down, not the other way around.