Page 15 of Prince of Control
Well, good luck with that–I have screen lock.
I use the light of the screen to shine over the bed, and my pulse speeds up the moment I detect the large form on the other end of the bed.
At least he gave me space. I was half-afraid last night that he’d try something.
I look back at my phone. There are a slew of messages. Two phone messages from my mom.
I haven’t called her since my dad showed up. I don’t know whether or not I’m mad at her. It sounded like this was all my dad’s doing. Either way, I’m not ready to talk to her. If she’s as upset as I am, that’s only going to make me break down.
There’s a string of texts from Brash, the Russian guy I had a few dates with before I left Paris. He’s the son of a rich oligarch. I found him to be full of himself, but despite his self-absorption, he took an interest in me. I don’t know if it’s because I’m Russian, and he feels a certain connection with me over French women or what. Anyway, he was a gentleman on our dates–attentive but not too pushy. A kiss at the door but no pressure for sex.
We had a date scheduled for last night that I didn’t even remember to cancel.
Oops.
Knowing his ego, he’s going to be put out.
Not that it matters. It hits me square in the chest. I’m not going back there. My life in Paris is over. My internship and future job possibilities just died. I’m getting married today.
I open the texts and wince. Apparently, he went to my place, waited a half an hour and left. Then texted a couple more times asking if I was okay.
I text back in Russian:
I’m very sorry I forgot to cancel our date. I was on a plane to the U.S.
In a crazy turn of events, I found out I have to marry an American. (I’m not joking).
I won’t be back to Paris, and I can’t see you again.
The large form on the other side of the bed jerks awake, and Benjamin sits up, one hand reaching for his bedstand, like he’s going for a gun.
My husband is jumpy when we wakes. Good to know.
I flip the phone, screen down, so he won’t see the light, but Benjamin turns to look at me, scrubbing a hand across his face.
“Jet lag has you up early, huh?” His voice is a deep, sleepy rumble. It’s sexy. Or maybe it’s just finding myself in bed with a man that makes my nipples tighten.
I twist to look over my shoulder at him, allowing the light to shine again.
Oh, damn. His sandy blond hair is loosely tousled and hanging over his forehead. He’s not wearing a shirt, and the muscles of his chest stand out in glorious relief. Is he naked?
Wait–why am I even wondering that? Gospodi, is he, though? Did he come to bed with me last night naked?
Or did he have the decency to wear his underwear? And what kind of underwear does he wear? The small, tight kind? Or boxer shorts?
Gah. Again, why am I picturing him in his underwear right now?
My phone rings.
I glance down. It’s Brash calling.
Blin, I swear internally. He’s usually more of a texter. I definitely don’t want to have a conversation with him right now. Especially not while I’m in bed with my fiancé.
I hit the decline button and catch Benjamin’s gaze on the screen of my phone.
“Who was that?” His tone is casual, like we’re a long-married couple who shares these kinds of things. Like we know and care about the same people. Like we know each other.
“None of your business.”
