Page 18 of Prince of Control
Anya set me up to receive the records of all Lara’s texts and phone calls. It was Brash who texted her this morning. I was pleasantly surprised she hadn’t told him she was leaving town until this morning. That means they can’t be that close. If she were in love with him, she would’ve said goodbye in person. Then again, maybe Adrian prevented it. Still, her text wasn’t that personal.
That doesn’t mean Brash will stop pursuing her. She’s an asset his father decided he wants in his arsenal. Maybe Brash even sees something in her himself although he’s a sociopath. I can’t believe he could ever care about her.
But maybe he sees the same thing in her I do.
That thought makes me grit my teeth. Even if Lara never accepts me and our marriage remains nothing more than a sham, I will do whatever it takes to keep Brash Rostov from ever touching or even thinking about her again.
I drive the motorcycle through the cool morning air, glorying in having Lara’s soft curves molded against me. “This is the Modern Languages building.” I pull in front of the hundred-year-old three-story brick building. “Your first and third classes are in here.”
She nods but says nothing. I keep going with the tour, showing her where each of her classes will be, pointing out the main library, the food court, and the gym. Sunrise breaks the horizon, warming the sky to a light peach glow as I drive half a mile off campus.
“Where are we going?” Lara asks, no doubt realizing we’re away from the old brick structures of the university and heading down toward Whisper’s town center.
“I wanted to show you the best bakery.” I pull up in front of The Velvet Crumb, a light-filled bakery/cafe that opens at six a.m. “It’s not a Parisian cafe, but the scones are incredible.” I stop the bike, and Lara immediately tumbles off as if eager to be away from me. She yanks her skirt down as I open the door to the bakery. The scent of freshly baked bread wafts out as we step inside.
The bakery features vaulted ceilings with old Victorian-era ceiling tiles. White tile covers the floors and eighteen-foot walls, giving it a bright and airy feel.
“Are you hungry yet?”
Lara glances at the cases of delectable goodies–braided breads stuffed with herbs and cheese, a large variety of scones, croissants, and tarts–and nods.
I step up to the counter with my hand lightly resting on Lara’s lower back. The girl working the counter bustles over. When she looks up and sees my face, she startles and blushes under her white baker’s hat. “Um, hi, Baron.”
I don’t know her, but she must be a Thornecroft student.
Lara turns to look at me quizzically.
“Hey there,” I say easily, brushing off the recognition. Most everyone at Thornecroft knows me. That’s the benefit of cultivating a bad-ass status.
“Can we get a couple of cafe au laits and–”
“Do you mean lattes?” she interrupts.
“Sure.” I know they’re not exactly the same because I Googled it this morning to make sure I got her coffee right. But close enough. She’s not going to find many cafes in this country that serve cafe au laits.
“To eat, we’ll have–” I turn to look inquiringly at Lara, “what would you like?”
“I’ll try the pumpkin chocolate chip muffin,” she says.
“And I’ll have the maple walnut scone. For here, please.”
The cashier bobs her head and rings us up. “I, um, heard there's a back-to-school party at Baranov House Friday,” she ventures as I hold my phone up to the device to pay.
Ah. That’s why she looks a little nervous-giddy. One of the ways I turned Baranov House into a cash cow is by making our parties exclusively invite-only. That doesn’t mean they are small and intimate or free. Not at all. They’re huge.
So huge, the fraternities, long known as the sole source of social activity on campus, have taken a hit.
It just means we created a sense of mystery and exclusion which makes everyone want to attend. Whispers of the dungeon in the basement help boost that reputation.
“There is,” I say. “Are you coming?”
She turns a deep shade of red. “Um, no. I don’t have an invite.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out one of the party invitation cards Zoe had printed. Each has to be signed by a house member in order to allow entry. I pick up a pen. “What’s your name?”
“Tori.”
I write “Tori +1” and sign on the line, then slide it across the counter. “Consider yourself invited.”
