Page 109 of Bossy Wicked Prince
Nate presses the button to lower the partition and instructs the driver on what road to take back to our place. As they chat, my eyes fall to Nate’s phone on the seat between them.
It’s open to a text from Eleanor Walsh.
I really shouldn’t read it, but once I have, it’s too late.
Mother
I told you this would happen. I’m meeting with the board to discuss these lapses in judgment. I think maybe you should take a step back before you bring the whole company down with you.
My stomach churns, and I regret eating that pain au chocolat.
Nate isn’t the only one Eleanor warned. She told me that our relationship would put Nate’s job in danger. I tried to slow things down between us, but eventually, I gave in. I should have been stronger—if I had kept my distance, Nate and I would both be in the office today, working on the final details for the Edmonton deal.
Nate puts his hand on my knee.
“Everything’s going to be fine, Kitten. We’ll figure this out.”
A few minutes ago, I might have believed him. Now, it feels like an empty promise.
All the joy and hope I felt in Paris has evaporated, replaced with a cold, dark dread.
I stareout the window of Nate’s living room, holding a now-cold cup of coffee. On the sidewalk, customers are starting to walk in for early dinners at Terrace. It feels weird, knowing dinner service is going on without me. I know Sandy and Olivia are probably having the best day of their lives, gossiping about me and Nate.
I’m not sure how much they know. As much as I want to know what’s happening, I haven’t checked any of the gossip blogs. The comments are probably eviscerating me, and it’ll only make me feel worse.
It’s been hours since Nate dropped me off here. He told me to relax while he went down to the office to do damage control. As if I could relax. My appetite is gone, and I haven’t managed to eat anything since that pain au chocolat on the plane.
Normally, I’d work to distract myself, but I can’t. Nate would kick me out of the UPS office, and I’d have a whole unwantedaudience down at Terrace. I wish I could go down to the shelter, but Minnie texted me, letting me know that reporters have camped out in front.
I’m out of distractions in the apartment, too. I took a long hot shower and styled my hair. I reorganized the fridge, all six items in it. Nate’s closet is already sorted by color, thanks to the stylist. Flipping through Sequel, nothing caught my attention.
I flop down on the sofa, frustrated. I wish there was some way I could help. The Toronto Tea is still printing terrible things about Nate, claiming he took me to New York and Paris to manipulate me into falling for him. A so-called expert said he was purposefully taking me out of my comfort zone, where it would be harder for me to resist.
Please. I had enough of a hard time resisting Nate in Toronto. He didn’t need the City of Lights to make me fall for him—he was enough.
All the authors have code names, all of which are derived from different types of tea. There’s Jasmine, Peppermint, Sencha, and The Earl. Peppermint is the one who wrote the last five posts about Nate. A harmless-sounding name for a gossiping jerk. I wonder if they even care about what the truth is, or if they just post whatever they can to get clicks.
Well, there’s one way to find out.
I grab my phone and pull up the Toronto Tea. All their writers’ emails are posted on the contact page, along with a general email for tips. I scowl, remembering the photo of Nate and I at the airport. Whoever sent it probably used the tip line.
Clicking on Peppermint’s email, I open my own app and compose a message.
From: [email protected]
Subject: The Truth
Dear Peppermint,
This is Caitlin Daniels. We’ve never met, yet you’ve been writing about me quite a bit recently. I don’t know what makes you think you have the right to write whatever lies you want about my personal life. You’ve consulted all the experts except the most important one: me, the expert in my own life.
Let me clear a few things up. There isn’t a manipulative bone in Nate Walsh’s body. He’s never hidden exactly what he is: a grump, a perfectionist, a workaholic, and a ruthless negotiator. He’s also kind, generous, and honorable to his core. He spoke up for me and protected me when a former coworker actually harassed me at work. He looked out for my safety and security, even before I became his employee or his friend. He saw a woman being cornered in an elevator by a predator, and he made sure that man couldn’t hurt me.
He didn’t try to make me fall for him. That happened all on its own, because the more time I spent with him, the more I respected and admired him. And yes, he’s gorgeous. That doesn’t hurt.
You say he manipulated me, but doesn’t my free will matter? Don’t I get to make choices about who I care about and who I want in my life? I know what I want, and I don’t need your approval, or anyone else's.
