Page 4 of Bossy Wicked Prince
I remember now. He’s the CEO of United Protection Services.
And I just used his private elevator without the appropriate clearance.
Shit.
“It’s nothing,” I blurt, inclining my head to the buttons behind Prince Frowning that are lit and waiting for him to make a new selection. “Could you hit the lobby floor for me?”
If it’s possible, his frown deepens even more.
I realize my nipples are still hard as tiny pebbles from the walk-in fridge and cringe inwardly. Clearing my throat, I cross my arms across my chest to conceal them, making mental promises to buy a better bra as I point to the buttons.
God, why does he keep staring like that?
“It’s the one with the L on it,” I say before I can stop myself. “Right there.”
“Not until you tell me why you look like you were chased into this elevator by a rabid dog.”
I bark a laugh before I can stop myself, clamping my mouth shut.
I mean, he’s not far off.
His gray eyes silently interrogate me, and I squirm beneath them, huffing out another uncomfortable laugh.
“It wasn’t a dog,” I admit, trying to keep my tone light. “It’s the new chef on rotation. He’s harmless, but I didn’t feel like dealing with him tonight.”
“So you hid in the private elevator?” he asks, angry concern lining his forehead.
I give him a pained shrug in reply.
“What’s his name? The new chef.”
My lips part in surprise. Nothing good can come from me telling him—even if he told my boss’s boss about it, nobody’s going to fire a chef to appease a waitress.
“I’d rather forget about the whole thing,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”
His jaw flexes, and I can almost see the wheels turning in his head.
“You won’t mind if I walk you out to your car, then,” he says finally.
My mouth almost falls open. Prince Frowning wants to play bodyguard for me? That’s…unexpected.
“I don’t have a car,” I explain. “I usually just walk, but I was going to take the bus tonight.”
“Alright. I’ll walk you to the bus stop, then.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t.”
“You’re kind of bossy, aren’t you?”
The words slip out before I can think better of them, and I cringe. He’s already done me a favor—the last thing I should be doing is insulting him.
To my surprise, he laughs. Not a belly laugh—just a low chuckle, but it’s enough to disarm me. His voice is deep and rich, but his laugh is like honeyed whiskey, and I’d kill for another taste.
“Nate Walsh,” he says, offering me his hand. “And I’m only bossy when it matters.”
I fight back a smile.Nate.Right. That’s what his name was.
