Page 108 of Bossy Wicked Prince
The jet is about to land back in Toronto, and I’ve never been less happy to be home. Nate and I enjoyed two blissful days strolling through Montmartre, exploring the Louvre, and sipping wine in the Latin Quarter. It was wonderful, but it only whetted my appetite for more. I could spend months in Paris and still not get enough.
At least I’m going home with Nate. I lean my head against his arm, nuzzling into it. It wasn’t easy to let him spoil me, but he wore me down. I’m starting to realize that I drive myself harder than I have to. It’s a hard habit to stop, but maybe now that the shelter is funded, I’ll have a chance to practice.
The plane starts its final descent, and I turn to the window to watch. Another thing I doubt I’ll get tired of—watching the cityget bigger and bigger underneath us until we touch down on the runway.
With a final goodbye to the flight attendants, Nate and I walk down the airstairs and into the airport. When we approach the public part of the airport, I reluctantly let go of his hand and put a little space between us. As much as I love the casual intimacy we have in private, I don’t want more amateur photographers snapping photos for the Tea.
I’m still high on Paris when we emerge from the airport exit, right into a mob of screaming reporters and flashing lights.
The paparazzi have found us, and my little bubble of Paris bliss bursts.
Nate puts his arm around my shoulders, holding me close as he maneuvers me through the swarm of people. I can occasionally make out a question through the clamour of voices.
“What’s your current relationship?”
“Any comment on your Edmonton Security deal falling through?”
“Was he sexually harassing you, Miss Daniels?”
“Hey Nate, you fucking your assistant?”
The last crass question makes me do a double take. It’s like Pippa temporarily takes over my body, furious and ready to demand he apologize. Fortunately, Nate tightens his hold around my shoulders, leading me through the crowd before I can make things worse.
A chauffeur opens the black door of a town car for us. Nate shuttles me inside, closing the door behind us. The partition is up between us and the front seats, partially blocking the view. The flashing cameras and yelling reporters are somewhat muted, but it’s still overwhelming.
The chauffeur shoves his way past them to get in the driver’s seat, speeding away so quickly, I’m pressed into the back of theseat by the velocity. Within seconds, we’re free of the crowd and headed toward the expressway.
That doesn’t stop my heart from racing a million miles a minute. What the hell is happening? I’ve seen blog posts about Nate before, but there’s never been paparazzi like this, no reporters storming him and demanding answers.
Next to me, Nate holds his phone to his ear in one hand while he drums his fingers on the armrest. I hear a muffled voice as someone picks up.
“What the fuck, Eden?” he says in a low voice. My heart falls—I know she’s the head of his PR team. After a beat, he says, “Yes, the shitstorm at the airport. How did they know we’d be there?”
Another pause.
“Talk to the editors. Schedule a press conference. Do whatever you have to do to call them off. I’ll deal with the board. I’ll put together a formal announcement when I’ve had a fucking second to catch my breath.”
Oh, no. This is bad. He already pissed off the board when he torpedoed the Crown Hotel Group deal—will this push them over the edge?
He hangs up, immediately opening the email on his phone. Ignoring the many unread messages, he starts composing a new one. He doesn’t so much as glance over at me. It’s like all the warmth and intimacy between us evaporated the second that the airport door opened.
Nate’s still on his phone, his thumbs moving rapidly as he flips between his texts and his emails. I know I should check my own emails, but I don’t have it in me. My thoughts are too busy churning with fear and disappointment.
Did being with me fuck up Nate’s life?
I stare out the window while we move smoothly through traffic on the highway. Soon enough, we’re back on the citystreets, and I recognize the route to my apartment. Of course—Nate’s going to drop me off, so he can deal with everything without me distracting him. He probably regrets jetting off to Paris with me, giving the board a chance to move on him in his absence.
I’m resigned to showering off my jet lag alone when we turn onto my street and—holy shit. There are dozens of cars in front of my apartment. The sidewalks are crowded with reporters holding cameras, lurking like locusts ready to descend.
“How did they find out where I live?” I gasp. “It’s not like it’s listed online!”
A muscle jumps in Nate’s jaw, and I know he’s gritting his teeth. “We can’t let you out here with these vultures. Would you be okay going back to my place until we get a handle on this?”
He turns to look me in the eye, and I see the emotion in his eyes. It’s not anger or frustration—it’s fear. He’s worried that he can’t handle this. I grab his hand and squeeze it. He’s not alone in this, and neither am I.
We’ll deal with it as a team.
“Let’s go,” I say.
