Page 3 of Bossy Wicked Prince
I’m so screwed.
As if Prince Frowning can read my mind and might take any pity on me, I give my head a slight shake, pleading with my eyes as I try to vanish into the corner of the elevator and out of view from the others.
The man clears his throat, throwing out an arm to stop the elevator doors from closing before stepping inside. “Yeah,” he calls back to my boss with a grunt, moving his arm.
He doesn’t turn around until the doors shut, then all six and a half feet of him towers over me. Seriously, the man is huge, especially by my five-foot-nothing standards. Not just tall, either; his shoulders are broad enough to make some doorways a challenge for entry.
“Um,” I mumble, craning my neck to look up at him in the tight space. “Thanks.”
His imposing physique is wrapped in a tailored suit, and the watch glinting on his wrist probably costs more than I make in a year. He cocks his head at me and I catch the scent of his cologne. It smells like smooth spice and panty-melting sin.
His dissecting gaze leaves my face and flickers down to the gold name tag on my blouse. The one confirming that yes, I’m a waitress who’s not supposed to be here. His full lips press into a taut line, and I start to think maybe I’m not in the clear after all.
Well, goodbye job, apartment, and financial semi-stability.
It was nice knowing you.
Instead of answering me and confirming my fears, he pulls a black key card from his pocket and waves it in front of the glossy reader beneath the buttons.
He pauses before pressing one, lifting a brow in my direction.
“What are you doing in here?”
I’m so caught off guard by the question that my brain freezes. “I…”
As the suited Adonis steps back to get a better look at me, I realize that I recognize him. The sharp jawline and black hair that shines with the colors of an oil slick under the light. I remember thinking he looked like Superman’s slightly villainous brother the first time I saw him.
He lives on one of the top floors of the building, and he often stops by the restaurant for a glass of Twisted Devil whiskey late in the evening. I’ve never served him myself—the hosts always put him in a booth in the back, in a section I rarely cover.
I know his reputation, though. The staff are always trading gossip about the building residents, since they stop by the steakhouse more than most people. Mr. Tall and Brooding is infamous for being…well, tall and brooding. He’s the building’s resident grump, and he hates it when servers try to make conversation. He communicates in one-word sentences, and only when a grunt won’t suffice as an answer.
Tonight he seems different, though, which is probably why I didn’t recognize him straight off.
At the restaurant, his suits are always pristine, perfectly pressed, and accessorized with a subtly colored tie and coordinating watch. Tonight, though, he’s…undone. His hair, usually perfectly styled, is slightly mussed, like he’s been dragging his fingers through it. His tie was abandoned somewhere, and his dress shirt sleeves are rolled into the creases of his elbows, the top few buttons left undone, revealing a strong, masculine neck.
I rack my brain for his name, sure one of the other servers must’ve mentioned it at some point, but come up empty.
God, I’m staring. I’m staring and gaping and can’t form a single coherent thought long enough to string together a reply.
Come on, Cat. Wake up.
You’ve got to convince this guy not to get you fired.
“I…”I try again, swallowing hard.“I was just?—”
“This elevator is off-limits,” he says, his brows drawing together as he reaches over and pulls a brass knob that stops the elevator from ascending any further.
I hang my head. Guess he’s not letting me off the hook after all.
“Look, I know, okay? I’m not supposed to be in the elevator. I’m sorry. I never should’ve–”
“No,” he says in an almost growl, his nostrils flaring. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then…what?”
“Iknowyou wouldn’t be using it unless there was a reason,” he says slowly, enunciating every word. “Something’s…wrong. What happened?”
By the intent way he’s studying me, I can tell he expects a thorough explanation. His steel gray eyes alight on my tense shoulders, my flushed cheeks, and the crease in my forehead before falling to my chest.
