Page 39 of Bossy Wicked Prince
Her face softens. “I’m sure you wouldn’t do that. Yeah, you’ve never worked in an office. But you’ve been a waitress for years, and you know how to talk to customers. It can’t be that different.”
“I guess. I’d just feel more confident if I knew I was wearing the right thing. Something that makes me look professional. Something that’s notobviouslysecondhand.”
“Then we’ll find you an outfit. If it’s not here, then we’ll use my credit card and get you something new.” Pippa drags up a footstool for herself and grabs clothes out of the bin with new enthusiasm.
Ten minutes later, she gasps theatrically.
“I’ve found it,” she whispers, gently lifting a dress like it’s something fragile and priceless. It’s cornflower blue, with a knee-length skirt, a high square neckline, and thick straps. It’s obviously office-wear, but it doesn’t look stuffy or like it’s trying too hard.
“Let’s see if it fits,” I say cautiously. “It’s definitely a contender.”
“It’ll fit,” she gloats. “It’s perfect. You’re welcome in advance.”
“We’ll see.” I take the dress from her and head for the changing rooms.
Sliding the curtain closed behind me, I peel off my sweater and jeans. I slip the dress over my head and examine myself in the mirror. I look…different. More elegant than I usually do, in my practical secondhand outfits. I pull my hair up, liking the way my face and neck look against the blue fabric.
I can’t help but wonder what Nate might think of it. He obviously puts a ton of thought into his clothes, with his elegant ties and shining watches. Is this the kind of dress he’d want to see me in?
“Well?” Pippa chirps from behind the curtain. “Was I right? Are you gorgeous?”
“Maybe I am,” I murmur, imagining Nate standing next to me, wearing a navy-blue suit and a matching cornflower blue tie.
I quickly reach back for the zipper. I can’t let my fantasies go beyond the sartorial, or I really am going to mess up this trip.
13
NATE
The air fills with the sound of screeching brakes and pounding car horns. Neon billboards blare all around us, and at every red light, pedestrians overflow from the crosswalks to weave between the cars. The weather is gray and smoggy, with rain spitting down occasionally from the sky. We’re stuck in traffic in Times Square, the closest you can get to hell on earth.
Meanwhile, Cat gazes out the car window, grinning like it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.
Our journey to New York has been a revelation. I travel so much for work that I’ve become completely desensitized to it. Hotels, airports, and town cars have long been rote, even irritating. Seeing it all through Cat’s eyes, I’ve been forced to see how it all could be a little exciting. Starting the day in one country, and hours later, ending up in another.
I would put down good money that Cat never flew on a plane before. Walking through the airport, she looked at everything, from the security screening center to the baggage carousels like she was in a whole new world. I’d always rather take the jet than fly commercial, but James and I share it and he’s already using it to wine and dine some producer in Rome this week.
Her eyes sparkled when the flight attendant offered her champagne along with her coffee in first class and I could tell she enjoyed the luxury of it all, even if she didn’t admit it out loud.
During takeoff, she clenched her armrest so hard it turned her knuckles white. Her face was practically glued to the window as we glided up further and further away from the city until it vanished entirely when we rose above the clouds.
Our hired car jerks as the taxi in front of us serves into our lane. Cat lurches forward, her hand landing on my leg when she reaches out for balance. She shoots me an apologetic smile before releasing me.
I grit my teeth. Cat doesn’t need to touch me to have an effect on me. I’m constantly aware of her, wherever she is. Even just sitting beside me in the backseat, I can feel the heat radiating from her body. The heat that seems to form between us whenever we’re close.
Having her right outside my office is torture. Concentrating on work has become near-impossible. I’ve asked Cat to take notes on meetings I knew would be completely useless, just to have a chance to sit within a few yards of her. It’s pathetic, but I can’t seem to fucking stop myself. I’m like an addict whose dealer spends all day right outside his door.
I keep coming up with excuses to come out to her desk and ask for something. Out there, I inevitably watch her charm every one of my employees. Oliver, the IT guy, seems to have come up with every possible excuse to lean over her shoulder and watch her type. I’m forced to remind myself I can’t fire him without just cause.
If I call her into my office instead, the torment is even worse. It doesn’t matter if I close the door or not. As long as I can smell her vanilla shampoo and feel the heat radiating from her body, my mind wanders to filthy fucking places.
Like how stunning Cat would look bent over my desk, her sensible work heels kicked off and her sweet ass up in the air.
Or how I’d love to have her kneel under my desk with my cock in her pretty little mouth whenever I’m stuck on a long, boring call.
If Cat had any idea how many ways I’ve fucked her all over the office in my imagination, she’d probably slap me across the face.
I pull my phone out of my pocket. I need a distraction before my fantasies take over completely.
