Page 8 of I'm sorry, Princess
“Italian,” she purrs, licking her lips dramatically. “Yum. Italian desserts are my favorite.”
I roll my eyes, kicking her lightly in the arm, but I’m laughing.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on a diet?” I tease. “You know, model life and all?”
She scoffs, taking another sip of her matcha like she’s above the rules of the universe.
“Some cannoli won’t kill me,” she winks. “Besides, he looks like he’d be worth the calories.”
A few girls recognize her from across the café and rush over, excited.
Sienna is that famous, runway-walked-for-Dior, Vogue-cover famous, but she’s still the same girl who lets me cry into her lap after my mother tears me apart.
She poses for their photos, signs a few napkins with her perfect signature, glowing under the attention like it’s oxygen.
She belongs in the spotlight. I don’t.
I’m the shadow behind her, the lone wolf quietly sipping coffee, watching my best friend shine.
When the girls leave, Sienna finally turns back to me, her expression softening.
“You excited about this new job?” she asks gently.
She knows me. Knows that my dream was never to work for the FBI.
My dream was to write, to get lost in love stories where the man would burn down the world to keep his girl safe.
But I can’t afford to chase dreams anymore. I have responsibilities now. Expectations. Marriage contracts on my desk.
“To be honest?” I sigh, stirring my coffee, eyes lost in the swirl. “Yeah. I am. Even if it’s not what I always wanted… it’s still something I earned. And I’m ready for it.”
Her face softens. “That’s my girl.”
We finish our drinks, gossiping about people from her agency, who’s sleeping with who, who’s cheating, who’s lying about Botox.
It’s nice to pretend we’re normal. For just a second.
When we step outside, I’m not paying attention.
My face smashes right into a hard, broad chest.
I stumble back, breath caught in my throat, and when I look up—
Dark blue eyes meet mine.
Sharp jaw. Messy blond hair.
Full lips curved into a smirk I’ve seen before, but only from a distance.
He’s around 6’4, lean but solid, like the kind of man who doesn’t need to try hard to be dangerous.
And I recognize him.
Even if my brain tries to play dumb, my brain knows exactly who this is.
Knox Hunter.
Sienna’s New York cheesecake. Her complicated on-again-off-again. The man she claims to hate but can never quite quit.
