Thorne Princess(33)

He got in my face, scowling. His eyes were a peculiar shade of green today. Like an eternal forest. A sick thought entered my mind. How proud and cocky Mrs. Lockwood must be to have a son as gorgeous and accomplished as Ransom. I wondered how many girls he’d dated. How many he brought home. How many he took in the back of his beat-up truck I spontaneously decided that he’d owned as a teenager.

“Your phone’s ringing,” he said, making me break our stare-off to look down at the coffee table, where my phone was sitting.

“It’s Wes Morgan.” I cringed, remembering that awful night that led to Ransom becoming a part of my life for the next six months. “I promised him a photo-op if he gave me a ride home.”

It sounded supremely stupid, now that I listened to it with my own ears. It seemed a million years away from where I was today, from this new reality of mine.

“Chivalry isn’t dead,” he deadpanned.

“It wasn’t completely his fault—”

“It was. He called the paps.”

“Anyway, I don’t want to handle it.” I sighed.

“I will, then.”

Ransom studied me quietly, waiting for an okay. I felt triggered by how hot he was. How was I supposed to stand my ground when he looked like a book boyfriend?

Still staring at me with a death glare, Ransom swiped the phone from the granite coffee table between us and put the call on speaker.

Oh, God.

Oh, no.

Oh, why.

“Heyyyy, gorgeous.” Wes popped his gum loudly on the other line. “How about that photo-op? Feel like a trip to the zoo together? We can kiss by the bird cages.”

“The only trip you’ll be making is to the cemetery if you ever call this number again.”

Ransom was so stoic, so collected, his tone sent a chill up my spine. I had no doubt he meant those words. I also had no doubt Wes was dumb enough not to understand the graveness of the situation.

A brief pause on the other line was followed by Wes’ demands. “Who’s this? Do you know who I am?”

“Unfortunately,” Ransom said conversationally, leaning a hip against the credenza. “A meathead with a receding hairline and a reality show. Got a whole dossier on your ass. A hundred and thirty pages long, if you feel like a quick summer read. That’s how I also know you cannot possibly let your reality gig die while you owe 250k in unpaid plastic surgery.”

I knew those biceps weren’t real!

“Holy shit!” Wes exclaimed. “H—h—how? I mean, who—”

“Now, and let me introduce myself,” Ransom continued. “I’m your biggest nightmare. I eat men like you for breakfast. And I’ve been appointed to help Miss Thorne rehabilitate her reputation—a reputation which you tarnished—meaning she’ll be staying far away from you. You are not to contact her ever again, understand?”

God save the girl who was going to become this man’s daughter. Might as well tattoo the word UNDATABLE on her forehead.

In other news: I was impressed by Ransom’s research on Wes.

“Geez, man. Okay. Okay,” Wes whined. “Can I at least—”

“No.” Ransom hung up, handing me my phone back. “Case dismissed.”

I took it, staring at him in pure horror. “I noticed. You should try your hand at politics. Such finesse.”

He turned around, about to go up the stairs, probably to take a shower. I cleared my throat, bracing myself for the conversation we were about to have.

“I’m traveling to Texas.” I dropped the bomb, making him stop in place, his back to me.

He turned around slowly, looking at me with mild curiosity. Was it just me or did he actually look relieved? Whatever was on his face, it was an emotion. The Robot had an emotion. And it wasn’t a bad one, either.

“We are?” he asked laconically.

“I am,” I corrected him. “There’s some stuff ahead of my sister’s wedding I need to tend to. She’d rip my head off if I missed the dress fitting. I already booked a ticket and a hotel and everything.”

“With what credit card?”

“Hers.”

His eyes darkened. The man wasn’t used to being outsmarted.

“I’ll need the dates and flight arrangements. We’re going to be rooming together. Separate beds.”

“Over my dead body!”

He shrugged. “Not my favorite sleeping arrangement, but whatever works for you.”

He took the stairs up. I trailed behind him, pleading my case.

“Random, you can’t be serious.”

“Deadass, as you influencers say.”

“People will talk.” I went for the weakest excuse possible.

“People aren’t that interested in you,” he countered.

“Are you kidding? The media is obsessed with me. I’m a hot mess. I swear, it’ll be all over the news, and super counterproductive to us trying to clean up my act.”

He gave me a what of it glance.

“You’ll never be able to show your face in public again!” I squirmed, attempting to snatch the hem of his running shorts.

“Never cared too much about the public.”

“But don’t you care—”

“No.”