Thorne Princess(65)

And they had the audacity to tell me I wasn’t trying hard enough for them.

My cheeks were wet and cold. I realized I was crying. Publicly.

Our waitress chose that moment to approach with our tray of food.

“Not now.” Ransom lifted a hand, shooing her away. His gaze was still fixed on me. I waited for him to say something. I desperately wanted him to make the next move. Mainly because I felt there was more to this. More to us. He looked at me with newfound respect.

I could get addicted to this.

“Still want to get rid of me?” Mockery made his eyes glitter.

I shook my head, realizing this was the truth. He was horrible to me—sometimes. And overbearing—always. He was bad-mannered, and callous, but he also taught me self-worth, made me stand up for myself, and somehow, somewhere along the way started treating me as an equal.

“I…” I shifted, feeling naked and bare, my feelings raw and exposed. His eyes clung to mine, waiting for me to continue. I swallowed hard, looking down at the table. “I like you.”

“You like me.” A faint, ironic grin touched his beautiful lips.

I nodded.

“Look at me.”

I did. He leaned forward. I did the same. We were like magnets. North and south poles. Opposites who couldn’t help but attract. The impossible had become the inevitable. A kiss between us seemed unstoppable now. Urgent. A matter of life or death. His seafoam eyes drifted shut, ethereal and gray-flecked. I breathed his scent in. A mixture of leather and darkness. Destruction wrapped in sin.

He stilled, waiting for me to make the final move. To own up to the mistake that was about to happen.

The strain was excruciating. Every muscle in my body quaked. My lips hovered over his. He reached to touch my face, to guide me to his mouth.

His hand never made it to my cheek.

“Not in this lifetime, asshole.” He ripped his face from mine.

I felt the blinding lights of the camera whipping at my face like a merciless belt.

The photographer—a paparazzi by his dark clothing and professional gear—lowered his camera and smiled.

“Public place, buddy. Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

He realized he’d messed with the wrong man when Ransom clutched the fence separating them, hoisting himself effortlessly and jumping over to the other side. He charged after the man, who broke into a frantic run, shouldering past people blindly, clutching the camera to his chest.

The thick crowd of shoppers attempted to part in order to accommodate the chase, but the photographer was disoriented and out of shape. He flailed and fell to the ground after a few seconds. Ransom tore the camera from his hands, ripping the film out of it and dumping his equipment onto the ground.

“You can’t do that!” the guy shrieked, reaching for the film. “It’s private property.”

“Public place.” He tore the film into ribbons as he stomped back, tossing it into a trashcan without slowing down.

This was the moment our waitress mustered up the courage to tread back to our table again, holding our mostly-cold dishes, her smile hanging like a crooked picture upon her face. “Ready for your food?”

“We’ll take it to-go.” Ransom jumped the railing again, grabbing his keys and wallet. No sign of the charged electricity remained that had hummed between us just minutes earlier. “We’re outta here.”





“Nine Facts About Hallion’s New Bodyguard!”



The next day, Keller called to let me know Ransom was officially the new Kylie Jenner bodyguard: too hot to handle and the talk of La La Land.

He went on to read every word in the article. Apparently, Hollywood was now obsessed with my close protection officer after he’d chased down a pap.

It was barely eleven in the morning in Texas, and already I had four missed calls from socialites in L.A., demanding to know if Ransom would be available to work for them in the near future.

“…worked as an offensive counterintelligence officer…” Keller read in a clandestine tone. “That means he attempted to turn enemy agents into double agents or gave them false or misleading information—isn’t that hot?”

I faked a yawn. For some reason, I was embarrassed and petrified to admit I liked Ransom, even to my closest friend.

“He has a master’s in mechanical engineering from MIT,” Keller continued.

“What, no PhD? Can someone say loser?” I snorted, painting my toenails neon green, desperately trying to sound uninterested.

Ransom and I hadn’t spoken to each other since that almost-kiss. He seemed to have retreated back into his hostile shell.

I heard Keller clicking on his mouse. “Says here that he’s single. Twenty-nine. Has a big penthouse worth a few million in Chicago.”

“How fantastically cliché.”

“Says the heiress living in the L.A. mansion.” Keller chuckled.

“Former First Daughter,” I corrected prissily. “And for your information, I swim against the stream. I didn’t go to an Ivy League school, marry a nice Jewish man, or open a charitable foundation. I’ll have you know, I’m a non-conformist!”

“Yeah, yeah.” It was Keller’s turn to yawn. “Have you banged him yet?”

“Keller!”

“That’s not a no.”