His Princess (A Royal Romance)(77)

“No, thanks. I’ll take the bus.”

“Pretty young thing like you shouldn’t be riding the bus alone at night.”

First of all, it’s not night, I’m leaving at five o’clock. On the dot.

Second of all, I’m not that young anymore.

I suppose I am where he’s concerned. Burt is old enough to be my father. Hell, he could be the other receptionist’s grandfather, and he hits on her like this, too.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve never had any trouble.”

It’s not like we live in the kind of place where I need to worry about a bus ride. Castlebrook might be the safest small town on the planet. Mostly. I don’t even live in town, anyway.

It doesn’t matter. I could live in a demilitarized zone and I wouldn’t take a ride from this creep. I catch myself unconsciously plucking at the V-neck of my scrubs and stop myself, and turn to my computer. Hopefully if I look busy he’ll leave me alone and go, say, attend to one of his patients. You know, actually do his job.

“You’ve got a visitor.” He nods at the window before he rises to leave.

Sighing, I turn to slide the window open and take care of the next patient.

As the end of the day approaches, the appointments slow down and the waiting room empties out. I hop up, turn the lock on the front door so it can only be pushed open from the inside, and return to my desk to play Candy Crush until quittin’ time.

After the last patient leaves I gather up my tote bag, throw the strap over my shoulder, and head out.

I hear laughter in the back hallway and spot Burt chasing Stacy the hygienist out of one of the exam rooms, grabbing her ass. I turn away with a snap, push through the front door, and start walking for the bus stop.

It would be eighty-five f*cking degrees outside. It’s almost October but the heat hasn’t broken yet. Beads of sweat slide on my face and neck and chest and itch between my shoulder blades by the time I get to the bench, and I have to tug the clingy, itchy fabric of my scrubs away from my skin to try to get some air.

The humidity makes it a futile gesture.

When Burt rolls up, it makes me wish I was wearing a turtleneck. He’s got Laura the jailbait receptionist sitting in the front seat of his new Benz. I can see he splurged. It’s one of those ones with the hardtop convertible roof.

“Want a ride?” he shouts.

“It’s a two seater?”

He nods at Laura. “Sit on her lap!”

“No, thanks,” I say in a voice that could freeze salt water.

I mean to say, “Fuck off and die, you disgusting pig,” but he signs my paychecks and this was the first and only job I could find while I work on my degree.

Burt laughs, and Laura joins him. They’re f*cking laughing at me. Worst of all it’s a kind of “I’ll get you eventually” laugh, like he knows he’ll wear me down. He’s already asked me to join him for dinner.

Not a chance.

The Burtmobile rolls off into the sunset, leaving me sweltering in the heat until the bus rumbles up five minutes late at quarter after five, meaning my girls have been home alone for over an hour. I tromp up onto the bus and slide my card through the reader to pay for my seat.

Of course, it’s full. I walk to the back and stand, holding one of the posts, and brace myself for forty-five minutes of this. If I had my own car it would be a ten-minute drive.

Yawning, I sway with the motion of the bus as it rumbles off.

By the fourth stop I can finally sit down and collapse into a seat. I smell like ass, my feet hurt, I’ve been up for fourteen hours already, and I just want a nap. Oh, and some food. Real food.

By the time my stop rolls up I’m starting to nod off. Somehow I manage to scrape together the brains not to fall asleep and miss it, and jab the button on the side so the driver pulls over.

I lurch back down to the pavement and start walking. It’s another fifteen minutes to the house from here at a brisk pace, and I manage a brisk pace as long as I can.

My first thought on seeing my home is always the same. I hate this place. The entrance to Hunter’s Run is landscaped like the driveway to a grand mansion, rows of trees leading up to a guarded gatehouse.

When I walk up, the guard on duty, Todd, is kicked back in his chair, reading an issue of Popular Mechanics. I stop at the gate and clear my throat.

“Rose.” He sits up. “On your way home?”

“Yeah. Can I trouble you for a ride in the golf cart?”

He sighs. “Yeah, sure. Hold on.”

I stand there while he locks up the gatehouse and hangs one of those little moveable clock signs marked WILL RETURN, the time set ahead ten minutes. The golf cart is parked on the other side of the gate, which really only stops cars; I just walk around it. I settle in next to Todd and he starts it up, the little motor buzzing like a lawnmower as he drives me down Elm and then up Beech Tree Street, to my house.

I resent the goddamn thing more and more every time I see it. With five bedrooms, it’s practically a mansion. It was all Russel’s idea. Russel Hayes, my ex-husband. I “kept” the house, if you could call it that. Between alimony and child support and my salary I can barely afford the payments and food for my two daughters.

The house is a gaudy monstrosity, dominated in the front by an empty garage and a towering high-ceilinged foyer.

Todd stops and grunts.