The Billionaire's Claim_Possession by Nadia Lee

Author:Nadia Lee [Lee, Nadia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Four Isles Press
Published: 2018-05-27T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Elizabeth

Two days pass before Dominic calls. I’m only in town because I delayed my trip…on the off chance that he’d call.

“Forty-eight hours,” I say, half teasing, half serious.

“I know,” he says with a soft sigh. “I would’ve called yesterday, but my sister caught me and insisted I had to wait three days.”

“Three?”

“One apparently makes you desperate. Four makes you uncaring.”

“Do people still believe that sort of thing?” Three would have meant I was on a plane to Tuscany.

“I guess. She told me while rolling her eyes in that superior ‘I know stuff, and you don’t’ way.”

“What did she think about you calling me after only two days?”

He makes his voice higher. “‘Nobody calls after two.’”

I laugh.

“I would’ve called anyway, but she hid my phone.”

“Your sister’s a riot.” The timing’s worked out pretty well, too. Dane’s assistant sent over a used green Civic. She said it’s a popular car among college kids who want good gas mileage and reliability.

“Still, it’s a good thing you decided to call. I wouldn’t have been in town if you’d called tomorrow.” I wouldn’t push back my departure date again for nothing. “I don’t think we had a typical beginning, and whatever ‘relationship rules’ girly rags advocate don’t apply to us… Don’t you think?”

“Yup.”

Then Dominic asks me out, wanting to know where I live so he can pick me up.

Oh.

That complicates things. I can’t exactly ask him to come get me from Uncle Salazar’s mansion after buying a Civic.

At some point, I’ll have to tell him. But not right now. I enjoy being with him simply as a regular girl he met during his shift. Too many guys I meet catalogue who I’m connected to, what kind of pull I have with wealthy families, and what I can do for them if they play me right. When I drink, they don’t keep an eye on me to make sure I’m all right. They do it to see when I’ll get intoxicated enough to agree to anything they suggest.

It’s thrilling to be wanted because a guy just likes me, not for what I can do for him or his family.

“Why don’t we stay in?” I suggest. “I can bring something.”

“Staying in’s cool,” he says. “But I’m asking you on the date, so it’s going to be my treat.”

“All right. I’m flexible.”

“So what do you like? Chinese? Thai?”

“Whatever. I’m good with spicy food.”

“Okay then.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

“I’ll bring you your shirt, too.”

We agree on a time, and I hang up, saving his number to my contact list.

Our first actual date goes great, with Chinese takeout and cuddling with a romantic comedy movie on TV, and ends predictably with both of us sweaty and panting in bed.

The second date—which takes place the next day because I delayed my flight again—goes similarly, with me bringing some lasagna Uncle Salazar’s chef made. I’m not totally shameless, so I don’t take credit for it, passing it off as a friend’s mom’s.

“Marcella?” Dominic asks as I put the lasagna in the oven.

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