Page 64 of Off the Grid

The past few days only showed me that I’m stronger than I thought I was.

And that is never a bad revelation to have.

That’s not to say I didn’t have a few flutter bouts of panic from near run-ins with him. Or that there wasn’t a quick retreat to hide in the bathroom stall and remind myself—fuck him.

But I did it.

I got through the week with minimal freak-outs.

I did something I didn’t think I could and am partially mad at myself for letting the fear own me and not attempting this sooner.

I’m leaving Spain stronger than I was when I walked in here five days ago, and I’ll take those baby steps any day of the week.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

I jump at the sound of a voice at the door. A voice I’ve come to know. I turn and let the sigh fall from my mouth. “You’re on my shit list, Riggs,” I say.

“Perfect. That seems like a pretty comfortable place for me when it comes to you.” His smile is broad and his eyes are playful. “What are you mad about this time?” He holds out his cell phone. “Should I take notes? Make a list? We wouldn’t want to forget a single thing I’ll need to grovel for later.”

Most guys become less attractive the more they open their mouth and talk. Riggs, on the other hand, becomes sexier.

I cross my arms over my chest. A useless form of protection when it comes to him. “The advice post you did last night.”

His grin is lightning quick and lethal in the handsome department. “What about it? I was only getting a jump-start on what you and Elise were asking of me.”

“I believe the caption was: Should I or should I not sleep with the boss’s daughter? Asking for a friend.”

“Yeah. Your point? People had all kinds of opinions. And propositions for me.” He shrugs innocently. “I’d show you, but you might get a little jealous of all of those women wanting me.”

“Hardly.” I snort. “My point is what you’re implying.”

“I’m not implying shit. Just asking a simple question to the adoring public.” He bats his eyelashes innocently.

“People are going to think you’re talking about me.”

“Let them.”

I pick up my phone and glance at it. “One point four million people and counting to be exact.”

“That many views already? I’d say mission accomplished.”

“No. Not mission accomplished. You weren’t supposed to pick the questions yourself. We are supposed to do that for you. We’re supposed to—”

“I can handle what questions I answer on my own page. I had Moretti gear on. I made sure the branding and visuals were there. The last thing I like, Camilla, is to be controlled.”

“Fine. Great.” I throw my hands up, pissed that this has interrupted my peace and quiet. “But you’re not the one who had to answer to her dad if I was sleeping with a driver.”

Because that wasn’t embarrassing.

“You’re a big girl. I’m pretty sure your sex life is none of your dad’s damn business. Besides, last I checked, you hated my guts and all you have to do is lie and say that I’m not particularly fond of you. We can stick to that story and all will be good, right?”

I stare at him for a beat. Open my mouth. Shut it.

“Why, Camilla Moretti, are you actually starting to like me?” he asks, his smirk leading the way.

“No.” I scoff. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to. You wear your emotions on your sleeve, and I can see yours for me right there”—he points to my bicep—“like a big ol’ tattoo.”