“You’re fired.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re not?”

She shook her head. “Sorry, but you may not like having a country bumpkin like me here, but you still need me.”

“And why is that?”

She tilted her head, and he watched as one curl sprang free from its jail. “What time is your first appointment today and where is it to?”

He licked his lips and thought. Was this a trick question? “I’m meeting with . . . a board of trustees . . .” He tried to think.

Her eyebrows went up. “Go on.”

“Over a . . . donation of some kind.” He waved a hand. “That’s what they’re always about.”

“Wrong. You’re having a late breakfast with your mother at ten in the morning. Then, you’re going to a polo match with your brother, George. And then you have a family dinner at your mother’s later tonight.” She gave him a prim look. “Which you would know if you knew anything about your own schedule. I, meanwhile, have packed your suit for dinner this evening, selected a different tie and shirt for you to wear to the polo match so it doesn’t look like you’re recycling your clothes, and have arranged for you to have a breather in between in case you need to get away from your family because they’re hovering.” Her voice was utterly cool. “So I’ve tried to accommodate that. And I certainly won’t be hovering in the future—”

“Maylee—”

“Further, you don’t carry money. You can’t tie your own tie, can’t pick out your own clothes without assistance, and you don’t drive yourself anywhere. Let’s face it, Mr. Verdi, you’d be lost without someone here to hold your hand.”

“That is ridiculous—”

“Yes, it is,” Maylee said quietly. “Which is why you shouldn’t treat me like I’m garbage just because I work for you.”

“I do not!”

“You constantly act like I’m not good enough to breathe your air, Mr. Verdi. I may not be the assistant you wanted . . .” Her voice broke a little and she paused. “But I’m the one you got, so you just need to suck it up and deal.”

He scowled at her. “I can drive myself.”

She crossed her arms. “So drive yourself. Do you want me to untie your tie so you can do it yourself as well?”

Griffin put a hand protectively over his tie. “No.”

She waited.

He threw his napkin down on the table. “For the record, I am completely capable of handling such things on my own. You tie my tie because it pleases me to have it done. I have a driver because I am rich enough to pay someone else to drive. Are you going to chide me for not cooking my own meal and having someone else deliver it to the table?” He gestured at the breakfast laid out before them.

She said nothing.

Furious, Griffin snatched his book off the table. “I am going to drive myself to Her Royal Highness’s palace for breakfast this morning. You,” he said, pointing at Maylee, “can stay here and pack your bag. I don’t need servants. I’m not helpless.”

“Of course not, Lord Montagne Verdi,” she murmured in that toneless voice.

Griffin stalked away from the table. She wanted him to prove that he was capable and independent? Fine then. “I will see you tonight.”

“Until then,” Maylee said, and sipped her coffee.

He was helpless?

He’d show her.

***

An hour later, Griffin had to admit to himself that he was hopelessly lost in the maze-like streets of Bellissime. He parked the sedan on the side of the street and jerked open the glove compartment, searching for a map. Nothing. Goddamn it. He slammed it shut and got out of the car, then began to pace.

So driving himself was harder than he’d suspected. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to drive; he did. It was that he had no clue of where he was going. He could recognize his mother’s palace from the outside, knew the street it was located on. He just had no idea how to get to that street. Nor could he ask for directions without looking like a fool. Frustrated, he tugged at the tight collar of his shirt . . . and then swore again when he felt the knot of his tie loosen.

Blast.

Jerking at his tie, he turned to the car window and used the reflection to loosen his tie. Maylee thought he was helpless? He’d tie his own f**king tie and she’d be forced to eat her words. Then he’d send her home in disgrace, and everyone would know just how terrible of an assistant she was.

So he undid his tie and tried again.

And again.

And again.

Someone passed him on the street and frowned, as if trying to figure out what he was doing. Irritated, Griffin ripped his tie off and shoved it into a pocket. He’d just go with a loose collar. Fuck it. He got back into the car and pulled into the street. He’d just use his f**king phone app. He pulled out his phone, and a red battery symbol flashed at him, and then the screen went dark.

Fuck.

He tore onto the street, determined to find it on his own . . . and was lost again for another half hour.

By that time, he was beyond patience. When he saw a man walking down the street, he swerved over to the side of the road and hopped out. “Excuse me.”

The man stopped and looked at him, startled. “Um, hello, your grace—”

Griffin waved a hand, dismissing the man’s mangling of his title. He wasn’t a grace. “I will pay you one hundred Bellissime notes if you can drive me to Her Royal Highness’s summer palace.”

“Uh, okay,” the man said.

“Splendid.” Griffin pulled out his wallet. It was empty. He didn’t carry cash. Blast it. He raised a hand. “Wait here. I’m going to find an ATM.”

He left the bewildered man behind and stormed down the street, looking for a bank. He found one two blocks away and rushed over.

Griffin couldn’t remember his pin number. He stared at the screen and snarled. “You’ve got to be f**king kidding me.”

Three tries later, and he was locked out. He jerked his card out of the machine and stormed back to his car. The man on the sidewalk looked at him curiously, but Griffin ignored him. He’d just find the f**king place himself.

He got into the car, slammed the door, and then punched the steering wheel so hard he saw stars.

***

When he eventually made it back to the hotel, Griffin was in a foul mood. Ignoring the curious looks of the staff, he went up to his room, his now-swollen hand cradled against his chest. But instead of going into his room, he knocked on Maylee’s door.

She opened it, and surprise flared in her eyes, then wariness. “Can I help you, Mr. Verdi?”

He pushed into her room. “You win.”

“Excuse me?”

Griffin searched her room for an open suitcase. There was none. Nor was there one by the door. She hadn’t packed because she knew she wasn’t going home. That was as relieving as it was infuriating. He turned to her. “I said you win. You were right. I’m f**king helpless. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“Why are you sorry?” he snapped. “You’re the one who won.”

“No,” she said, and those big green-brown eyes smiled up at him for the first time in a day. “That’s what I wanted to hear. ‘I’m sorry.’”

Oh. He licked his lips, considering. He wasn’t f**king sorry. He was pissed as hell. He didn’t like the realization that he congratulated himself on how independent and how different he was from all the others in the royal family. How very liberated he was. What a f**king joke. He was just as helpless as the rest of them. Without an assistant, he was useless.

It wasn’t a realization he was happy to make.

And his hand f**king hurt. He shook it, trying to jiggle away the pain. “I’m a Verdi. We don’t know how to apologize.”

Maylee’s mouth quirked, as if she was hiding a laugh. “I noticed you’re not very good with humility. Do you need help?”

“No,” he said, but it sounded sulky even to his own ears. “I’m tired of needing everyone’s help. I drove around for two goddamn hours this morning and couldn’t find my own arse if it bit me. I messed up my tie, my hand, and I think I locked myself out of my bank account.”

A small giggle escaped her.

He turned to glare at her. She should have been cautious of his feelings, damn it. He was having an uncomfortable moment.

But she was smiling, that round, pretty face lit up with humor, and her fascinating eyes were sparkling.

Griffin relaxed a little. He supposed it was a little funny. Here he was, a member of the royal family of Bellissime, a billionaire, and an important man . . . and he was completely useless.

“May I see your hand?” She stepped toward him, her own outstretched.

He extended it toward her, annoyed with himself. “I tried to beat a steering wheel into submission,” he said grumpily. “The steering wheel won.”

She giggled again, and Griffin’s mouth twitched as if it wanted to smile at her in return.

Her hands touched his aching one, and cool fingers brushed over his skin. “Tell me about where it hurts,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on his swollen knuckles.

“It hurts bloody everywhere,” he muttered. But her fingers felt surprisingly good on his hand. Soft, strong, and soothing.

“Of course it does,” she told him. Her face was one of concentration, and he watched as she gently rubbed the skin between his knuckles and felt the bones of his hand with her fingers. “Hands aren’t meant to be punching cars.”

“Not the entire car,” he admitted. “Just the steering wheel.”

“Of course. Did you teach it a lesson?”

“More like it taught me.”

She chuckled again. “I don’t think there’s anything broken here.” Her rubbing fingers were relaxing him. When her hand smoothed over the back of his, he felt an uncomfortable awareness in his groin.

Now is not the time, he sternly reminded his cock. I’m busy apologizing to my assistant.

“I can see that it hurts,” Maylee told him. “Did you want to give me the pain?”

“What?” He tried to jerk his hand out of hers, but her grip was astonishingly tight.

“You’re supposed to say yes, Mr. Griffin. That’s how this works.” Her hands kept rubbing his, working over his knuckles. She moved a little closer, and his hand was practically pressed against her br**sts. He wondered if she even realized what she was doing. She seemed to be utterly focused on his hand.

“Are you trying to do that folk-healing business on me?”

Her hands rubbed on his again, and damn it all if his c**k didn’t respond once more.

“Tell me you want to give me the pain,” she told him, but her voice was so husky it made him think about giving her . . . other things.

“I’d give it to you,” he told her, fascinated. And because that sounded sick and dirty, his c**k got even harder. He’d give it to her, all right. His mind was full of images of him giving it to her. On the bed, on the floor, with her pressed onto a table—

“Thank you,” she said, and gave his knuckles one last rub, then released his hand. “Should be right as rain tomorrow.”

Oddly enough, the ache in his hand was nearly gone. Strange. He shook it out once more, frowning. “How did you do that?”

She shrugged. “I’m a burn talker. You rub the pain out. It’s not a burn, but the concept is the same.”

“Thank—”

She put her hand to his lips, stopping him before he could get the words out. “If you thank me, Mr. Griffin, you’ll ruin it and the pain will come back.”