Page 24 of Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss

I cleared my throat, loudly, and they all scattered like pigeons. Eden giggled. I wanted to hear that sound again, wanted to be the reason for it.

I walked her to her room and stopped at the door.

“If you need anything,” I said, “you know where to find me.”

She smiled, and this time it was real. “Good night, Mr. Wolfe.”

“Gareth,” I reminded her.

She nodded. “Good night, Gareth.”

I watched her close the door, then made my way back to my own quarters, the echo of her voice circling my brain.

I’d won, I supposed. But it didn’t feel like victory. It felt like the beginning of something I had absolutely no control over.

And for once in my life, I didn’t hate that at all.

Chapter Seven

Eden

The kitchen at Wolfe Manor was designed for feeding armies, but it was 9:12 a.m. and the only person in it besides me was Maribel. The woman was simultaneously shelling eggs, fielding a phone call in Spanish, and eyeing me the way a cat eyes a bird that might, one day, decide to try and fly.

I lingered at the edge of the granite island, a mug of coffee so strong it probably voided my dental insurance in hand, and tried to look busy with email on my phone. This was a lie. I was stalling. Maribel had that look. The one that said, You and I are going to have a little chat, and if you think you’re getting out of here with your dignity, you are so, so wrong.

She hung up, cracked an egg one-handed, and cocked her head. “You want toast, or you want the gossip first?”

I sipped my coffee. “What are my chances of surviving either one?”

She grinned. “Zero, but at least gossip is gluten-free.” She set the eggs to fry and leaned in, dropping her voice as if anything around us might be wired. “You and the boss had quite the night, I hear.”

I inhaled coffee the wrong way and tried to disguise my need to cough. “Nothing happened.”

“Sweetie, the entire west wing knows you were in the ballroom alone with him for an hour. Either you’re plottingmurder, or you’re plotting something else.” She winked, and if anything could make me want to crawl inside the oven and disappear, it was that.

I tried to stay calm. “He showed me how not to break my neck. That’s it.”

Maribel’s laugh was pure evil. “Uh-huh. And then he ‘escorted you to your room like a gentleman’ and ‘absolutely did not hover at your door for five minutes.’ You’re not fooling anyone, you know. Especially yourself.”

I considered running to my room, packing up, and never looking back, but my legs, and probably my bank account, refused. “You really think Mr. Freeze is suddenly capable of romance?”

She shrugged, but her eyes were sharp as knives. “He’s not made of ice, honey. He’s made of trauma and caffeine, just like everyone else. But with you, there’s-” she flapped her hand, searching for a word, “-cracks. Even I see it, and I’m old enough to remember when he used to smile.”

I was too proud to ask who’d made him smile before. Instead, I went for the classic move when I’m uncomfortable; change the subject. “How’s the breakfast roster for tomorrow?”

She rolled her eyes, completely unfooled. “Six extra. One lactose, one celiac, two vegetarians, and one man-child who only eats cereal. But don’t get cute. We’re not done.” She narrowed her gaze, which is something I wouldn’t have thought possible until this moment. “Tell me this. When you’re alone with him, does he look at you like he wants to set you on fire, or like he wants to hide under the table?”

I didn’t want to answer. I didn’t want to remember the way his gaze had burned in the ballroom, or how his hands had found my waist and held there, tight and trembling, as if he was physically restraining himself. I especially didn’t want to remember the kiss, quick, fierce, and so unexpected it short-circuited my whole brain. But my cheeks went hot, which was answer enough.

Maribel’s grin turned triumphant. “That’s what I thought. The man is in agony.”

“Good,” I shot back, desperate for ground. “He deserves it.”

She only laughed. “Just don’t be surprised when you find him lurking around every corner. He’s a wolf, not a monk.”

I finished my coffee in one long gulp, trying to flush the memory from my mouth. “If he’s a wolf, I’m a can of bear spray.”

She cackled. “Honey, you’re a raw steak in a miniskirt. And I mean that in the best way.”