Page 25 of Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss

My face was going to combust and I tugged my respectable knee-length skirt down as far as I could without embarrassing myself. I had to get out. “I have party details to work on. If I’m not at his desk in an hour with spreadsheets, he’ll send out a search party.”

Maribel waved a spatula at me. “Go. But you owe me details. I want every second. If you leave out the juicy bits, I’ll know.”

I made it halfway down the corridor before the embarrassment faded and the memories kicked in, as vivid as day. The echo of his hand at my back, the sharp snap of his voice when he told me to “just follow.” The feeling of being held, properly held, for the first time since, what, college?

Gareth Wolfe had held me like I was glass and dynamite, and when he’d kissed me, it was like his life depended on it.

Of course, after that he’d turned cold again. There was a rhythm to it, I was learning. Heat, then freeze. Advance, then retreat. I wondered if I was just a chew toy for his emotional confusion. Of course, I also wondered if I liked it.

I ducked into his office - grateful he wasn’t there - closed the door, and exhaled. My inbox was merciless; 38 new emails,all flagged urgent. All from Gareth himself, every one signed off with just a single initial - G. I read the first one, a blistering shot at all my dinner ideas and a reminder that I can do better, and my jaw tightened so hard it hurt.

This was better. This was familiar. I could handle work. Work was safe.

Except… I couldn’t. Not really. Not with the way my body still hummed from the memory of him, not with the feeling of his lips on mine, not with Maribel’s knowing cackle echoing in my head. I tried to lose myself in logistics and centerpieces, but every few minutes my thoughts drifted to the ballroom, the way he’d led me, the way he’d looked at me after.

God, get a grip, Eden.

By noon, I’d answered every email, revised every complaint, and run out of distractions. I opened the text thread with my best friend, fingers hovering over the screen.

Is it possible to die from secondhand embarrassment?

Her response was instant.Details. Now.

After a short pause, the dots on screen began to bounce.Girl, that’s called courtship. You should try it sometime.

I rolled my eyes.If he’s courting me, why does he spend half his energy pretending I don’t exist?

Maybe he’s shy. Or maybe you’re terrifying. Or maybe, and hear me out, he likes you and has the emotional range of a broken Roomba.

I snorted because that tracked, but my thumb hesitated before the next message.

What if I like him back?

Then maybe stop pretending you’re not into it? Just a thought.I can hear her snark through the text.

I set the phone down and stared at the ceiling for a long time, waiting for the nausea to settle. I told myself this was nothing. A confusing, not quite but maybe office fling, a one-off,the kind of thing you laugh about later and put in the “it never happened” box.

But then I thought about the way he’d looked at me, the way he’d pulled me close, the way his eyes had lingered at my jaw like he was memorizing the exact shape of it, and I knew I was lying to myself.

Maybe the kitchen would be safe by now. I could maybe sneak another coffee, act like a normal person for five minutes. I wandered down the corridor, half-expecting Maribel to leap out and interrogate me, but the place was empty except for the low hum of the espresso machine and the thuds of fat raindrops on the window. I poured a cup, wrapped my hands around it, and tried to remember what it felt like to be an adult with impulse control as I inhaled the hot, not-quite-bitter brew steam.

But all I could see was the ballroom, the chandelier, the flash of surprise in his eyes right before he kissed me. All I could feel was his hand at my ribs, steadying me.

You’re not a fairytale princess, I told myself. You’re the help. And he’s the boss. This ends in HR, or in heartbreak, or both.

But even as I sipped my coffee, I knew it was already too late.

Still, I had work to do, so I took my coffee right back to his office, praying he was still gone. He was, so I sat down on the guest side of the desk and pulled out my notes, pretending to get them in order as my mid raced.

The worst part of falling for your boss is that you can’t tell anyone, except one friend who’ll take a secret to her grave. The second worst part is knowing exactly who you want to tell but can’t. For me, that person was my grandmother. If there was anyone who could talk me off a ledge, it was her.

So after I finished my coffee and stared at my inbox for a solid half hour without absorbing a word, I caved. I went up tomy room, locked the door, and sat in front of the french doors. The rose garden below was still wet from the morning rain, the air outside heavy and green. I dialed Gram’s number, feeling twelve years old and five hundred years old at the same time.

She answered on the second ring. “If you’re calling to tell me you got fired, I’m hanging up.”

I smiled, even though my stomach was a rock. “Not fired. Just…having a day.”

“Good. I’d hate to have to come out there and box your ears.” She was silent for a second, then, “You’re crying.”