Page 30 of Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss

I could have lied, said it was about the event she’d been so meticulously planning and fixing as I made demands, or a new itinerary, or even the wine list. But she deserved more than that.

“I wanted to thank you,” I said. “For not bolting.”

She raised her eyebrows. “From dinner?”

“From the house.” I kept my gaze fixed on her. “Most new hires don’t last this long.”

She snorted, a sound I never would have tolerated from anyone else. “Well, I’m stubborn, if nothing else.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said.

The fire crackled, sending shadows up the walls. I could hear my own pulse in my ears, steady but too fast. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been nervous in my own home, but here I was, a grown man, scared shitless by a woman who weighed maybe a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet.

She shifted, crossing her legs. The hem of her skirt inched higher, just a hair, but it was enough to distract me as my gaze locked on her creamy thighs as I wondered if they felt as smooth as they looked. I wanted to run my tongue along them-

“I like it here,” she said, quietly. “I mean, it’s weird, and intense, and half the staff are probably fugitives. But I like the work.”

I chuckled. “I run rigorous background checks.”

“Maybe they haven’t been caught yet.” She raised her eyebrows, and I let out a laugh, a real one.

“And the boss?” I asked, before I could think better of it.

She hesitated, then looked me dead in the eye. “He’s…not what I expected.”

My heart thumped my ribs painfully hard. There was a silence, long and uncomfortable. I could have filled it, but I waited.

Finally, she said, “Can I ask you something personal?”

I nodded, unable to speak.

“Do you ever…regret it? All of this?” She gestured to the room, the house, maybe the entire legacy. “The isolation?”

The question shouldn’t have stung, but it did. I’d built this prison, brick by brick. No one else to blame.

“Sometimes,” I said. “But regret is a luxury.”

She looked down, twisting a ring on her thumb. “My brother used to say that.”

I sat up, alert. “You have a brother?”

“Had,” she corrected, voice barely above a whisper. “Dolan. He…didn’t make it past twenty-five.” She paused, her eyes shimmering with memories and pain. “My parents didn’t handle it well. They cut off everyone, including me. It felt like they only loved him, and betrayed me when he…” she stopped, as if the words got too hard to say. I waited while she swallowed hard then kept speaking. “Gram’s the only one who ever calls.”

I wanted to say something, anything, but the words stuck. I thought of my own family, the way we were nothing but polite, never closing the gap, never bridging the cold. I wondered if I was making the right move, or if I was just repeating a pattern of avoidance that would outlast even this house.

“Grief makes people stupid,” I said, finally. “Or cruel.”

She blinked, surprised. Then she smiled, sad and sweet. “Yeah. It does.”

The fire popped, a coal tumbling to the grate. I wanted to cross the room, to put a hand on her shoulder, but I stayed put.

“Sorry,” she said, wiping at the corner of her eye. “I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”

“It’s not a dump,” I said, and then immediately regretted my phrasing. “You’re allowed to talk about it.”

She nodded, but the blush had crept all the way to her ears. I was achingly aware of how much I wanted to reach out, to feel the heat in her skin, to see if she’d flinch or lean in.

She found her voice again, lighter now. “Your turn.”