Page 53 of Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss

Eden shifted, but I caught her hand before she could stand. The shock of contact was electric, so much so that I almost let go. But I didn’t.

She stilled, eyes wide. Waiting.

I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to pin her to the bench, fuck her until neither of us could walk straight, then kiss her again just to remind myself that it was real. I wanted to brand myself onto her skin, so that every time she looked in the mirror she’d think of me.

Instead, I just held her hand. My thumb traced the line of her knuckles, slow and deliberate.

She was shaking, just a little. “Gareth,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

I leaned in. Just enough to feel the heat of her breath on my lips. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

“Try me,” she said, and her cheeks went pink.

I would have, right then and there, if not for the return of Leo’s footsteps, deliberately louder this time, communicating his approach.

Eden pulled her hand free, flustered, and glanced around as if to make sure she wasn’t forgetting anything. “I should go,” she said, eyes on the floor.

I nodded, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

She left, quick on her feet, and I was alone in the gazebo, hands shaking, the scent of her skin lingering on my fingertips.

Leo appeared at the threshold, looking smug. “Everything okay here, boss?”

I glared at him, the urge to fire him on the spot almost overwhelming. “If I see you hovering around her again, you’re gone. Do you understand?”

He shrugged, all false bravado. “Whatever you say.”

But as he turned to leave, I saw the flicker of fear in his eyes.

I stayed in the gazebo as hours slipped by and the world moved around me, but I felt frozen in the moment. Only when the light went soft and the shadows grew long did I snap out of my thoughts. My head ached, my chest was tight, and my hands still remembered the shape of her.

I’d almost lost control today. Almost given in.

But there was tomorrow, and the day after, and the reunion to get through.

And I knew, with absolute certainty, that the next time she smiled at me, I was done for.

Chapter Thirteen

Eden

A week is a long time to nurse a fantasy.

I kept wishing he’d join me in my room, creep in after dark, remind my body that I belonged to him. But he didn’t.

And by Day Six, I was running on muscle memory and caffeine, and Wolfe Manor had become the setting for the world’s most exhausting slow-burn torture.

The morning of the event, I was up at five, tracing the ballroom wainscotting with a microfiber cloth to make sure not a speck of dust had been forgotten.

Maribel called it “attention to detail” when she brought me coffee. I called it due diligence. Every scuff, every hairline scratch, every invisible layer of dust was a reminder that nothing could ever be perfect enough.

Gareth had not spoken to me in three days. Not a real conversation, anyway. He left his notes in ink, his orders in margin comments, and the rest was just stray glances that left my pulse either flatlined or leaping into arrhythmia. It was impressive, honestly, the way he could go from inhaling my scent like oxygen to pretending I was a fixture like a lamp. Even more impressive was how much I hated him for it. Or maybe I hated myself more, for not hating him enough.

By six-thirty, the catering crew had arrived. There were nine of them, all wearing black aprons and the kind ofexpressions you only get by surviving the four-star hospitality wars. The menu was impeccable, and I’d hoped the day would serve as a shot at familial reconciliation.

Gareth’s mother was flying in from an exotic vacation. His father was rumored to have been threatened with mortal injury if he didn’t show up. I’d learned everything through whispers, old files, and rumors. Gareth hadn’t given me much of anything to go on.

I triple-checked every place setting, re-counted every name card, and then stood back to admire the perfection. The table was obscene, forty feet long, set with bone china and more crystal than I’d ever seen in one place. Every arrangement of roses was color-coded to the guest’s seat, a detail I’d sweated over for a full afternoon, and every fork gleamed like perfection. It was, in every possible sense, flawless.