Page 9 of Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss

With a sigh, I flopped onto the bed and let myself sink in. The mattress was so plush, it took half a minute for my body to settle. For a second I considered taking a nap, but my brain was still on high alert, spinning with the aftereffects of Maribel’s not-so-subtle needling.

Instead, I did what any self-respecting twenty-something does when alone and mildly panicked; I called my grandmother.

It rang three times, then, “Who died?” in Gram’s voice, sharp and bright as ever.

“Hi to you, too, Peggy,” I said. “No one’s dead.”

“Then why the hell are you calling in the middle of the day? Don’t tell me you got fired already.”

I grinned, the knot in my stomach untangling a little. “Not yet. The boss is a hard-ass, but I’ve only said two awkward things and spilled zero liquids so far.”

There was a pause as she processed this. “That’s a record. Give it three days. Where are you, anyway? Is it true they put you up in the mansion?”

I rolled onto my back, phone pressed to my ear, and surveyed the room. “It’s less a mansion, more a historical reenactment with better plumbing. I have a balcony. There’s a painting of a wolf staring into a canyon over my bed.”

Peggy cackled. “Sounds like a cult. Are you allowed outside, or is it all work, work, work?”

“I got the grand tour. There’s a rose garden, a library that could eat the New York Public, and the head chef tried to peer-pressure me into drinking black coffee like a lumberjack. Oh, and there are actual wolf gargoyles.”

“So you’re in a gothic novel,” Gram said, with the satisfied tone of someone who’d spent seventy-two years wishing real life had more drama. “Any dashing young heirs lurking about?”

She didn’t even try to be subtle. I felt my face go hot, as if the sheets had turned to liquid magma. “Maybe. He’s more dash than dashing, if you know what I mean. Also, not young.”

“You like him.” She sounded proud of herself, as if she’d scored a point in some invisible tennis match.

“I do not. He’s… he’s a robot.” But not when he was staring down my blouse. “He makes Elon Musk look like a golden retriever.” My voice dropped, betraying me. “And he’s sort of…intense.”

“Uh-huh,” Gram said, drawing it out like she was savoring a particularly juicy piece of gossip. “You always did have a thing for the broken ones.”

I covered my eyes, mortified. “Please. No psychoanalysis. I’m in full-on survival mode here. Just keeping my job until I pay off enough loans to maybe afford my own rent someday.”

“That’s my girl,” Gram said. “Don’t let the handsome ones make you stupid.”

“He’s not handsome,” I lied. “He’s just…” I fumbled for a word and came up empty, because any word I picked would be proof of something I was trying to deny. “Anyway. How are you? Did the new rice cooker explode yet?”

She launched into a twenty-minute monologue about her new rice cooker. “The directions were in Japanese and French, so I improvised”, her swim class, “The lifeguard thinks I’m a danger to myself, he’s not wrong”, and a recent doctor’s appointment. “He said I’m not dead, so I bought a lottery ticket.” Every sentence was punctuated with a dig at her kids, her neighbors, or her own memory lapses.

With each minute, the tension in my body unraveled. I sat up, wandered to the window, and watched the gardeners chasethe corgi again. It was like living in a sitcom written by a team of very tired, very sarcastic comedy writers.

“So, what’s the plan, kid?” Gram asked, once her stories ran out. “Gonna make the billionaire fall in love with you and sign over the estate?”

I snorted. “I’m aiming for ‘not fired by Monday’ and maybe a decent line on my resume. Everything else is fantasy. Even the decent line might be too much.”

“That’s how it starts,” she said. “One minute you’re managing his calendar, next thing you know you’re starring in a sex tape. Don’t forget to moisturize.”

“Oh my god, Gram.”

“What? It’s the modern world. I read things. Is the food good, at least?”

“Stupid good. The chef is terrifying, but she made me eat brie and I didn’t even pretend to hate it.”

“You’re living the dream. Don’t screw it up.”

“I’ll try,” I said, and meant it. “Thanks, Gram. I’ll call soon, okay?”

“You better. Love you, sweetie.”

“Love you, too.”