Page 11 of Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss

The main staircase was a mile wide, every step shining and just a little too tall for comfort. I was halfway up, thoughts already darting ahead to the next item on my agenda, when my left foot simply failed to clear the riser.

The next second happened in slow motion; my foot didn’t quite clear the step and I fell forward, arms windmilling, ready to die in embarrassment.

But before I could hit the marble, something solid caught me. Hands, strong and warm, clamped around my ribs, stopping my fall so abruptly that the air left my lungs in a rush.

I knew the scent before I saw his face; cedar, a trace of aftershave, and something sharper, expensive cologne. Gareth Wolfe. Of course.

He set me upright, but his hands lingered just a second too long on my ribs, as if double-checking I was structurally sound.

“You alright?” His voice was lower, less chilly than usual, but still edged with impatience.

“Yeah. Sorry. Stairs are my nemesis,” I whispered, embarrassed and, if I was being honest, very aware of every inch of where he’d just touched me.

He looked me up and down, eyes flicking over my hair, my hands, my lips. “If you break your neck, the insurance paperwork will kill me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of making more work for you.”

He just studied me in response.

I was breathless. I couldn’t meet his gaze, so I stared at his wrists, at the way the veins stood out as he held onto me.

He noticed, of course. “You should get back to work.”

I nodded, but my feet didn’t move.

He hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, then took the first step up past me. As he did, our shoulders brushed, barely a touch, but enough for a tingling heat to race through my body. I bit back a yelp. He just smirked, as if he’d expected it all along.

I waited until he was gone before exhaling. My pulse thudded in my ears, and the way his hands held my ribs lingered in my mind like a brand.

Back in my room, I collapsed onto the bed and let my limbs tangle in the lavender sheets. My thoughts chased themselves in circles; Leo’s offer, Gareth’s touch, the impossible tension that was now less background noise and more main event.

I reminded myself that I was a professional. That I had a job to do. That I wasn’t going to throw away my future for a pair of blue eyes and a contractually-forbidden tryst.

But as I drifted toward sleep, the only thing I could feel was the echo of Gareth’s hands on my body, the memory of his smirk, and the certainty that I was in way, way over my head.

Chapter Four

Gareth

I wanted to kill him.

My study was a sanctuary, a place of discipline and productivity, but this morning I was furious. Standing before the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the entire east rose garden. I’d designed them that way, so I could have a calming view, one part of my life that’s not stressful.

I stood at the window, watching Leo Martin flirt with Eden in the middle of the goddamn rose garden.

It started innocuous. I’d seen Eden leave the house with a clipboard, her stride brisk, focused. She wore navy slacks and a pale blouse that did nothing to hide the way her body moved when she walked. Even at this distance, I could read the tension in her posture; shoulders high, jaw set, like she was prepping for a trial instead of a landscape walkthrough. She stopped to jot a note, then tucked the pen behind her ear with a flick that made my chest go tight. It was such a small, practiced gesture, but I felt it anyway.

Leo was supposed to be working, but instead he appeared at her elbow, rolling up his sleeves. His hands were already dirt-stained, the backs of them as tan as the rest of his body, and I hated the way he leaned in; casual, conspiratorial, like he was letting her in on a secret.

Through the triple-glazed glass, I couldn’t hear their words, but I didn’t need to. Leo’s approach was always the same; compliment the new hire on her work ethic, segue to a nerdy plant fact, then switch to more personal talk until she either laughed or fled.

Eden, being Eden, did neither. She just watched him, lips pressed into a line, until eventually she let out a single, clipped laugh. Her face told me it was polite, but not delighted. If I knew anything about her, and I did, I knew she was already planning her escape route.

My pulse thumped at my temple, slow and steady, but I could feel my blood pressure climbing. The edge of the desk was hard under my palms as I leaned against it, and I dug my fingers into the grain until it hurt. I told myself it was just about efficiency. Leo was off-task, Eden was being distracted, and the schedule for the event would slip if I didn’t intervene.

But that was bullshit, and I knew it. What pissed me off wasn’t the threat to productivity. It was the way Leo looked at her. The way his eyes tracked the movement of her mouth, the dip at her throat. The way he shifted his stance to close the distance when she took a half-step away.

If he touches her, I thought, I’ll fire him on the spot. But then the rational part of me flinched. That wasn’t standard practice, and I hated the idea that a single new hire could scramble over a decade of discipline in less than a week.