Page 2 of Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more like a tic he regretted. “Both.”

I almost grinned. Almost. But then he said, “You’ll be working in the east study. It’s soundproof. For privacy.” There was a beat. “Do you require a tour, or are you comfortable exploring on your own time?”

I thought about the foyer, the endless halls, and the possibility of getting lost in a house this size. “Maybe just the highlights?” I asked.

He inclined his head, and I followed him up the stairs. The carpet was thick, gray-blue, probably custom. I realized how easy it would be to fall and die dramatically, which was not the first impression I wanted to leave. Unless I did something so embarrassingly stupid. Then I could die.

He stopped at a landing that overlooked the gardens. Through the leaded glass, I could see a fountain shaped like a pack of wolves, mid-howl. He sure aligned his name with the wild animals. His name wasn’t even spelled right.

He caught me looking. “You like gardens?”

“I like wolves,” I said, before I could stop myself. “They’re social. Misunderstood.”

He stared at me, eyes narrowed. “Is that so.”

My brain screamed, Stop psychoanalyzing your boss, Eden, but my mouth ignored it. “And they mate for life. Kind of sweet, actually.”

He coughed, like maybe something was stuck in his throat. “I suppose.” Then, after a beat, “Your room is here.”

He opened the next door with an elegant flick of the wrist. Inside, the space was bigger than my whole apartment. Canopy bed, bay windows, pale gray walls hung with enormous oil paintings of wild landscapes. The bedding was crisp white, pillows perfectly fluffed. There was a writing desk with a leather chair, and a bathroom through a carved archway that probably had heated floors.

He set my suitcase by the closet. For a second, we just stood there. The silence was thick, and not the comfortable kind. I had the wild urge to say something, anything, to break it.

Instead, I fished my phone from my purse as he turned to leave.

THE BOSS OPENED THE DOOR HIMSELF. He is HOT. Like, can-see-his-biceps-through-the-suit hot. Also, house is haunted. Probably.

I hit send, then realized Gareth had paused in the hallway. He was watching me with those unsettling eyes, arms folded. I pretended I’d just been checking the weather.

He said, “Maribel will expect you for dinner at seven sharp.” His voice was softer this time, almost… almost… wary.

I nodded, lips parted, but nothing came out. He left, footsteps perfectly silent.

I sat on the edge of the bed, heart still punching at my ribs. My phone buzzed with a reply.

My best friend, Ruby, had responded:Send pics or you’re making this up. Also, DIBS IF YOU DON’T WANT HIM.

I smiled, in spite of myself.

Down the hall, I heard the faint click of a door, likely Gareth. I wondered if he was as rattled by this as I was. Probably not. He seemed immune to human emotion, unless irritation counted.

I flopped back on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and told myself to chill. Just a job. Just a boss. The world’s most beautiful, emotionally unavailable boss, who smelled faintly of cedar and probably regret.

This would be fine.

Totally fine.

At 6:58, I double-checked my hair in the mirror and gave myself a pep talk worthy of an Olympic gymnast about to attempt the uneven bars blindfolded. Dinner with the staff. Normal. I’d survived worse, well, maybe not worse, but weirder? Actually, nothing in my life had quite prepared me for working in a literal castle with a boss whose presence was both arctic and somehow flammable.

I took the stairs two at a time, trying not to sound like a herd of elephants, and headed for the kitchen. Following Gareth’s directions in reverse, I found the kitchen and paused, because there was an actual brass nameplate on the door: KITCHEN. It gleamed with the kind of confidence I could only hope to someday possess.

I knocked, then immediately regretted knocking. Was that the right etiquette? Did one knock on a kitchen door? The door swung open before I could overthink further.

The woman who greeted me was the living embodiment of “do not make a mess.”

“Maribel Fredricks,” she said while I studied her. She was maybe in her mid-fifties, built like she’d wrestled a few full-grown grizzles in her time, with the kind of hands that could knead bread or deliver a gentle backhand to the mouthy.

Her hair was salt and pepper, pulled into a no-nonsense bun, and her chef’s whites were spotless despite the faint aroma of garlic and something buttery in the air. Her eyes were sharp, dark, and immediately sized me up.