Page 4 of Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss

“Honey, the way you looked at him, I could bake a cake in the heat. If I was twenty years younger and less married, I’d try to win his heart myself.”

I buried my face in my hands. “I’m doomed.”

She patted my shoulder, maternal and firm. “Just remember. He likes his staff tough, loyal, and quiet. And he’s got a soft spot for women who don’t take his crap. You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah,” I said, “unless I slip up and tell him to his face how distracting he is.”

Maribel winked. “He’d deserve it.”

She led me down a hall off the kitchen, lined with dark wood and old oil paintings of wolves in every possible dramatic scenario; moonlight, snowy woods, standing on cliffs looking stoic. I wondered if there was a room somewhere dedicated to wolf-themed memorabilia. Maybe there was a cult. Maybe I’d already joined it.

We stopped at a heavy door I recognized. Maribel opened it with a flourish.

“If you hate it, I can put you in the attic. But I think you’ll like this one.”

I couldn’t tell if she was teasing or not.

Maribel smiled. “If you need anything, just holler. I hear everything.” She winked again, and this time it was definitely a matchmaking wink.

The room was just as breathtaking as before. I inhaled, catching the scent of lilac. Maribel said her good nights and I said the same back Then the door clicked closed. I made my way to the french doors that looked out over the rose gardens, now glowing gold in the setting sun.

A painting above the bed showed a lone wolf staring down at a snowy valley, moonlit and so solitary, I had a feeling the painting served a double purpose. Maybe it was a reminder that the boss preferred his solitude and to watch over his empire.

I dropped on the bed and laid back, letting the weirdness and excitement of the day settle over me. I had a room fit for a minor royalty, a boss who could freeze water at fifty paces, and a kitchen guardian who’d probably keep me alive through the end of the world.

I texted my best friend:

My new room has a balcony. Also, Maribel thinks the boss is hot, too. I’m not crazy.

You’re always crazy. But if you’re not making it up, send proof.

I grinned, snapped a photo of the view, which might be a violation of the NDA, but there was no way she’d rat me out. And I hit send. Then I looked at the painting above the bed, the lone wolf staring into the distance, and wondered what it saw.

But for now, it was enough to sit, and look over the gardens, and tell myself, again, that everything was totally fine. Great, here less than a day and I’m already lying to myself.

Chapter Two

Gareth

I preferred the east study at dusk, when the last clean shafts of light cut low through the windows and gave the room a glow like a burnished coin; gold, but only if you looked from the right angle. There was order here.

The scent of old leather and polished wood, the silence that came when you invested in triple-paned glass, were designed the way they were for a reason.

Even the books on the shelves lined up like troops, no one volume ever out of line for more than a day. I’d chosen the desk myself; hand-rubbed mahogany, three inches thick, four feet wide, a slab so heavy that movers swore at me in three languages just getting it up the stairs.

Today, of all days, I needed something solid. The only thing more unmovable was the headache gathering at the base of my skull, courtesy of the five unread contracts glaring from my inbox. That, and the unwelcome certainty that I was about to let a woman I couldn’t stop thinking about disrupt my hard-won order.

The woman in question knocked at exactly 7:01 a.m. One minute late. Not terrible, but enough for me to note it. I schooled my face into neutrality, made sure my email drafts were saved for later, and called out, “Enter.”

Eden Blake. Her resume had been an exercise in contradictions: overqualified, under-ambitious, suspiciously single, but with references that all but bled loyalty. On paper, she was what I needed. In practice, she was a fucking disaster. Not in the way you’d expect, a disaster for all mu suit zippers. She was quiet, unignorable, and impossible to look away from.

She swept into the study in black slacks and a silky blue blouse that fit properly, but was somehow worse than her previous too-small shirt. The color brought out the green in her hazel eyes, and her red-orange curls were escaping her braid to frame her face. She carried a blue hardback binder under her arm, and when she set it on my desk, the smell of her perfume hit me so hard I nearly recoiled.

I was prepared for a lot of things. I was not prepared for how immediately, and completely, my body would betray me.

“Good morning, Mr. Wolfe.” Her tone was crisp, professional, but I heard the crackle under it. She was nervous. The knowing kind of nervous that would either break in her favor or combust spectacularly.

“Gareth. Good morning, Ms. Blake,” I said, and gestured at the chair opposite. “You survived your first night. Congratulations.”