Page 48 of Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss

He laughed, a sound that was both joy and sorrow, and then he kissed me again. This time it was softer, but no less desperate. He kissed me like he needed me to forgive him for everything he'd ever done wrong.

When we broke apart, we were both shaking.

He let go of my hand, but not my waist. "You should go," he said, but made no move to open the door.

I nodded, but didn't step away.

"You're bleeding," he said, and I realized I'd bitten my lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Sorry," I said, but I wasn't.

He stared at the red on my mouth, then at my eyes. "Don't ever apologize."

We stayed like that for a long time, neither of us moving. The clock on the wall ticked, and the whole world narrowed to this, two human beings holding on to each other, too scared to let go, too scared to keep going.

Finally, I pulled away. My legs were rubber, but I made it to the door. I unlocked it, turned the handle, and looked back at him.

He was still watching me, eyes wild and haunted.

"Thank you," I said, though I didn't know what for.

He nodded, once. "You're welcome."

I walked out, closed the door behind me, and leaned against the wall.

My heart was still beating, but it felt like it had changed shape.

I touched my lips, tasted salt and copper, and smiled.

I was alive.

And for the first time in my life, I wanted more.

So I closed and locked the door instead of leaving, convinced I might be making a mistake. My hands were still shaking, but the good kind of shake, the one you got after barely surviving a rollercoaster or an all-night cram session.

I didn't want to leave, not yet. And maybe he didn't either, because instead of returning to his usual marble statue pose, Gareth crossed the room and opened the cabinet that hid the good booze.

"Drink?" he said, already pouring, not waiting for a yes.

"I should say no," I said, but sat anyway.

"Suit yourself," he replied, and poured a second glass.

I watched him, the way his wrist flexed, the even pour, the tidiness of every movement. I should have been intimidated, but the last few days had broken something between us. It was still weird, but not bad weird. Just new.

He handed me the glass. The liquor was gold, probably older than either of us. I took a sip and tried not to make a face.

With an arched eyebrow and far too much restraint, he sat across from me, elbows on his knees. "Dolan," he said, and the name hit like a gut punch. "What was he like?"

For a second, all my thoughts log-jammed. People didn't usually ask about Dolan except as a formality, or as a way to tiptoe around the topic of grief. Gareth's question was blunt, but not cruel. Like he really wanted to know.

I twirled the glass in my fingers, letting the memory roll over me. "He was loud," I said finally. "Always in motion. He once convinced me to build a treehouse out of plywood and zip ties. It collapsed the first time we both got in, but-" I smiled, "we survived. And we were covered in splinters, but we laughed for years about it. And he only got crazier."

Gareth nodded, sipping his drink, waiting.

"He made up songs," I went on, my words getting faster. "He’d write me fake report cards. If I was ever in trouble with anyone, even mom and dad, he had my back. He knew every secret passage in every house we lived in. And he-" I stopped, throat tight, and swallowed hard as my nose burned and tears stung in my eyes, "he would have loved this place. He would have had the run of it memorized in a week."

I looked up, expecting pity or discomfort. Instead, Gareth watched me with a steady calm. It almost pissed me off, the way he just let me talk, not rushing to fill the silence or fix my feelings.