Page 64 of Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss

I sat, squeezing her hand. “That’s okay. I’m pretty sure Gareth’s father is on three lists himself.”

She snorted into her mimosa. “You look nice, Eden. Is that a new necklace?”

I was about to make a joke about surviving Gareth’s absolute love when Grams waved her glass at me. “Eden! Come here, I need to show you something before the Bloody Marys run out.”

I excused myself and wound my way to her.

“Sit,” she said, nudging a plate of fruit and cheese toward me. “You’ve lost weight. Are you eating?”

I grinned. “Maribel says I’m part wolf now. I eat my enemies and their mistakes.”

She cackled. “Good girl.” Then, dropping her voice, she leaned in. “So. Are you and Mr. Billionaire ever going to give me a great-grandchild before I get put in the ground?”

I nearly choked on a small chunk of pineapple. “Jesus, Gram. I’m still young. Gareth still has a lot of making up to do before I’m willing to let him split his love between me and a baby.” I had no doubt he’d be an amazing dad, just like he was a phenomenal husband.

She rolled her eyes, but there was a softness there that hadn’t been present since before Dolan died. “You’re happy?” she asked, voice lower. “For real, not just for show?”

This was a persistent question, one she asked at least once a week.

I scanned the table; my parents chatting with Gareth, who couldn’t take his eyes off me, Gareth’s parents, never quite touching, but present. Even the staff, drifting in and out with practiced discretion, seemed somehow less like coworkers, but more like family at this point.

I nodded. “Yeah, Gram. For real.”

She squeezed my hand, her grip still iron. “Good. That’s all that matters. Fuck the rest.”

We both laughed, which drew a glance from Gareth’s mother and a suspicious eyebrow from Gareth himself. I waved at him, and he shook his head, just a little. I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he was holding himself together by sheer force of habit.

I turned back to Gram. “By the way, did you see the tribute wall for Dolan in the conservatory?”

Her eyes went glassy for a second, then she wiped them clear with a napkin. “I did. The painting is… it’s perfect. He’d have hated it.”

“He’d have mocked all of it,” I said, and we both laughed again. It was true, the painting was this over-the-top, gloriousmess of brushstrokes and attitude, commissioned by Gareth without telling anyone, installed overnight with a little plaque beneath it: Dolan Blake, 1992-2017. Beloved, missed, never forgotten. There was even a set of “honorary” boots beneath it, and an image of his car and a replica of the leather jacket he loved wearing shadowboxed on the wall, all things Gareth had tracked down just to complete the effect.

I felt my chest tighten, but not in the old way. This was something else. A sense of being happy, finally, since the loss of my brother.

After brunch, I drifted in to look at the memorial wall again. Gareth was already there, standing before the Dolan portrait, hands folded behind him. I watched him in the reflection of one of the windows as he studied the painting with that same infuriating focus he brought to everything.

He sensed me, of course, because he always did. “Is it too much?” he asked, not turning.

“No,” I said. “It’s perfect.”

He nodded, still not facing me. “I thought about commissioning a statue. But it seemed-”

“Too much,” I finished, grinning. “You know he’d have drawn a mustache on it within five minutes.”

Finally, he turned, and the look in his eyes made my knees go soft. “I like seeing you laugh,” he said. “Even when it’s at my expense.”

I wandered to his side and leaned against him, cheek to his shoulder. He didn’t flinch. We stood like that for a minute, both looking at the portrait.

“I don’t know if I ever told you,” he said, “but I was scared the first time you brought your family here. I didn’t think I’d be… good at it.”

I reached up and squeezed his hand. “You’re not good at it,” I said. “You’re a disaster. But you’re trying, and that’s what counts.”

He exhaled, a sound that was almost a laugh, and then pulled me tighter. “If I ever lose you,” he whispered, “I’ll haunt this place. I’ll have Maribel add too much sugar to your coffee.”

I barked out a laugh. “You’re an idiot. I’m not going anywhere.”

He kissed the top of my head, and I felt him relax. For a man who’d built his life on unbreakable discipline, it was a huge concession.