Page 21 of The Billionaire Alpha's Assistant

“You wouldn’t be here if you were just his assistant,” Jake adds with a chuckle. “Trust me.”

“I-I thought his assistants always came to Aspen with him,” I stammer.

“Not over the holidays,” says Elena in a tone that suggests I’m being ridiculous. “Raf’s nuts about work, but he’s not a monster.”

I blink, confusion and nerves mixing in my stomach.

“No,” Elena continues. “If he brought you here, it’s because he wanted us to meet you.”

“Why?” I ask. “We just met. I only started at MatchAI two days ago.”

Elena waggles her eyebrows. “I’m telling you, I know my brother. When he sees something he wants, he goes for it. But you shouldn’t let him get away with that. I’d make him tell you how he feels.”

“I’m not sure I want to know how he feels,” I mutter, my face heating up.

So far I’ve been a pretty shitty assistant, and Rafael’s given no indication that he has any actual feelings for me. The little incident in his office didn’t mean anything.

Elena seems to realize she’s embarrassed me, because she doesn’t say another word about Rafael for the rest of the morning. We fall into easy conversation discussing her ballet career, crappy TV shows we both enjoy, and her and Jake’s upcoming wedding. I find myself liking Elena more and more, which only makes me feel worse about posing as Rafael’s assistant.

Once the turkey comes out of the oven, Juana flies into a frenzy — pointing at Jake and Elena, barking instructions, and scooping the juices out of the roasting pan to make the gravy. The woman is a force of nature, and the way she commands her troops, I see where Rafael gets it.

There’s a flurry of activity as dishes are passed from the kitchen to the eating area, and soon we’re all seated around the long table in the massive dining room. Juana’s cheeks are flushed from cooking over the hot stove all morning, but she’s changed into a pretty burgundy dress and looks every inch the proud matriarch presiding over her Thanksgiving meal.

“Rafael, ¿quieres dar gracias por los alimentos?”

Rafael nods, does the sign of the cross, and folds his hands in front of him to say grace. “BendícenosSeñor y a estos tus dones, que estamos a punto de recibir, por Cristo nuestro Señor, Amén.”

“Amén,” echoes around the table.

“Amen,” I murmur.

Juana, Elena, and Rafael all close with the sign of the cross, and I awkwardly fold my hands in my lap. I had no idea that Rafael was Catholic. Somehow, I can’t reconcile the image of Rafael praying with the man I think I know. Maybe he only prays when he’s with his family.

Rafael clears his throat and looks around the table. “I want to thank you all for coming this weekend. It means a lot to me. I know I’m not home as much as I should be — as much as I would like to be. I’m going to do better.” Rafael glances at his mother, whose expression softens as she gazes at her son. “I’ve been extremely self-absorbed these last three years, but it’s not how I want to live my life.”

He takes a deep breath, and his penetrating brown eyes land on me. “Family is and always has been the most important thing in my life.”

I squirm a little in my seat, but I don’t break his stare. Rafael raises his glass and holds it out for a toast. “Salud por mi familia.”

I swallow and raise my glass as the others murmur their assent. I never pictured Rafael as a family man. It just doesn’t jibe with the ruthless CEO who apparently shot down his employees’ repeated petitions for sixteen weeks of paid family leave.

It’s as though Rafael is two different people, but that’s ridiculous. People are who they are. Actions speak louder than words, and if Rafael has been more present at his company than with his family, that says everything about where his real priority lies — which is just fine by me.

I can’t allow Rafael’s brief display of warmth to distract me from my mission. Thinking of him as the cold-hearted billionaire will make it easier to write my story.

As the dishes make their way around the table, I suddenly realize how hungry I am. The meal is a mixture of Thanksgiving foods I recognize, traditional Mexican dishes, and a few items that seem to be a fusion of the two.

I dig into the turkey and cheesy potatoes as if I haven’t eaten in days, and when I look up from my plate, I catch Rafael watching me from across the table.

This close, I can see the little flecks of gold that lend depth and warmth to his dark-brown eyes, and I fidget uncomfortably in my seat.

Then Jake tosses a roll at Rafael’s head. It bounces off his cheek and lands on his plate, effectively breaking our stare-down. Rafael’s gaze slides over to Jake, his eyes narrowing in a glare. A shiver travels down my spine, but then his face crumples in a laugh. He picks up a pea and chucks it across the table, where it lands in Jake’s water glass.

Juana mutters what’s clearly a reprimand, but she looks overjoyed at having both her children at the table.

For some reason, seeing Rafael do something as childish as lob a pea across the table is almost as baffling as watching him pray.

As he and Jake launch into a spirited argument about MMA and which fighting style is most beneficial, I sink back in my seat and study Rafael. He’s stripped down to a navy-blue T-shirt, which sets off his warm copper-tinged skin and makes him look even more irresistible.

Squabbling with the guy he grew up with, he seems totally at ease. He seems . . . normal. And for a moment, I find myself wondering which version of Rafael is the real thing.

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