Page 48 of The Billionaire Alpha's Assistant

Epilogue

Rafael

Seven Thanksgivings later. . .

The kitchen is already clanging with activity by the time I wander downstairs for coffee. Jake, Elena, and my mother got in last night so they could get an early start on Thanksgiving dinner prep.

I’ve never understood why it takes all day to cook one meal, but my mother and sister seem to enjoy it. They’ve managed to recruit Alex to partake in the madness, and the three women are bustling around, sliding sideways and lifting plates overhead as they pass one another on the way to the oven.

Jake is stirring the cranberry salad with his four-month-old baby propped on his hip. Elena wanted to take a break from dance to start their family, and she’s opened a nonprofit ballet academy that trains dancers with disabilities.

My youngest, Hugo, is careening around the kitchen with his Tonka truck, making loud truck sounds and occasionally bumping into someone’s ankle.

“Whoa!” I boom, scooping him and the truck up off the floor before he can crash into Alex, who’s carrying two pies. “Where do you think you’re going, little man?”

“To the table for breakfast,” my wife replies sternly, setting the pies down and turning to the stove, where she’s making scrambled eggs.

I plop Hugo down beside the table, then swoop over to greet my mate. “Morning, kitten,” I growl, wrapping my arms around her middle and planting a kiss on her neck.

“Morning,” she sighs, leaning back against me and reaching up to run her fingers through my hair.

I take the spatula from her and flip the eggs, continuing to pepper her neck with kisses. “Did you sleep well?”

“About as well as anyone sleeps with two little monsters hopped up on sugar constantly visiting in the night.”

I nod. I have a few hazy memories of carrying the kids back to their rooms last night after they came slinking into ours. “I’ll have a chat with Mamá . . . tell Abuelita to lay off the cookies.”

“I think that would be wise.”

“Where’s Mia?” I ask, glancing around.

“In your office,” Alex says with a sigh. “She absolutely refuses to come out until she’s met with you this morning.”

I chuckle and release my mate, plating the eggs with one hand and pecking her on the temple. “Wish me luck.”

Leaving the controlled chaos of the kitchen behind, I pad down the hallway to my home office and rap my knuckles on the door. I can’t remember a single time in my life when I knocked on the door to my own office, but nothing humbles you like becoming a parent.

“Come in,” trills Mia.

I open the door and poke my head inside just as my chair swivels around.

My six-year-old daughter is perched behind my enormous mahogany desk, looking as though she’s being swallowed whole by the huge leather executive chair. She’s dressed in a pink Frozen nightgown, and her dark hair is a tangled mess. She’s consulting with her two favorite stuffed cats, and she’s got the cord from my landline phone wrapped around her and the chair.

“Daddy! Finally. I’m on the phone with Beijing.” She gestures to the receiver propped on her shoulder, and her clipped tone is such a perfect imitation of Alex that it’s all I can do to withhold my snort.

Having a freelance journalist for a mother and a CEO for a father means she’s overheard way more business calls than any six-year-old should.

“I just came to tell you that breakfast is ready.”

Mia huffs and throws up a hand. “But it’s Thanksgiving!”

“Yeah, well . . . dinner isn’t going to be ready for quite a while. That’s why they invented breakfast and lunch.”

“How come I have to eat eggs?” she huffs. “Why can’t I have pie?”

“Because your mother made you eggs, and pie isn’t breakfast food.”

“Why not?”

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