Page 18 of The Billionaire Alpha's Assistant

“Come on. I’ll show you to your room.”

“I should get —” I hitch a thumb over my shoulder toward the SUV, but Rafael just chuckles.

“Robert will bring up your bag.”

Of course he has a man servant. All evil rich guys have a man servant — and, apparently, a ski lodge with its own name.

“The house is ski in, ski out,” Rafael says as he leads me up the sweeping staircase. “You’ll find everything in your size in the mud room.”

“I-I don’t ski,” I stammer, not sure which surprises me more — that Rafael would be inviting me to ski over this working weekend or that this fancy-schmancy house has something called a “mud room.”

He jerks his head back to look at me, and I raise my eyebrows in a challenge. “Not everyone has a second home in Aspen,” I snap.

My dad worked his ass off my whole life to pay for my college tuition. There was no money left over for lift tickets or expensive ski lessons.

“I know,” says Rafael, a bitter undertone to his voice.

I frown at his back as I follow him up the steps, confused by his reaction. We reach the top of the stairs, and I stare down the long hallway, which boasts eight bedrooms.

“That’s my room,” he says, pointing at the first door we come to. “And this will be yours.”

He leads me to the very next room, and when he throws the door open, my jaw nearly hits the floor. Windows span the wall opposite the door, revealing a huge stone terrace with an unobstructed view of the snow-covered peaks beyond.

An enormous bed draped in white linens dominates the space, though there’s a cozy sitting area in front of yet another fireplace. A fire is already crackling merrily in the grate, and I wonder if part of Robert’s job description is running around lighting all the fires like the servants in Downton Abbey.

“There’s a hot tub and a sauna that you’re welcome to use,” he says. “Robert is here to attend to your every need, and Selma, my private chef, can cook you anything you like.”

I raise my eyebrows. Why does it sound as though I’m here as Rafael’s guest rather than his employee?

He backs toward the door as though he means to leave but then stops in the threshold. “Just so you know, I didn’t grow up like this, either,” he says, glancing around at the lavish furnishings as if part of him still feels uncomfortable with it all. “I grew up a poor kid in La Alma, and my mom worked three jobs to support me and my sister.”

My brows inch higher. I’d read that Rafael Cabrera Garcia was a self-made man who came from humble beginnings, but I never really believed it.

“And even though I live like this” — he glances around the room — “my mom still insists on living in the tiny little house she and my father bought when they were first married.” He swallows. “That’s why I haven’t shared many details about my personal life with the press. I want my family to be able to reap the benefits of the life I’ve built without being thrust into the public eye.”

I blink. I can’t think of any reason for Rafael to be telling me all this, except that he doesn’t want me to think that he’s some spoiled rich guy who was brought up with a silver spoon in his mouth.

It shouldn’t matter, given that he still behaves like an entitled ass, but for some reason, it does.

“Thank you for telling me that,” I say. “I know you’re a . . . private person.”

He gives a jerky nod of his head and then clears his throat, dragging a hand through his hair. “Anyway . . . I’m sorry if my bringing you here ruined your Thanksgiving plans,” he says, looking suddenly angry with himself. “I . . . don’t always think about other people’s feelings when I . . . when I want something.”

I stare at him, taken aback. Did Rafael Cabrera Garcia seriously just apologize?

“Why did you bring me here?” I ask, deciding to throw caution to the wind. “Skiing, meeting your family . . . it sure doesn’t sound like a working weekend.”

“No,” he says tersely, staring at a spot on the wall with a crease between his brows.

“So,” I prompt. “Why did you?”

If he dragged me here over a holiday weekend for anything outside my job description, I deserve to know the truth.

“I don’t know,” he says, leveling me with a harsh stare that tells me the feelings-sharing portion of the evening is over.

He clears his throat and turns to go, not bothering to offer any further explanation. “I’ll be downstairs in my office. Make yourself at home.”

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