Page 22 of The Billionaire Alpha's Assistant

Chapter Eight

Rafael

My chest feelsfull as I watch Alex chat with my family as she gorges herself on cheesy potatoes. She makes a point to include my mother in the conversation, using Elena as a translator for her Spanish replies.

My mother understands English fine; it’s just her speaking that isn’t so good. Rather than try to bridge the language divide, most people end up leaving her out of the conversation, so it warms my heart to see Alex laughing and joking with her and even trying her hand at some broken Spanish.

Alex has never eaten a tamale before, apparently, and watching her face as she takes her first bite sends all the blood rushing to my cock. I don’t know what it is about this woman, but I have this irrational urge to pull her into my lap, feed her forkfuls of tamale, and then kiss her senseless.

I want her at my table for every holiday meal. Hell, I want her by my side every day for the rest of my life.

What has gotten into me?

I’ve never been this smitten with a woman. I’ve never brought one home to meet my family, and I’ve certainly never been this infatuated with someone I’ve only known for three days.

But my wolf has already decided she’s mine, and it’s clouding my judgment. It’s making me think about things that I would normally never even consider — crazy things such as whether Alex likes the Aspen house. I’m thinking about hiring a private ski instructor and whether it would be better to raise our kids in the city or make our home here. I’ve never once wondered what the Aspen school system is like, but I’m thinking about it now.

It’s official. I’ve lost my fucking mind. But I can’t stop staring at this woman — can’t stop imagining a future with her.

Eventually, the dishes are empty, and Elena announces that it’s time for pie. She flounces off to retrieve the giant pumpkin and pecan pies that she and my mother make every year, but she stops in the entrance to the dining room and sucks in a gasp.

“Raf, you need to make the snow cream!”

My stomach tightens at her words, and I shoot my sister a look. “There’s regular ice cream in the freezer.”

“Regular ice cream? Are you crazy? It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without snow cream!” She rolls her eyes as though I’ve said something crazy, and that sick feeling in my gut intensifies.

Snow cream is only a tradition in our family because Elena always asks for it. It means something very different to her than it does to me, but this is the first year that I’ve really cared.

“What’s snow cream?” asks Alex, looking curiously from me to my sister.

“Oh, it’s the best!” Elena gushes. “It’s snow mixed with condensed milk. It’s a Cabrera Garcia staple.”

My face heats at Elena’s bubbly description and Alex’s look of polite curiosity. Shame burns my insides like bile, and suddenly, I’m ten years old again, on free lunch at school.

“It’s disgusting,” I snap, tossing Elena a dirty look that shuts her up immediately. “But Elena always wants it, so I’ll go make some.”

I shove my chair back from the table and storm into the kitchen to grab a bowl. My heart is pounding and my face is hot as I stomp out into the snow. The temperature has dropped to the single digits, but I barely feel the cold. We shifters run hot, and I’m also burning with shame.

Shame about being poor.

Shame for blaming my mother.

Shame for lashing out at my sister.

I know I shouldn’t have snapped at Elena. It isn’t her fault that I still feel this way, and now I feel like an ass.

“Need help?” The soft voice echoes from the doorway, and I whip around to find Alex standing in the snow. She’s wearing a pair of oversized rain boots from the mud room, and she’s got her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. She must be freezing.

“No,” I growl, all my lighthearted warm feelings from earlier gone. I just want this night to be over.

I trudge over to the low stone wall, where a bunch of fresh snow has gathered. I scoop some into the bowl and turn around, half expecting to find Alex gone.

To my surprise, she’s still standing there, her brow furrowed in confusion. “What happened back there?” she asks, jerking her head toward the dining room. “It, uh . . . seemed like kind of a strong reaction to your sister refusing ice cream.”

“It’s not about the ice cream,” I grumble, wishing she’d just drop it. But I’m learning that Alex isn’t the type of woman to cower and submit. She’s the type to dig in and keep pushing me, no matter how viciously I respond.

I sigh. “When I was ten, my dad was . . . murdered.”

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