Page 49 of Tempted By the Bosshole

“You’ve spent this day more or less alone for the last five years, right?”

“It’s better that way.”

“Is it? Hiding from everyone hasn’t made you feel better. Maybe it’s time to try something different.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Maybe not, but I think you should.”

“Why are you pushing me?”

“Why are you determined to shove away someone who wants to help?”

She glares at me. I glare back. Then she sighs, and slowly she lets me draw her back into my arms. I lay her head on my shoulder and rub her back. As if my comforting touch dismantles the tough outer shell she hid behind, she falls apart.

It’s not a quick sniffle. She doesn’t cry pretty. These are soul-wrenching, deep-down tears. I hug her close, kiss her temple, hand her tissues, and reassure her while ignoring the sopping wet shoulder of my T-shirt. I promise I’ll hold her as long as she needs.

I mean that.

She pulls back nearly an hour later, looking spent but more at peace.

I brush her hair from her thoroughly red face. “There’s my pretty girl.”

“Oh, gorgeous—but only if you like a runny nose and a splotchy face.”

“You’re in luck. And on you, they’re perfect.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“I’m not.” I kiss her softly. “Let me help you enjoy the rest of the day.”

“It’s the anniversary of my mom’s death. I don’t think it’s possible.”

“It’s not if you don’t try.” I squeeze her tight. “Let’s start by turning this off.”

She lurches for the remote as Alan Rickman begins falling from Nakatomi Tower, but I’m quicker.

As the TV screen goes black, she whirls on me. “You don’t like Die Hard?”

“I love it, but not right now. We have other things to do.”

“If you’re thinking more sex, count me out. My girl parts are sore.”

It’s impossible not to grin. “I’ll keep that in mind. Come with me.”

With a tug on her hand, I haul her off the sofa and lead her to the kitchen. It takes some coaxing and some spectacular failures with cookie dough on my part, but she shakes off her malaise, and we bake sugar Christmas trees together. She teaches me to frost and decorate—something my ex-wife would never have been caught dead doing. When we’re done and everything is put away, I make Isabella a stir-fry with her favorite vegetables, sit her on my lap as we eat, and find the schmaltziest holiday romance movie I can find.

She sometimes groans and sometimes laughs. What she’s not doing? Crying or mourning. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a win.

“That would not happen.” She scoffs at the TV screen.

I can’t disagree. “The big-city billionaire marrying the small-town baker without a prenup, and especially without fucking her first, is totally far-fetched. And the acting was horrible, too.”

She bites her lip. “True. But I didn’t hate it.”

“Then I didn’t, either.”

Isabella frowns. “Why are you being so nice? I don’t get it. You sought me out for revenge. You married me as a middle finger to my dad. You even want me to have your payback baby. You didn’t sign on for my emotional crap.”

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