Page 44 of The Billionaire's Beauty

“I’m not sending her any fucking flowers. And don’t call me boss.”

“Just trying to do my job.” She sets her coffee on her desk with a loud and defiant thunk. “Boss.”

“We need to talk about this,” I say, keeping my voice low. I’m acutely aware that we’re in a semi-public place and could be interrupted at any second. “Let’s go in my office.”

“I’ve got a lot of work to do,” she says, sitting and swiveling to face her computer.

With that, I’ve maxed out on my patience. She’s picked the wrong fight if she wants to see who’s the biggest asshole around here. They don’t call me the Beast for nothing.

“My office, Forest. Now,” I bark.

She hesitates, finally meets my gaze and shoots laser strikes from her eyes that are strong enough to smoke my eyebrows and set off the overhead sprinklers. Then she stiffly stands and marches past me into my office. I slam the door behind us.

Alone at last. I feel a tremendous surge of satisfaction. Time for us to get a few things straight.

“Something on your mind, Bellamy?” I make a sweeping gesture as I go stand behind my desk. “The floor is yours.”

“There’s no point,” she says, shrugging. “I’d be foolish to get upset with you for being who you are. Who you always were. Besides. It’s not like we’re in a real relationship.”

I recoil as though she’s taken a Taser and zapped me in the neck with it. Disbelieving, I rest my hands on my desk and lean into it.

“Excuse me?” I ask quietly. “What was that whole big scene about on Saturday night if we’re not in a real relationship?”

“I mean…” She hesitates, her defiance wobbling. “We like to sleep together. Obviously. And I don’t like it when you act like we can’t get to know each other better. But we never said—”

“You know what?” I say, straightening. “You’re absolutely right. There’s a bunch of stuff I need to say. Have a seat.”

“I don’t want—”

“Sit your ass down, Bellamy,” I say, exasperated. “Give me a break. For once.”

She blinks. Plops down. Crosses her legs. Waits.

“I’m no expert, but I thought a real relationship was that thing where you think about the person”—I tap my temple—“all the time. All the time. Where you don’t want to see anyone else because your head is so full of wondering how the person is doing and what the person is thinking about and when you’ll see the person again that there’s no room for anyone else. Am I crazy? Do I need to check my definitions here?”

“Griffin…” she says, softening.

“I want you. I only want you.” My cheeks, ears and throat are seriously burning now, making the words hard to get out. To say nothing of my hoarse voice. “I don’t want to see anyone else. I sure as shit don’t want you to see anyone else. That’s where I’m at. Also? That whole thing last night where you sent me on my merry way by myself and didn’t invite me to stay with you? That doesn’t work for me. You’re not going to be here that much longer. I don’t plan to waste the little time we have. I don’t care where we spent our nights. As long as we spend them together. So unless I hear an objection in the next ten seconds, that’s what we’re going to do.”

She opens her mouth.

“You’d better not be about to object,” I quickly tell her. “Swear to God.”

She snaps her mouth closed again, treating me to a luminous smile instead. Everything inside me stands down and catches its breath.

Funny how I’m the wealthier person here. The owner. The boss. The physically larger person. The older and ostensibly wiser person. The person with the most dating experience.

Yet this woman has a terrifying and absolute power over me. And she doesn’t even know it.

“Am I allowed to speak now?” she asks, a spark of amusement in her eyes.

“If you choose your words wisely, sure.”

I’m absolutely riveted and paralyzed by what she might say next. No joke.

“Can I get back to work now? Now that that’s settled? I have a very demanding boss.”

I manage an offhand shrug. “Suit yourself,” I say, all but sagging with relief.

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