Page 51 of The Billionaire's Beauty

“A thousand pardons, boss,” she says acidly.

My entire body stiffens. So much for mellowing out. “Don’t call me boss.”

“If you start acting like the Beast, I’m calling you boss. I don’t care where we are.” Her eyes are flinty chips of amber now, making me marvel at my ability to piss her off this quickly and thoroughly. “I don’t want to leave you in the lurch when I move. That’s all. I think we should hire a new person as soon as possible so I can get them trained before I go. I’m doing everything I can to make this transition as smooth as possible for you.”

I bite back a bitter burst of laughter.

Is she for real? The simplest and easiest thing she could do for me would be to stay here. Where it feels like she’s auditioning to be the center of my universe.

But I can’t say that. I can never say that. I may be a jackass, but I’m not a selfish jackass. Going to Berkeley Law is Bellamy’s lifelong dream. And seeing Bellamy happily reach her highest potential is my dream. I’m not sure when or how that happened or why I feel such a pressing urgency about it, but it did. I do. That being the case, I need to keep my big mouth shut and get my shit together. ASAP.

“I appreciate your consideration,” I say, taking great care to soften my tone. “But work stays at work from now on. Period.”

“I appreciate your desire to separate work time and private time,” she says with an edge in her voice that could cut diamonds.

“Okay…?” I say warily.

“You know what I’d appreciate? You not firing orders at me like you’re a drill sergeant and I’m a marine in basic training. At work or at home.” She pauses to flash me a chilling smile. “Agreed?”

“Agreed,” I say quickly, probably because the memory of my brief but painful interlude in her doghouse Saturday night is still fresh. If she brought me to heel that easily on my turf, I don’t want to find out what she could do to me on hers. “Are you done giving me grief?”

“For now,” she says, then her triumphant smile disappears behind her glass as she takes a sip.

“Great.” I set my glass down, scoot the dog off my lap and stand, determined to, I don’t know, take a minute, get my head together and regroup. I can’t continue to lose my cool every time things don’t go my way with Bellamy. Which, let’s face it, is most of the time. “I’ll be right back.”

“Down the hall. First door,” she says.

I retreat to the bathroom, splash water on my face and stare at the poor bastard in the mirror. Funny how I look the same on the outside (except for a veiled flare of panic if you look deep enough into my eyes), yet my insides feel as though they’re being remodeled into something for which I haven’t seen the floor plan. She’s got me tied up in knots, this one.

Part of me thinks I should anticipate the day she leaves as the day I get my normal life back.

A bigger and smarter part of me knows that ain’t happening.

I open the door and head toward the living room just as her phone rings.

“Hey, Papa,” she says. “Everything okay? It’s not really a good time for me to talk.”

Her father. I linger in the doorway, overcome by sudden overwhelming curiosity.

“Fine, fine,” he says. “Just call me tomorrow when you get a chance. Nothing’s going on here—”

“Is that your father?” I say quickly, walking in, resuming my seat and crowding her in my attempt to see the screen.

Let me pause here to mention that I don’t do parents. If I find myself meeting the parents of a woman I’m sleeping with, something has gone badly wrong with my day. Which is why I find my sudden impulsivity so inexplicable.

My only defense? The devil made me do it.

“Griffin Black,” I tell him, settling Jeremy back on my lap when he climbs on board and doing my best to ignore both Bellamy’s outraged gasp and sidelong glare. “Great to finally meet you. Bellamy talks about you all the time.”

“So this is the famous Griffin Black,” he says, smiling out at me from the phone. I like him right away. He’s got white hair and an open and easy vibe, like a surfer Santa Claus. “You don’t look half as bad as Bellamy claims.”

“I’m probably much worse. And thanks for the tip about my roses,” I say, laughing and ignoring an additional disgruntled sound from Bellamy, this one accompanied by a swift kick to my shin. “Hopefully, we can keep them from dying.”

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” he says. “Roses can be finicky. Didn’t know that was your beautiful garden. Or that your boss was your new boyfriend, Bellamy. That’s why you’ve been so smiley lately.”

Smiley? Really?

I pivot at the waist, eager to see Bellamy’s reaction to her father’s assessment.

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