Page 104 of Rosabel and the Billionaire Beast

“Oh, my gosh,” I said in the quiet room.

I wasn’t just into him, too—I’d crashed hard for him.

And I hadn’t even realized how much.

My mouth was a desert. I needed some water. I strode down to the kitchen, praying he stayed in his room, praying I wouldn’t run into Nicole or Pat, either.

Fortunately, the kitchen was empty, which made sense. It was nearing nine p.m. Too late to be doing any kind of cooking.

I retrieved one of the drinks he’d stocked for me in the fridge, cracked it open, and wandered through parts of the house I hadn’t yet seen.

I had to admit, my curiosity about the book room Clive had mentioned was too strong to ignore. It took several doors before I finally found it. Shelves claimed the majority of the back wall, while several fat arm chairs in shades of delicate sage green were situated on a rug on either side of a coffee table.

I gazed at the lovely room while tremors of longing stole through me. Quietly, I approached the shelves and examined the titles.

The Duke’s Demise?A Heart Abandoned?Blazing Cowboy?

“They’re all romances,” I muttered.

Definitely not the kind of thing I ever pictured Duncan reading. A conversation we’d had at the office replayed in my mind. He’d walked in on me reading during my lunch break. He’d asked about the book, about how I loved reading. About how romances were my favorite.

My knees grew weak. I staggered to one of the chairs, needing its support more than ever.

“He picked these for me,” I muttered.

Or, he had his staff do so. Either way, I was struck. The flute, the fridge, the trolley pass. I’d been blind. So blind.

My earlier resolve to avoid him changed like a flipped coin. I took it back. The truth was, I wanted him. I wanted to be where he was, to know what he was doing. I wanted to hear his voice.

The room was lovely and faced the front of the house, so I was sure buckets of sunlight pooled onto the inviting armchairs. Another time, I’d sit and browse, pick a book from the shelf and get to know it for a while, but I flicked off the light and kept going.

He wasn’t in his bedroom, so I trundled down the stairs to the open room where the pool table was set up behind a huge couch. A massive wall remained white and uncovered, and a projector hung from the ceiling, suggesting this was the place to watch movies. Maybe that was something we could do.

It could be an opportunity to spend time together without having to say anything. I pictured nestling beside Duncan on the couch. I pictured the way his hand would find mine. The way we’d forget all about the movie completely as we got wrapped up in one another instead.

Sounds came from down the hall, in a direction I knew well enough. From the light beaming through the open gym door, I’d guess Duncan was working out.

I meandered toward him, and my heart climbed higher into my throat with every step. The sound of repetitive thumps and grunts alerted me, and sure enough, I found him facing down the large punching bag.

He’d stripped down to only jogging pants. Sweat glistened on his muscled torso, and I took in every ridge, every line of his abs, the swells in his shoulders and biceps. He bounced on his toes, eyeing his target for several seconds before darting a jab with a wrapped hand in the center, causing the punching bag to sway.

I went weak. A blaze radiated in my chest as I watched the lines of his back respond to his movements.

He was beautiful. Strong and beautiful.

“What did that bag ever do to you?” I asked, mostly to still my fluttering heart.

Duncan paused and faced me, lifting a hand to wipe his cheek. His eyes didn’t light up at the sight of me. If anything, they thundered.

He was upset that I was here.

Why, though? What was going on?

“What are you doing here?” he asked, crossing the room to where his water bottle sat on the end of the line of weights. He grasped it and tipped it up for a drink.

“I owe you an apology.”

His scowl deepened. He lowered his water bottle. “For what?”

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