Page 9 of Rosabel and the Billionaire Beast

A squeak of pain escaped at the hot liquid and the scalding against my skin. Tears stung my eyes, and I waved my hand as if that would make the liquid burn less.

Snickers and guffaws escalated from our rapt audience. Could they look somewhere else? Or better yet, leave?

I expected Duncan to reach for the paper towels, wet them down, and daub at the stain on his shirt. To gripe at me for ruining his clothes. To take the mug and snap at me for taking so long before turning away.

Instead, he took the mug from my hand, placed it on the counter, and captured my hand in his.

Before I knew what was happening, he turned the water on, let it run, and guided my hand beneath it. It was cold and stark, soothing the heat in my skin.

The heat emanating from Duncan, though? It did nothing to quash that.

“Did it burn you?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“I—” I couldn’t think, not with his hand around mine. Not with his chest pressed against my side, not with the smell of his cologne, or the surprisingly gentle way he held my hand beneath the ice-cold water.

I was entirely too aware of the three women sitting at the table, watching this entire debacle play out. Of all the times for Duncan to benice, this wasn’t it.

He had coffee all down his shirt. Yet he was paying attention tome.

If that wasn’t going to fuel the rumors, I didn’t know what would.

I jerked my hand out of his grasp and stepped away, reaching for a paper towel. “I’m fine.”

Duncan’s scowl was a thing of wonder. How he didn’t form a permanent wrinkle between his brows was beyond me.

His expression shifted only for a moment. There was something else in that glower, but before I could place anything, it was gone.

As if finally realizing his shirt was stained, he peered down at the brown spot beside his tie. He glanced toward Gale, Charity, and Isla—each of whom chewed silently and watched us raptly—then snatched a paper towel of his own and stalked back out the way he’d come.

I expelled a massive breath and rested my hands on the counter, lowering my head. Behind me, Gale voiced the question stampeding through my head:

“What wasthat?”

More giggles ensued.

She was right, though. Whatwasthat?

Duncan had done the occasional kind outreach. Nothing outlandish, just little things like the time he’d bought me a punching bag after hearing that a woman had been attacked on one of her evening runs around Westville or the time he’d had flowers delivered on my birthday.

Pete had been livid over those roses. He’d been waiting on my doorstep with a bouquet of his own, waiting for me to get home from work. When I’d shown up already holding flowers, he’d made all kinds of insinuations the rest of the night, so much so that I’d requested he take me out to dinner another time.

I never read much into things like that when Duncan did them because when I came to work the next day, it was as though the soft side had been a phantom and his nastiness reared its head all over again.

But this? I could still feel the warmth of him pressed against me, the gentle way he’d held my hand beneath the water, the low lilt of his voice asking if the coffee had burned me.

Gale stood and dropped something into the garbage can before eyeing the coffee mug on the counter.

“You sure that coffee was for him?” she said.

“Yes,” I answered without looking at her.

I stared at my hand. Though I could still feel the sting of the burn, at least it wasn’t bad enough to warrant a trip to the hospital or anything like that.

Just minor, thank goodness.

“Then why did he leave it behind?” She didn’t wait for an answer before strutting toward the breakroom door.

Exasperated, head still reeling from whatever had just happened, I mopped up the liquid that had spilled down the mug’s side, refilled it, and stalked out into the main area.

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