Page 39 of Rosabel and the Billionaire Beast

Duncan scribbled on his tablet and spoke without lifting his gaze. “It’s about an hour from the airport. My lake house is on the outskirts of the town.”

“Your—lake house? You failed to mention that.”

Then again, hehadmentioned something during one of our recent arguments. If the countryside was this stunning, I could only imagine what a house situated at the edge of its own personal scenic view would be like.

“It’s a recent investment,” he said, still looking at his screen. “I needed somewhere secluded. Somewhere to stay when I come to visit."

Because a hotel wouldn’t suffice. Sheesh. Billionaires.

“Do you plan on coming often?” I asked.

If he did, that was news to me. Then again, he didn’t pass everything by me—and I had just quit. With no intention of managing anything in his life ever again after this, thank you very much.

“Hm?”

“Isn’t your family here?” I asked.

I slid on the seat as the car shifted directions. My stomach soured, and I gripped the armrest. The driver took another few turns as the road became more and more twisty.

I pressed myself against the back, squeezing my eyes shut and trying to ignore the whirlpool in my belly.

“They are. Remember? That’s why we came,” Duncan said.

I squinted a single eye open. He missed it, and while I considered pointing out his rudeness, I chose not to protest. My stomach was doing that enough for me.

I’d never been one to get carsick, but then, I’d never been on such a winding road, either. Risking a glance, I inched up and watched the narrow road out the window and the sheer number of trees surrounding us.

My unease multiplied.

“You never told me we were headed into the backwoods.”

“Ozarks,” he said as though I’d left a few IQ points on the plane.

I ground my teeth. “Tone, Mr. Hawthorne. You promised you’d be civil.”

Finally, Duncan lifted his attention from his device and glanced at me. Any other person would catch their faux pas and apologize. Either he didn’t get it, had never been taught civility or empathy, or just plain blew off my previous request.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

I squeezed my eyes shut as we broached another curve—which the driver did NOT slow down for.

“My stomach doesn’t like the twisting roads.”

“You get carsick? Since when?”

The car took another turn. This time, the driver slowed substantially to handle the curve at a more comfortable rate.

I winced and gripped the door’s handle again. “Since now, apparently.”

“Here.” Duncan set his tablet aside and dug through his bag, retrieving a bottle of rattling pills. He shook two free and passed them to me. His fingertips grazed the skin of my palm.

Tingles dusted along my skin. Thanks to Isla’s text, I rejected the sensation as quickly as I could and cleared my throat.

“Thanks,” I said, surprised by his unexpected kindness.

This was just like the coffee incident. Like the time I’d walked into my office on my birthday and found anonymous roses that had been delivered that I overheard him telling someone on the phone he’d been the one to order.

I didn’t get it. Why did he hold this side of him back? Why was he so hot and cold with me?

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