Page 48 of Rosabel and the Billionaire Beast

“This place is stunning, too. No one builds houses like this anymore,” I said.

The contrast between this more historical house and the modern mansions back at Duncan’s mountain cove was evidence of that. Each style, each time period, had its own charms and setbacks. I’d just have to appreciate the beauty of both worlds.

“This is where I grew up,” Duncan said when we exited the car.

My mouth dropped. It was doing that a lot lately.

“Thishouse?”

“Why does that surprise you?”

“I never would have thought you’d grow up in a place like this. In an adorable, historic place like this?”

I swept my gaze to the upper balcony, which was supported by several statuesque columns. I pictured flags draped from those battlements during an earlier time period. This was Civil War territory, after all.

“What’s wrong with that?” he asked, broaching the sidewalk toward the front door.

“Nothing. You just don’t seem like the kind of guy…”

Duncan wore the highest end clothes he could find. He drove a freaking Bugatti in a tiny town like Westville. I wasn’t sure why I expected his childhood home to be like Buckingham Palace or something rather than this modest but lovely historical home.

My thoughts trailed off.

He had let me ramble on about my interests and hadn’t said a word about his own. As we stepped out of the car and broachedthe sidewalk together, realization opened a new file within my mind.

Though I’d handled his schedule, knew he loved to fight, and knew how he liked his coffee, I was really nothing more than an acquaintance with Duncan. How much did I really know about him?

Not much. And weirdly enough, I was itching with curiosity about this man. What made him be the way he was?

He’d been kinder to me when we’d first met. Why? Why had he stopped?

Halfway up the walk, his jaw ticked. “I don’t seem like what kind of guy?”

“I’ve only ever seen you in extravagance,” I said. “This house seems so beneath you or something.”

This historical home didn’t seem to fit his stuffy lifestyle.

“We all have to start somewhere,” he muttered, staring at the front door.

That was interesting. Duncan seemed like the kind of person who’d shot out of his mother’s womb in fully operational boss-mode; a living, breathingBoss Baby. To think he had a past where he’d been a different person, shook me.

Moments passed. He stared at the door, with his hands fisted at his sides.

He didn’t knock. He didn’t move. He only stared.

I’d watched this man take on CEO tycoons from company after company, steering them—and in some cases,bullyingthem—toward or away from certain investments. I’d watched this man tackle an imposter who’d once keyed his friend’s car without a second thought.

He’d never confronted either of those things with his hands fisted so tightly at his sides that his veins bulged.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Fine,” he said placidly.

I opened my mouth to press the issue when the door swung open. A tall, thin woman stood on the threshold in a striped blouse and knee-length skirt and heels. She showed only a small spark of recognition. In fact, I wondered if she was an assistant herself, someone who regularly answered the door for the family.

Except she shared traits with Duncan that were too obvious to ignore. Their hair color. The shapes of their eyes and noses. This was his mom—it had to be. Why, then, did her already downturned mouth frown a little deeper?

I suspected her age lines were due more to stress and dissatisfaction than smiling. Though this woman’s complexion could make Audrey Hepburn jealous—if Audrey were the type; care, stress, and frustration dragged down the corners of this woman’s eyes and weighed on her shoulders.

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