Page 63 of Rosabel and the Billionaire Beast

“With my mom working—often in foreign countries—my grandma raised me. She might not have been the warmest person, and she might have her social standards, but I still loveher because she taught me to work hard and not give up on my dreams.

“She taught me the value of persistence. Perseverance. My family supported my education and helped me get into a prestigious fraternity when I was in school since my grandma was friends with the woman who ran the frat house. I suppose we don’t share the intricate connection you share with yours, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t connected.”

There was that look in his eyes, the same one that had been in the weight room when I’d accused him of not being able to love. It was a trace of vulnerability, something I couldn’t quite read.

Had I hurt his feelings?

“I—Duncan, I didn’t mean?—”

He lowered his head and treaded toward me, passing until he stepped off the dock. He peered back long enough to say, “I’ve interrupted your morning. I’ll see you later.”

He climbed up the railroad ties in the mountainside, not so much like a dog with his tail between his legs, but like a resolute man who’d just lost the battle but still kept his head high.

Duncan’s confidence was usually effervescent. Now, he was down a few rungs—wasn’t that what I’d wanted?

Why should I care this much? He’d inadvertently—and sometimes intentionally—riled me so many times I couldn’t count. So what if I insulted his family and compared them with mine?

Part of me considered following him, joining him back up the long hike to the road above. Instead, I watched him go, wondering what was going on.

Dissatisfaction bubbled in my chest at a low boil. The man was infuriating. I thought I could read his stormy moods like an analog clock, but here, in the Ozarks, away from the bustle of busyness back home, he was a different person.

Half of the time I wondered if he had any feelings besides animosity at all. Having him show them now, they took me completely by surprise. I wasn’t sure how to handle the thoughtful man I’d just spoken with, the one who spoke fondly of his family and didn’t shout orders at me or demand coffee.

I climbed the railroad ties, my thoughts spewing in all directions. Once I made it up to the road, I had to pause to catch my breath.

Running at my usual pace, I circled my way around the lake, taking in several other exquisite and massive homes in the ritzy, sequestered neighborhood. A dog at one house barked from its post in the backyard.

Muscles supple, lungs winded, I returned to Duncan’s, trundled to my room, stretched, and took a restless shower. I toweled, dried, and styled my hair, prepped my makeup, and dressed before heading downstairs.

Pat was in the kitchen, bustling around with something. I’d obviously missed the breakfast she’d prepared. She wore an apron over her jeans and white shirt, and her graying hair was tied back in a ponytail.

“Hello, Rosabel,” she said, bending to retrieve a bowl from beneath the counter. “You hungry? Can I get you anything? I was just putting this away, but I can heat it up for you, if you’d like.”

“I—oh, I’m okay.” I opened the fridge and startled. Filling an entire shelf in the door were the exact bottles of flavored water that I loved. Strawberry kiwi.

“I insist.” She smiled and draped a hand over the bowl she held.

“I’d love some, thanks,” I said, closing the door instead of taking a water. “I’m not used to people cooking for me.”

As if the idea of serving me newly energized her, she set the bowl down, retrieved a plate, and placed several pancakes ontoit. Then, she clicked on the burner and poured what looked like eggs from a different bowl into the pan.

“From what I hear you do all the waiting on others,” she said.

I wasn’t sure what to make of that. I rested my hip against the counter. It felt weird to sit and just have her serve me. I wanted to grab a spatula and stir the eggs, but she knew the kitchen better than I did and beat me to it.

“What do you mean, from what you hear?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing.” She waved this off. “It’s just that Duncan talks sometimes when he’s winding down after work.”

Color me shocked. “He talks about me?”

“Sometimes.”

This didn’t seem to faze her, but it was an explosion to me. “What does he say about me?”

Pat hummed as she finished cooking the eggs and scooped them and the newly heated pancakes onto my plate.

“Pat?” I said.

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