Page 11 of Starting Over with Her Billionaire Boss

“Kinsley,” his voice carried through the phone’s receiver. Hearing her name roll off his tongue warmed her on this uncharacteristically chilly summer morning. “Can you come in here for a moment?”

She had just sat down at her desk seconds before. “Yeah, I’ll be right there,” she said, wrestling the eagerness out of her voice. Each time she was in his presence, she felt herself losing in a battle between attraction and sticking to a professional boundary.

Laptop in hand, she headed to his office. The steady rhythm of the click of her heels against the wooden floor helped calm her nerves. Her small office was only a few doors down, yet the walk to his felt like a mile. She found Mr. Westerhouse standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his broad shoulders outlinedagainst the morning sun. He turned, and for a moment, their eyes met.

“I need your help with something,” he said, motioning her over. As Kinsley approached, she caught the faint scent of his cologne—woody and masculine. “These proposals,” he gestured to several folders spread across his desk, “need to be organized by priority. But first,” he paused, running a hand through his dark hair, “I need coffee.”

“Isn’t that what the coffee cart is for?” she teased, raising an eyebrow.

“Not today,” he said. “I need something better. There's this little coffee shop down the street. They make the only espresso in town worth drinking.”

“And you want me to get it for you?” She struggled to keep the amusement out of her voice, but he didn’t make it easy.

“Actually,” a small smile played at the corners of his mouth, “I thought we could both use a break. Walk with me?”

“A break? We just got here.” She glanced at the stack of proposals, then back at him. “Are you sure that's appropriate, Mr. Westerhouse?”

“Daegan,” he corrected her. It wasn’t the first time he’d insisted, but Kinsley was trying very hard not to think of him as anything else. “And what's inappropriate about a boss and his personal assistant grabbing a coffee before a busy day?”

Everything, she thought. Especially when her boss made her pulse quicken just by standing near her. But she found herself nodding, anyway. She wasn’t naïve. Letting her guard down, even for something as innocent as a coffee run, felt like playing with fire. But something about Daegan Westerhouse made it impossible to keep her walls fully intact. He wasn’t just her boss—he was magnetic, and that scared her.

The morning summer air was crisp as they walked. Kinsley hugged her arms against the chill, wishing she'd grabbed her coat.

“Here.” Mr. Westerhouse shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over her before she could protest. His fingers lingered on her shoulders for the briefest moment, and Kinsley hoped the cold could explain why she’d shivered. Though he pulled back quickly, his usual composure had slipped just enough to make her wonder if he’d felt it too. His scent wrapped around her with the exquisite lining of his jacket like a dangerous promise. This was exactly the kind of gesture that could fuel Laurel’s gossip for weeks—the kind that could destroy everything Kinsley was working for. Yet she couldn't bring herself to shrug it off.

“Thank you,” she managed, trying to ignore how intimate the simple gesture felt. She should have protested, should have insisted she was fine without it, but he’d disarmed her.

He smiled, small and hesitant, as if offering his jacket wasn’t something he did often. It left behind a crack in his otherwise composed demeanor. “The weather is certainly atypical today. Usually, summer mornings aren’t this cold. It must be that front that passed through last night, plus the breeze coming off the coast. It’s one of those days where you drive to work with the heat blasting, and then have the air conditioning on high on the way home.” He chuckled.

“I guess I wasn’t expecting this.”Both his jacket and the weather.

“So,” he said as they walked, “tell me something about yourself that isn't in your resume.”

Kinsley considered for a moment. “I collect vintage teacups. My grandmother started the collection, and now I can't pass an antique store without looking for them.”

“Teacups?” He looked at her with genuine interest. “I wouldn't have guessed that.”

“What would you have guessed?”

“I don't know,” he admitted. “People are full of surprises.”

They reached the coffee shop, and Mr. Westerhouse held the door for her. The warm air inside smelled of coffee and freshly baked pastries. As they waited in line, Kinsley became acutely aware of how close they were standing, and how his presence seemed to fill the space around her.

His shoulder brushed against hers as they stood in line, and the contact sent another shiver down her spine. Kinsley tried to focus on the displays, but all she could think about was how close he was. How easy it would be to lean into the contact, if she only said she was still cold.

“What can I get you?” the barista asked, restocking a few pastries in the display case.

“Large Americano, extra shot,” Mr. Westerhouse requested, then looked at Kinsley expectantly. When their eyes met, there was a flicker in his gaze—something that made her breath hitch. Was it curiosity? Interest? She couldn’t be sure, but it made her heart skip.

“Oh, I can get my own?—”

“Kinsley,” he cut her off gently, “let me buy you a coffee.”

The way he said her name—like silk sliding across her bare skin—made her resolve crumble. “Vanilla latte, please. Medium.”

This was just a coffee run, she reminded herself. Nothing more. But every time Mr. Westerhouse smiled at her, or said her name in that low, velvet tone, the line between professionalism and something more became harder to define.

As they waited for their drinks, the aromatic scent of espresso met her nose. Mr. Westerhouse leaned against the counter, studying her. “You know, most assistants would have run screaming by now, especially after that client I had you dealwith yesterday. I'm not exactly known for being easy to work for. I’ve given you a lot over these few days.”

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