Page 10 of Ezra the Billionaire

Her expression of denial gets interrupted when my assistant appears with Jean.

“Take a seat. We were reviewing the email you sent and have some questions.” I wait for the man to settle beside Kennedy then jump straight to the point. “We’re disappointed by the lack of attention to Lauren. We expressed our desire for her to takecenter stage in this campaign, so why have you ignored our wishes?”

Jean clasps his hands in his lap. Disdain wrinkles his nose. “Respectfully,monsieur, but Miss Lauren doesn’t possess the qualities needed for your campaign. She’s not photogenic and—”

“Excuse me?” I boom, my ire rising to new heights at the blatant disgust in his tone.So much for keeping my cool.“She’s extremely photogenic. A young, beautiful woman. What I’m hearing is that you are not talented enough to recognize the prize you have in front of you. Nor do you possess the skill required for this job. With that said, you’re fired. Effective immediately.”

Jean splutters in disbelief while my sister covers a cough of shocked amusement. I won’t tolerate anyone insulting Lauren. First the douche at the grocery store and now this pompous photographer? Not on my watch.

“You can’t fire me. We have a contract!”

“Which gives me the right to terminate our working relationship if at any time Hearthstone Lodge’s best interests are in jeopardy. A contracted employee who willfully defies strict orders for the final product falls within those boundaries. You may see yourself out.”

A flurry of French explodes from Marcelle as he stomps out of the room. He can curse me all he wants; he’s the one who fucked up and lost a contract with the Pacific Northwest’s premier mountain resort.

“Nicely done.” Kennedy applauds with a knowing smirk twisting the corner of her mouth. “Let’s hope Kent Moreland is free to step in. I’ll call Nora to explain what happened with Jean. I’m sure she didn’t know he’d be so size-ist when that’s against everything she promotes.”

One click of my mouse sends the email inquiry to Kent about taking over the campaign photoshoot, then I stand andstraighten my jacket. “I’ll find Lauren. She kept how badly Marcelle was treating her to herself.”

“Don’t be too hard on her,” she says, following me out the door.

I grunt in response.

My phone buzzes with a message from security answering my question on Lauren’s whereabouts. I don’t often request the location of guests, but everything about our celebrity resident has me acting in ways I never have before.

Punching people.

Yelling at them.

It’s like she’s snipped at the strands that bind my control, unleashing every fiery emotion I’ve spent years subduing in order to succeed as a cold, logical businessman.

I don’t like it.

It makes for bad business decisions when a man runs on something as fickle as feelings.

I loathe it.

And Lauren’s about to find out how much.

CHAPTER SEVEN

LAUREN

“Miss Billingsley.” The icy blast from Ezra sends a chill down my spine. From the formality of my last name to his glacial stare, I’m guessing he spent the night remembering why our kiss never should have happened rather than indulging in someself-careat the memory.

“Mr. Caldwell.” I match his serious tone and cautiously rise from my spot leaning against the pillar where Jennifer Q and I have met Jean Marcelle every morning this week. He’s late, but that’s the least of my worries with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Cloudy bearing down on me.

“Lauren! There are rumors that Hunter is searching for you. Are you ignoring his calls?” Bright flashing lights blind me for a moment. The ambush is unexpected considering the lodge’s increased security since my arrival, but paparazzi are like cockroaches—no matter how many you kill, one always pops up to replace it.

“Fuck, Jennifer handle this,” Ezra instructs the supermodel next to me, who eagerly rushes to intercept the photogs heading our way. His hand takes mine and ushers me across the gleaming marble floor and down multiple hallways before pulling me into a supply closet. The door shuts behind us witha soft snick, a blanket of ominous silence settling over our shoulders.

“I’m sorry. This is like a never-ending apology tour,” I weakly joke. A sliver of light peeks under the door. Otherwise, darkness shrouds us in shadows while the smell of chemical cleaners permeates the air.

“Well, this time it should be me apologizing to you. This is my property. My security should be doing a better job of protecting you from those bloodsuckers.”

“They can’t be everywhere one hundred percent of the time,” I point out, not wanting any of his employees to get into trouble because of me.

“That’s what cameras are for. Twenty-four-seven coverage.”

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