Page 15 of Billionaire Wolf Needs a Maid

"That's not fair." But my voice wavered. "Dean wouldn't."

"Wouldn't what? Hurt you? Break your heart?" Maggie's eyes softened. "You see the best in everyone, Nina. It's what I love about you. But sometimes people are exactly who they seem to be."

I stared into my coffee, watching the light play on its surface. "And sometimes they're not."

Later, as I hugged them goodbye, Maggie pulled me close. "Just be careful, okay?" she whispered, her arms tight around me. "I can't watch you get hurt."

"I know what I'm doing," I assured her, even as doubt gnawed at my stomach.

"Do you?" She pulled back to study my face. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're falling for someone who's already told you to keep your distance."

I couldn't meet her eyes. "It's not like that."

"It never is, until it is." She squeezed my shoulders. "Just remember you have people who love you, okay? People who'll be here no matter what."

Max's goodbye hug was easier, all enthusiasm and sticky kisses. "Don't forget your superpowers!" he called as I headed for my car. "You gotta keep the monsters away!"

If only it were that simple.

The city welcomed me back with its usual soundtrack of horns and sirens. Gone were the cheerful gardens and quiet streets, replaced by steel and glass towers that blocked out the sun. The familiar tension crept back into my shoulders as I made my way to Dean's building, Max's drawing tucked safely in the bag slung across my shoulder. The doorman nodded as I passed, and the elevator whispered upward with its usual efficiency.

"Welcome back, Miss Sorenson," Jenkins greeted as the penthouse doors slid open. "I trust your day off was rejuvenating?"

"It was nice to see family." As soon as I stepped inside, I was already scanning for tasks. The coldness of the penthouse was stark after the warmth of Maggie's house. "Anything urgent need attention?"

"Mr. Nightfang has been in his office since dawn," Jenkins reported. "He's consumed approximately three pots of coffee and has not eaten since yesterday evening. His vital signs suggest increasing irritability."

I sighed. "I'll make something."

The kitchen was spotless, my doing, but the coffee maker showed signs of recent abuse. Dark drops stained the area around the counter. The hopper, which was refilled with coffee beans when I left, was now half empty. I started a fresh pot and assembled a sandwich, adding extra tomatoes because I'd noticed Dean seemed to like them. The scent of fresh coffee filled the air, a poor substitute for chocolate chip cookies but comforting in its own way.

As I worked, Max's drawing fell from my bag, bright colors stark against the monochrome floor.

"What's that?" Jenkins asked as I bent to retrieve it.

"My nephew's artwork." I smiled at the crayon figure, its cape flowing with childish enthusiasm. "He thinks I'm some kind of superhero maid."

"How charmingly optimistic." Jenkins' tone was dry. "Though given your success rate with Mr. Nightfang's chaos, perhaps not entirely inaccurate. You do seem to have a certain calming effect."

I laughed, setting the drawing aside to plate the sandwich. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Dean's office door was closed, the heavy oak a barrier between worlds. Through it came the angry staccato of keyboard strikes, too fast, too harsh, like rainfall turning to hail. My stomach tightened at the familiar sound. This was his spiral pattern. He would work until exhaustion, then work harder. I adjusted the plate in my hands, drew in a steadying breath, and knocked softly.

"What?" The word was sharp and distracted.

I pushed the door open. "You need to eat something."

He looked up, and the full weight of those hazel-gold eyes slammed into me. My breath caught. Dark circles colored the skin beneath them, making the sharp angles of his face even more pronounced. His hair stuck up in wild peaks. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his shoulders were tense enough to snap steel. His black t-shirt was rumpled, sleeves pushed up to reveal corded forearms. Something about seeing him like this, rumpled and focused and somehow vulnerable, made my heart twist.

As I balanced the plate and coffee, my mind raced with contrary impulses. Part of me wanted to retreat, to maintain the professional distance he so clearly preferred. But the part that noticed how his hands shook slightly from too much caffeine and too little food, the part that caught those rare unguarded moments when he looked almost lost, that part couldn't step back. Maggie's warnings echoed in my head, but they were drowning under the steady drum of my heart.

"You look like you've been wrestling with your keyboard," I said, aiming for lightness. "I think the computer's winning."

"I'm busy." But his gaze lingered on the sandwich, and something in his expression softened infinitesimally.

"You're always busy." I set everything on his desk, careful not to disturb the organized chaos of papers and tech. "But you still need food."

He opened his mouth, probably to argue, but his stomach growled traitorously. A hint of color touched his cheeks, and for a moment, he looked almost human instead of the untouchable CEO or the man with dangerous secrets, just someone who'd forgotten to eat lunch.

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