Page 21 of The Grumpy Billionaire

Gray eyes burn into mine.

My mouth goes dry. The floor seems to dip beneath me.

“It’s a delivery specifically for you, Mr. Jones,” I say.

Brenda pipes up, sounding Hugo-level annoyed. “She’s got something that needs a signature, and she insists the stamper won’t do.”

“It’s special circumstances,” I mumble, unprepared for the mind-bending reality of being near Hugo after all these years.

“Fine.” His deep, gravelly baritone sends pleasure waves through me. “Follow me. I’ve got research anyway.”

I follow him down a long, slim hallway, through a small waiting room, and on into a brilliant office lined with windows on one side and computer screens on the other, and three whiteboards covered with angry scribbles.

He spins to face me. “What are you up to, Stella? What is this game?”

I forgot about this feeling—the sheer joy of being near Hugo, the wild brightness in my chest, just like old times. He’d be so stern, and I’d smile from the pure joy of him, and he’d get even more annoyed.

I’m squeezing my lips together, trying to quash that smile. I don’t want him to be mad, but he’s frowning so perfectly, and his mussed hair and oh-so-serious glasses…

“What am I up to?”

“Yes. What?” he demands again, so stern and gravelly.

I forgot how sexy he is when he’s stern! I swallow nervously. “I wanted to thank you for getting me this job. I got you this card.” I pull it from its clipboard hiding place and hold it out to him.

And wait.

The way he’s staring at it, you’d think it was a dead mouse.

“It’s for you.”

“You didn’t have to bring me something.”

“No, I did. You came through with this job when I was in a pinch, and I want you to know how much I appreciate it. I don’t know if Mom told you, but I had this one other job lined up—it was a great position, and it was one hundred percent locked down. Double and triple locked—”

“Don’t worry about it.” He takes the card. “It’s fine. Thank you. And, welcome and all that. Is there anything else?”

My gaze falls to his fingers on the envelope. I’m remembering the feel of those fingers touching my neck and grabbing my hair during a certain long-ago kiss—the mistaken-identity kiss, as I call it.

The mistaken-identity kiss was the result of Hugo napping in the wrong place at the wrong time during a teen drinking game my friends and I were playing in our basement back in Illinois. The game involved blindfolds and boys hiding in dark rooms around the house, not knowing who would come to kiss them.

Our parents were away at the time, needless to say.

I went into the dark music room, having drawn a scrap of paper that sent me there to kiss whatever boy was there, not knowing it was Hugo. Hugo was supposed to be holed up in Charlie’s room.

But there he was—taking a nap, as I later figured out.

And I sat myself right down on the daybed and leaned over and kissed him.

He jolted up. He grabbed me and kissed me back. He was so warm and strong, all pine shampoo and a smattering of whiskers.

I instantly realized it was him.

Hugo.

Hugo and I were kissing! It was like every dream I’d ever had, coming true. Better, even, because Hugo’s kiss was full of raw need. It was like he had an earthquake inside him, gripping me, holding me, needing me. He whispered something that I thought was my name, but surely it wasn’t, being that I’d accosted him while he was sleeping with a kiss in a dark room.

And he was kissing me—passionately, like he was out of control with lust, gripping my hair, all knuckles and breath and heat.

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