Page 37 of The Grumpy Billionaire

“I’ll handle it,” Hugo says.

“This should be a write-up,” Brenda says.

Intense gray eyes pierce mine. “I got it.”

Brenda heads out with a huff.

Hugo shuts the door and turns to me. He’s wearing yet another one of his shoulder-defining shirts, finespun gray fabric outlining triceps and biceps and various other fetching muscles.

“The rules don’t apply to you, is that it? You think you can walk in here whenever you please?”

“Yeah, well, you know me.” I march right up to him, glaring into his stupidly chiseled face. “Unruly. Reckless. Refuses to follow orders.”

A muscle fires in his jaw. He remembers what he wrote in that letter—he has a memory like a steel trap.

“So, Mom and Dad asked you to write a confidential letter of recommendation to Zevin Media on my behalf?”

“They did,” he says.

“And you thought, ‘That’s a good idea, but I’m gonna put my own unique twist on it and make it super mean.’”

“Mean was not my intention,” he says. “Quite the opposite.”

“I see. So, that was your idea of a supportive letter? I gotta tell you, it didn’t read that way, what with the recklessness and unruliness and all.”

“Stella—I know it looks unsupportive.”

“Looksunsupportive? It tanked my dream job. And then it tanked every other job I applied for afterwards. How could you write a letter like that? The process is confidential. Mom and Dad would’ve never known whether you wrote anything at all. Nobody would’ve known. So why would you do it?”

His powerful gaze feels like a searchlight on me. “I had to.” This he gusts out with feeling.

“Why?”

He shakes his head. “I had my reasons.”

“Like what?”

“I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.”

“So your reasons are a big secret? No. I think you owe me an explanation.”

“I can’t tell you,” he says.

“So…secret reasons. That’s why you wrote it. Secret reasons. Are you fucking serious right now?”

He nods, gray eyes serious as can be.

“Well, I wanted that job, and you wrecked it. Thanks to you, I’m now doing spreadsheets and proofing and travel arrangements—me, the least detail-oriented person on the planet. That job is crushing my soul because of how much I suck at it. But guess what? It’s the only job I could get. I hope you’re happy.”

“I’m never happy,” he growls.

“Poor Mr. Roboto! What’s wrong? Did they leave the happiness out of your coding? Along with empathy and human decency? How could you? Seriously—unruly? Reckless? Do you really think those things, Hugo? You think I’m reckless and unruly and incorrigible and—”

Warm fingertips settle against my throat sending electricity radiating across my skin.

The words evaporate from my lips.

Hugo’s gray eyes spear into mine, dark and serious as he traces a molten path down my throat, two strong fingers sliding down, down, down to the tender divot at the base of my neck.

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