Page 17 of Her Frosty Billionaire
She brought over two mugs of hot chocolate—made the “right way” with real milk, cinnamon, and tiny marshmallows—and settled carefully beside me on the couch, tucking her feet under her legs.
“How’s your back?” I asked, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
“Better today. I actually got some stuff done.” She sipped her cocoa and smiled. “Your daughter is finally letting me sleep.”
My daughter. The words still felt surreal.
“She’s going to be spoiled,” I warned. “Between you, your friends, and my entire executive team, she won’t stand a chance.”
“Good. She deserves to be spoiled.” Hope leaned her head against my shoulder. “Can you believe it’s been four years?”
“Since the Christmas market?”
“Since you showed up looking for me, holding overpriced hot chocolate and apologizing for being an asshole.”
I laughed. “I was an asshole.”
“You were. But you got better.”
Better was an understatement. In four years, everything had changed. We’d gotten married the following summer—a small ceremony in the greenhouse where we’d first made love, with only our closest friends and family. We’d spent our honeymoon in Vienna, then kept traveling. Paris, Tokyo, Santorini,Barcelona, and Buenos Aires. Hope wanted to see the world, and I wanted to show it to her.
Frost & Co. Digital had thrived, expanding into international markets, just like Grady predicted that night at the cookie exchange. Last year, we’d been named one of the top logistics companies in North America.
But the real win had been two years ago, when I’d convinced Hope to leave Festive Media Studios and come work for me—heading up our marketing and social media division. She’d transformed our brand. Made it warmer. More human. Less about transactions and more about the people behind them.
“Remember when you thought you couldn’t work for me because of conflict of interest?” I asked, pressing a kiss to her temple.
“And you convinced me that being married to the CEO was the ultimate conflict of interest, so I might as well get paid for it?”
“Sound logic.”
She laughed. “I’m glad I listened. Even if I’m working from home more now.” She rubbed her belly absently. “This little one doesn’t appreciate early morning conference calls.”
“Take all the time you need. The team can handle it.”
“I know. But I miss being in the office. Miss the energy.” She looked up at me. “Do you ever regret it? Mixing business and personal?”
“Never.” I meant it. “You made my company better. You mademebetter.”
“You made yourself better. I just gave you permission to try.”
The city sparkled below us through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Seattle’s lights competing with the Christmas decorations in every building. Snow was falling—rare for this time of year—dusting the streets in white.
“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” played softly from the speakers, and I didn’t flinch. Didn’t make a sarcastic comment about hearing it ten thousand times a season.
Because now when I heard it, I thought of Hope humming it that first night on the terrace. I thought of our wedding, where it had been our first dance. I thought of every Christmas morning since, wrapped up together in this exact spot.
“Do you remember Interlaken?” Hope asked suddenly, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.
I groaned. “How could I forget?”
Last spring, we’d gone to Switzerland for a logistics conference—and ended up conceiving our daughter on the balcony of our hotel room, sixteen stories up, overlooking the Alps and the entire town below.
“We probably scandalized the entire village,” I said.
“Probably.” She didn’t sound remotely sorry. “But you have to admit, the view was incredible.”
“The view wasn’t what I was focused on.”
