Page 5 of Merry Kissmas, My Billionaire

The girls pale and quickly put themselves to work.

I find the smile on my lips there before I realize it, listening to family banter among them. I can’t remember the last time these walls held so much laughter…so much love.

“Trent?” Hope stands in front of me, biting her plump bottom lip, peering up through her long gingerbread-colored lashes.

It’s hard to remember how to breathe but I inhale her cinnamon spice scent and answer her. “Yes, Hope?”

“Is this alright? My girls here?” While they are here to work, I can see why she might worry. They’re barely teenagers, rowdy and feisty, and if I were anything like my grandfather still, I’d consider them in the way.

When did I stop being like my grandfather?

There’s a lopsided grin on my face, spurred on by play fighting over by the tree, the atmosphere heightened by the camaraderie of the Everly's in my home. “Yes, Hope, it’s fine. The weather though…” I trail off, eyeing the window seals caked in snow. “Do you all have plans for dinner?” She shakes her head, following my gaze to the snow icing outside.

“No, it was spontaneous to get the girls, normally I’d take them home, fix them up with a box of macaroni and cheese and come back there.”

“I’ll have the chef cook something for us all,” I’m not offering.

Hope smiles and it once again forces my blood to choose between organs.

“Thank you, I should get back to managing my elves.”

I linger in the Foyer, watching Rudy and Juniper argue over which parts of the tree is theirs as Hope swoops in and delegates her tasks like an experienced manager. No, like an experienced mother.

The need to tell the chef tonight's dinner plans are the only thing able to pull me away.

CHAPTER5

HOPE

“He’s so handsome,”Rudy whispers to Juniper.

“And the way he looks at Mom,” Juniper returns, sneaking glances at me.

“I can hear you,” I snap, though there isn’t a harsh bone in my body. “Come find me when you finish, there are more trees to adorn with ornaments.”

It will be easier to correct any of their mistakes than to carefully plot out the trees myself. I occupy my time mindlessly swapping anything silver with gold. In dimmer areas, I add extra candles, weaved through garland, and colorful bows. Aside from the trees, and hanging simple accents like weather, I’ve only one beast left: the ballroom.

Maybe Trent won’t be so sour about the grand room once it’s redecorated and dripping with Christmas cheer.

I reassign the girls to a new tree in the living room before Trent calls us to dinner. The girls whisper among themselves in awe of the impressive dining room, large and fit for a king. Ignoring aristocratic manners the girls sit beside one another next to Trent, who sits poised like a king at the head of the table. I join them, sitting opposite Rudy and Juniper, and beside Trent.

I can feel his eyes on me, but as I turn to meet his stare, he looks away quickly, a faint blush on his cheeks. When was the last time he dined with anyone? Or even ate in here? I can picture him taking fast meals in his office or a protein bar and coffee fresh from bed and on the go to some business meeting. But I didn’t like those images, I like this reality far better.

He’s a customer.The reminder isn’t a pleasant one. So what? I don’t have a clause in my contracts that prohibits dating. Not to mention the foot brushing over mine under the table. Distinctly a dresses shoe grazing my pantyhose.

Dating.

I’m sitting here considering dating Trent. A man leagues above me in this world and yet sitting down with my rambunctious twins and serving us… What is for dinner?

The dishes are already in place, they just need a grand reveal. Everything is grand in the Goldworth abode. The creator of the meal returns, handing over a freshly opened bottle of wine to Trent. The chef isn’t who I expect, a young woman I swear I recognize. The chef plucks the silver caps off the dishes revealing through steamy anticipation, creamy mac ‘n cheese (not the kind you make in a box either), grilled sausages, and freshly steamed broccoli. It’s like our meals at home just reinvented with about $100 more to it.

“Thank you, Hannah,” Trent pours me a glass first, then himself. She gives a curt nod and then winks to me before leaving them to their meal.

“I always picture chefs as boisterous old men,” I muse.

Trent stares out to the archway where Hannah had disappeared. “I found her at the Sugar Babes Bakery, an aspiring culinary student. I pay for her schooling so long as she made my meals.”

“Mom!” The girls gasp in unison, they’d taken their first bite of the mac and cheese. The box will never be good enough after this.

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