Juliette and the Billionaire Boss: The Christchurch Billionaires (A Boss in a Billion Book 9)

Chapter One

Juliette

“You okay?” Henry asks me. “You’re very quiet today.”

The two of us are sitting next to each other in the boardroom of Kia Kaha, the company where we work, waiting for the other members of the senior management team. Through the glass walls we can see people drinking coffee, turning on computers, and opening mail at their desks, the usual morning routine carried out in offices all over the country.

It’s the twenty-first of December, early summer in New Zealand, and we’ve opened the sliding doors onto the terrace. I can hear ducks squabbling in the river and kids playing on the opposite bank. The aroma of apple and cinnamon muffins wafts in from the café down the street.

Despite the pleasant atmosphere, Henry’s comment makes my stomach flip with anxiety. Sliding down in my seat, I pick up the Rubik’s Cube from the table in front of me and begin turning the sides to mix up the colored squares.

“I had an argument with Cam this morning,” I admit.

Henry frowns. “How bad was it?”

“Pretty bad.”

“What was it about?”

For a moment, I don’t answer. The Rubik’s Cube is now a jumble of colors, and I slide it across the table to him. Automatically, he begins to turn the sides, rearranging the faces into their proper order.

I watch him for a moment. He’s a big guy—six-four and huge—and he has large hands, but they move deftly, his fingers flicking the sides around with ease. We’ve been doing this—me mixing the cube up, him solving the puzzle—ever since the day we first met six years ago, when I spotted the cube in front of him on the table in the bar. While Alex told me about Kia Kaha, and they all tried to convince me to join, I mixed up the cube, and Henry solved it, over and over again.

It always fascinates me how quickly he can finish it. His record is seventeen seconds—I actually timed him. He says he’ll break the world record one day. I believe he can do it. He’s the most determined man in the world when he puts his mind to something.

His dark hair falls forward across his forehead as he concentrates. His gaze is fixed on the cube, but as I stay silent, he glances across at me. He has light-brown skin and dark hair, but blue eyes. I know his Dad was Māori, but I don’t know whether he had blue eyes too. I’ve never asked, because he died when Henry was twelve, and Henry doesn’t like to talk about him. His Mum’s mother is Māori too, but her father is Pakeha or white, so maybe his blue eyes are from him? I’d like to know.

I have a huge crush on him. Always have had. But I don’t know if he feels the same about me. When we met, he’d just proposed to Shaz, and I’d already met Cam, so we’ve never discussed our feelings for one another. We’re good friends, though. He texts me all the time—always has done, with memes and jokes or links to songs throughout the day. On my desk he often leaves a message on a Post-it Note—nothing romantic, just a quote from a book or a movie to make me laugh—or a mini chocolate bar, or an iced coffee.

Sometimes, when he thinks I’m not watching, I catch him looking at me, and I swear there’s desire in his eyes, a heat that suggests he’s wondering what I look like naked, but you never know, do you? I’ve never mentioned it, and neither has he.

The only time I’ve had any hint of how he feels was at our friend Tyson’s wedding. He and his new wife, Gaby, were in the process of cutting the cake when an earthquake hit. After the tremors died away, James—who was Tyson’s best man—gave a speech saying it was a sign to appreciate the loved ones in our lives, and he told everyone to turn to the person nearest them and show them how you feel about them. Even though I’d gone to the wedding with Cam, I was standing next to Henry at the time, and he turned to me, slid a hand to the nape of my neck, and kissed me. It was only a brief kiss, no tongues, and neither of us has ever mentioned it again. I’ve convinced myself it was born out of the heightened emotions we were all experiencing after the earthquake, but sometimes, when he looks at me as if he’s thinking about what I taste like, I wonder whether there was more to it than that.

I sigh. “Cam wants to move to Australia.”

His hands stop moving, and he stares at me. “What?”

“He hates his job. He wants to get a new one, and he says there are more opportunities over there.”

Henry studies me for a moment, then he looks back at the cube in his hands. “He’s probably right.”

“Yeah.”

“So… are you moving?”

“That’s partly what we were arguing about. I don’t want to go. My life is here. My job, my friends. But he’s unhappy. And relationships are about compromise, right?”

“That hasn’t been my experience.” His voice is a tad flat.

Of course, he broke up with his wife because she wanted children, and he can’t have them. She didn’t compromise and say she’d have IVF or a donor or adopt; she went off with someone else. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

He huffs a sigh. “It’s not your fault. Shaz called yesterday to tell me she’s pregnant.”

My jaw drops. “Oh, Henry.”

“I’m pleased for her. It’s what she wanted, and she’s happy now.”

“Maybe, but even so… I am sorry.”

I’d talk about it more, but he shrugs, finishes the Rubik’s Cube, puts it on the table, and changes the subject. “So you’re thinking about going with Cam?”

I scratch at a mark on my trousers. “I was. But he was mean to me this morning, and now I just want to tell him to go fuck himself.” My bottom lip quivers, which kind of detracts from the strong, independent image I was trying to project.

Henry’s gaze hardens. “Mean to you? He didn’t…”

“No,” I say hastily, “he wasn’t physical. He would never do that. It’s just… he can be cruel, sometimes. Whoever said words can never hurt you clearly had no idea what they were talking about.”

Henry looks baffled. I’m sure he doesn’t understand what Cam could possibly have said that would have upset me so much. I don’t want to tell him the truth—that we were arguing about sex, again.

“I don’t understand,” Henry says. “How can he be cruel to you, of all people?”

“You mean because I’m his girlfriend?”

“Because you’re you.” His eyes look very blue in the morning sunshine.

“I dunno,” I say, “I’m nowhere near perfect.”

“You are to me. If you were my girl, I’d treat you like a queen.”

I blink, taken aback by the compliment. He’s never said anything like that before.

He doesn’t look away; he just holds my gaze. The sudden heat in his eyes makes me blush from my toes to the roots of my hair.

“Henry!” I scold, my heart hammering.

He looks amused. “I’m just saying. You deserve more.” He glances at the door as it opens. “Morning.”

I tear my gaze away from him as the other members of the senior management team—Alex, James, and Tyson—come in carrying laptops and all talking at once, Alex’s puppy, Zelda, running around their feet.

“Um, morning,” I say, flustered. Out of the corner of my eye I see Henry give a short laugh before he pushes the Rubik’s Cube over to me.

While they get coffee and take their seats, I begin to mix up the colors, using the time to gather my wits. It strikes me then, for the first time in six years, that maybe the cube is more than just a puzzle. That actually, Henry and I communicate through it. It’s a private message we can send in front of everyone, like Morse code. A simple signal that we’re thinking about the other. An unspoken love letter.

Without looking at him, I pass the cube back. He picks it up and begins to turn the sides, his fingers moving over the surfaces where mine have just been, almost like a caress.

*

I don’t get to speak to him alone again that morning, and soon the memory of his words fades like smoke as I deal with the events of the day. Work is busy, as usual. Kia Kaha makes specialized medical equipment with the aim of helping people with restricted movement to gain back some of their mobility. I’m the head physio, and after the meeting I have three morning appointments and two afternoon ones, as well as a team meeting with all the other physios. After that I have a Zoom call with a company in Australia at five p.m. for an hour, discussing a new robotic knee brace I helped to invent.

During my time at Kia Kaha, encouraged by the guys who are so innovative and smart, I’ve become more and more interested in orthotics, which is a medical specialty focusing on the design and application of orthoses, also known as braces or calipers. I’d love to study the discipline, and the guys have always supported me with any career development, but there’s no course available in New Zealand at the moment.

I didn’t tell Henry, but I’ve been looking at a university in Melbourne that offers a Masters of Clinical Prosthetics and Orthotics. Cam would prefer to go to Sydney, but I’m hoping I could persuade him to switch cities as a compromise.

Leaving Kia Kaha would be a wrench. I love all the guys, and they all form essential parts of the company. Alex is the spine, with his vision and his work ethic that keeps us all moving forward; James is the face of the firm, and his business acumen has made the company so successful financially; Tyson, with his courage and determination in learning to walk again after his accident has been our inspiration and our driving force for what we do; and then, of course, there’s Henry.

Henry is the soul of Kia Kaha. It was he who liaised with the local kaitiaki or Māori guardians who advocate for elements of nature when we designed the office in order to make it as beautiful and sustainable as possible. Every time I walk into the lobby and see the carved, light wood, the river stones, and the native plants, it makes me think of him. Henry has a deep spirituality that rings through every part of this building, and I would miss it—him—immensely if I were to leave.

But Cam’s my partner, and I want him to be happy. So maybe moving to Melbourne would be a compromise. He gets to go to Australia, and I get to continue with my passion. Win win, right?

With this in mind, after the Zoom call finishes, I ask to speak to the head of the company alone, as I know she trained in Melbourne. Once the others have left the call, I bring up the topic of the university and ask her opinion of the orthotics course, and we chat for a while about it. By the time I end the call, I’m buzzing with enthusiasm. It sounds perfect, and she said she’d be happy to provide a reference for me if I were to apply to study there. Excited, I’m about to write up my notes when I get a text from Cam. Startled, I realize it’s the fourth he’s sent in the past forty minutes.

Where the fuck are you?

I look at the time. It’s nearly ten past six. We’re meeting at the Pioneer, a local bar, at 6:45 p.m. for a Christmas trivia quiz, and I still have to get ready, but we live minutes away from the bar, so we’ve plenty of time yet.

I text back, Keep your knickers on, I won’t be long. We’ve got plenty of time.

Immediately, he sends another message. I told Mum we’d call in at five thirty so I could see Alan and Pete. Now we don’t have time.

Alan and Pete are his brothers. Alan lives in Sydney, and Pete lives in the UK, but they both arrived in New Zealand with their wives today and are spending Christmas here.

I text: I thought we were going to see the two of them together tomorrow morning.

He replies: I haven’t seen Pete for two years. I wanted to call in today.

I grit my teeth. I’m in no rush to see either of his brothers. They’re racist and sexist, and their wives don’t have a brain between them—all they’re concerned about is the color of their nails and whether their hair has enough blonde streaks.

Yeah, I know that sounds bitchy, but I’m in that kind of mood.

Me: Why didn’t you tell me?

Him: I did!

Me: At five p.m.! I was working! I didn’t see your text.

Him: JUST COME HOME WILL YOU?

Me: Stop yelling, I’m on my way.

Mumbling under my breath, I close my laptop, pick up my purse, and head out.

Anxious and stressed, I drive through the busy traffic. I haven’t spoken to Cam since our argument this morning. I texted him at lunch to ask how his day was going, but he didn’t text back, so I know he’s still angry with me. It seems to be his default setting at the moment, and I’m beginning to feel nervous at the thought of going home.

But I have no option, and five minutes later I park in the car park beneath our apartment block and take the elevator up. Cam’s an accountant, and my job at Kia Kaha pays very well, so although we’re nowhere close to having the kind of money the guys I work with have, we’re relatively affluent, and it’s a decent area and a good-sized apartment.

I let myself in, close the door behind me, and walk through to the living room. Cam’s sitting at the dining table working on his laptop, but he stands as I go in.

“Get stuck in traffic?” he asks sarcastically.

I toss my keys onto the table and walk through to the kitchen to get myself a bottle of water from the fridge. “I’m sorry I missed your texts, but I was on a Zoom call. Look, why don’t you go over to Pete’s now, and I’ll go to the bar on my own?”

“And leave you alone with Henry?” he says sarcastically. “I don’t think so.”

I flush. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that there’s nothing between me and Henry.” He’s insinuated that I like Henry several times. The heat intensifies in my face as I think about the Rubik’s Cube. We never do it in front of Cam, so I guess it does mean something. But apart from at Tyson’s wedding, we’ve never kissed, never touched inappropriately, and never discussed our feelings for each other.

I’m nowhere near perfect.

You are to me. If you were my girl, I’d treat you like a queen.

Cam looks at my red cheeks. “Yeah,” he says. “Right.”

I glare at him. “I’m going to get ready.” I march off.

I strip off my business suit and have a very brief shower, towel myself dry, then come back out into the bedroom. I’m startled to find Cam leaning against the door jamb, hands in his pockets, watching me. He’s already changed out of his suit, and he’s wearing a white shirt with his jeans.

A little unnerved, I put on a fresh bra and knickers, then pull on a petticoat and do up the drawstring. I slip my feet into a pair of high heeled sandals, don my new coral-colored blouse, then take out the sari of the same color and start wrapping it around my waist. My father is Indian, and I often wear a sari for social occasions.

“Can’t you just wear jeans tonight?” Cam asks impatiently.

I tuck the silk fabric into the waist of the petticoat, drape the end over my shoulder, then start pleating the remainder of the fabric, conscious of Cam watching.

He wants me to argue with him. To tell him I’ll wear what the fuck I want, and to insist he’s not going to speak to me like that. I know if I do, it’ll please him, and his eyes will light up the way they always do when I’m being aggressive. Maybe it would even lead to us going to bed.

But I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t want to. Not tonight.

Unbidden, I think of Henry, and the way his gaze always softens when he sees me in a sari. The way he’s so quiet, and supportive of me at work, but when I’m cheeky to him, he gives me a look that suggests if I was his, he’d bend me over the table and fuck me until I saw stars.

Ah, I can’t think about it or I’m going to cry.

I finish pleating the fabric and secure it with a big safety pin, then look over at Cam. He’s six-one, with dark-blond hair, and he looks handsome tonight in his shirt and jeans. I just wish he was looking at me with love rather than irritation.

We’ve been together nearly seven years now. Our relationship started well but it has gradually deteriorated, and I’m tired of the brittle atmosphere. I think about my conversation with the company director on the Zoom call. Mentioning it would be an olive branch. A sign that I want him to be happy, and I’m prepared to negotiate.

I take a deep breath and say, “I’m a bit late because I was talking to someone this evening about a Masters in Orthotics that’s available in Melbourne. And I was wondering what you thought about maybe moving there instead, as a kind of compromise?”

His eyes narrow. “I don’t want to go to Melbourne,” he states. “I want to move to Sydney.”

He waits for me to argue with him, and I have no doubt that if I did, if I employed the tactics I know he responds to, I could make him do what I want. But I want a proper discussion, with no power play, no dynamics. Just a conversation, as equals. Why can’t he see that?

He walks out.

I look back at my reflection and swallow hard as tears sting my eyes. I swallow hard and lift my chin. I’m not going to cry. He’s being snotty because of our argument this morning. Maybe later, when he’s calmed down, we’ll be able to talk about it again.

After I finish pinning the fabric, I visit the bathroom to touch up my makeup. I don’t have enough time to redo my hair, so I leave it pinned up, but I add kohl to my eyes, some glittery eyeshadow, and a new bindi, peeling off an orange sticker surrounded by tiny gold stones from a special pack and placing it carefully between my eyebrows. I slick on some lip gloss, and then I’m ready.

I go back into the living room and collect my purse. “Ready?”

He grabs his keys and heads to the door.

“Aren’t you going to say I look nice?” Even to my ears, my voice sounds pathetic, and I bite my bottom lip, trying not to wince.

He stops, though, his hand on the door handle, and turns to look at me as I walk up to him. “You always look stunning,” he says gruffly.

I hesitate, wanting to put things right. “Cam, about last night…”

His expression darkens. “Don’t,” he says. And he opens the door and goes out.

*

We walk around the block to the bar in silence. He doesn’t offer to hold my hand, and I don’t take his.

It’s a beautiful evening. The sun is low in the sky, bathing the city in a beautiful pinky-orange light. The streets are busy, the bars and restaurants full of people out having Christmas parties. Most of the shops have spray-snow reindeer or presents on their windows, and fairy lights blink around storefronts and in the trees.

I’m struggling to feel the Christmas spirit, though, and I suspect Cam is, too. It’s going to be a poor festive season if we can’t figure out this problem between us. And I don’t mean him wanting to move to Sydney. At the core of our relationship is an issue that’s like a crack spreading through the foundations. Cam is a damaged man, and although I’ve given him all the love in the world—as much as I have inside me—I’m beginning to think it’s not enough to mend whatever’s broken inside him. I’ve spent years trying to make him better, and all it’s doing is draining me and making me unhappy.

I love him, and I don’t want to abandon what I’ve spent years building. But I’ve tried so hard to be the kind of girl he needs, and for the first time it occurs to me that maybe I’m not that person. I’m just not strong enough, not good enough for him.

The thought hits me hard, and almost takes my breath away. My eyes sting again, and I have to be careful not to let the tears fall, not wanting to smudge my makeup.

It’s Christmas, a time to celebrate the birth of things, not the end. It can’t all be over. Can it?

We’re heading toward the bar when he pulls out his phone and reads a text. “Pete and Alan want me to go over,” he says.

“When?”

“At ten.”

My heart sinks. “I was hoping to have an early night.”

“You can do what you like,” he says. “I don’t give a shit.” He pulls open the door to the bar and steps back to let me pass.

I clench my jaw to stop my bottom lip trembling, and walk past him. It would be too easy to let him spoil the evening. But I’ve been looking forward to this, and I want to see my friends. So screw him. I’m going to have a great evening, and he can go fuck himself.