Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss (Billionaire Deal Trap #2)

Chapter One

Eden

I was three miles from Wolfe Manor and my heart was auditioning for a one-woman drumline. I’d checked the GPS twice. Yes, this was the correct driveway, even though it looked like it belonged on the cover of a Gothic romance novel.

Wrought-iron gates with snarling wolves - on brand, obviously - rose from the mist like the open jaws of hell. There were enough roses lining the drive, along with purple maples, to stage a funeral for a head of state. It was both intimidating and impressive.

I parked in the circular driveway, next to a car worth more than my college loans and maybe even my dignity.

For a second, I just stared at the mansion.

Victorian, stone, with more ivy than most garden centers, and windows that glittered with stained glass even in the cloud-covered sunlight.

The place was massive and so obviously out of my league, I almost expected the front door to slam itself in my face the second I got near it.

Instead, I texted my best friend.

Arrived alive. The house is ridiculous. If I get murdered, it’ll be aesthetic.

There. Some humor to cut the nerves. Or pretend to, anyway. I tried to breathe. The air smelled like fresh-cut grass and old money.

I hoisted my sad little suitcase, Target clearance, wheels slightly wobbly, onto the smooth cobblestone. I regretted the shoes instantly. Of course, I’d picked the ones that were one inch too high for safety.

Already trembling with nerves, I approached the front door, which was approximately the size of a barn door and looked like it might eat me. My palms slicked with sweat, and I wiped them on my skirt, because nothing said “hire me” like moist handprints on the thighs.

Before I could reach for the bell, the door opened with a click so quiet it was almost rude. A man stood before me, in a three-piece charcoal-colored tailored suit that must have cost more than my first car.

His hair was dark and severe, styled in that way that looked effortless and probably took a team.

And his face! His face could have been sculpted by a professional hand, sharp cheekbones, perfect nose, jawline that no doubt classifies as a weapon.

His eyes, icy blue, and just as chilly as the rumors, swept over me and landed somewhere between unimpressed and calculating.

And I was suddenly, violently, acutely aware that my blouse was one size too snug in the chest and my hair, despite my best efforts, had a single renegade red-orange curl escaping. Because, why wouldn’t it?

“Ms. Blake,” he said. His voice was low, velvety, but as warm as the heated marble floor he was standing on. “You’re early.”

I’d read enough CEO profiles to expect clipped vowels and authority, but hearing it live was something else. And I was sure I was talking to none other than Gareth Wolfe. I blinked. Swallowed hard, which drew his attention. Heat rose up my neck and over my cheeks.

“You said three sharp. GPS was ambitious.” My mouth was already dry, which was probably a blessing. I mean, less chance of nervous rambling anyway.

He just nodded, as if being punctual was a personality flaw he could learn to forgive if I worked hard enough. “Welcome to the Wolfe estate.” He stepped aside with military precision.

The foyer was every interior designer’s fever dream.

Marble floors with an inlaid wolf pattern.

Because, of course. A sweeping staircase straight out of a Disney movie, but with a wrought-iron banister that looked like it could double as a medieval weapon.

The ceiling was double, maybe triple-height and the chandeliers looked like fireworks overhead and cast shadows that made the place feel both regal and expensive.

I tried not to stare, and failed. I was about to say something about the architecture but caught myself. Focus, Eden. Professional.

He extended a hand. I stared at it a second too long before I remembered what handshakes were. It was warm, dry, firm, exactly as I’d imagined, except better, because I hadn’t imagined how the touch would travel up my arm like a static shock.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wolfe.” My handshake was solid, but my pulse was probably visible in my neck, chest, heck, even my ear lobes probably betrayed my racing heart.

His eyes flicked to my luggage, then back to my face. “Let me.” He reached for the handle. I let him, because my grip was suddenly the consistency of undercooked spaghetti. Our hands brushed, skin to skin, and I swear I could taste the tingling heat in the back of my throat.

I told myself this was just biology. Anyone would notice if their boss looked like an underwear model and had hands that big. This was science. Observation. Boss science.

“I’ll show you to your quarters,” he said, still perfectly brisk.

He led the way across the marble, strides long enough that I had to do the fast-walk thing to keep up.

I realized as we walked that his shoulders moved with an economy of effort I’d only seen in dancers or military. The man wasted nothing.

He gestured down a hall to the left, past a set of double doors. “Kitchen’s through there. Maribel runs the kitchen, but she’ll guide you. And if you need anything, she’ll know.” His tone was dismissive, as if the idea of someone needing “anything” was either baffling or beneath him.

“Good to know,” I said, because that was what you said when you were trying to be cool and not at all distracted by how his suit fit across his chest or the thickness of his neck.

We stopped at the foot of the staircase. The chandelier threw warped light on his cheekbones. His lips pressed into a line. If he smiled, he’d probably look dangerous. I found myself hoping I’d get to see it at least once before I got fired.

“You’ll be expected to coordinate a family reunion here, and work together with other hired help,” he said. “I assume you’ve read the NDA thoroughly.”

“All forty-six pages,” I said. “Twice. The part about cell phone cameras is impressive. Were you burned by an influencer, or do you just hate selfies?” No joke, the NDA was bonkers.

I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone where I was, what I was doing, who I was working for, or any other details.

And the final stipulation floored me. When my job was complete, I was to leave quietly and without fuss. For some unknown reason, that stung.

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more like a tic he regretted. “Both.”

I almost grinned. Almost. But then he said, “You’ll be working in the east study. It’s soundproof. For privacy.” There was a beat. “Do you require a tour, or are you comfortable exploring on your own time?”

I thought about the foyer, the endless halls, and the possibility of getting lost in a house this size. “Maybe just the highlights?” I asked.

He inclined his head, and I followed him up the stairs. The carpet was thick, gray-blue, probably custom. I realized how easy it would be to fall and die dramatically, which was not the first impression I wanted to leave. Unless I did something so embarrassingly stupid. Then I could die.

He stopped at a landing that overlooked the gardens. Through the leaded glass, I could see a fountain shaped like a pack of wolves, mid-howl. He sure aligned his name with the wild animals. His name wasn’t even spelled right.

He caught me looking. “You like gardens?”

“I like wolves,” I said, before I could stop myself. “They’re social. Misunderstood.”

He stared at me, eyes narrowed. “Is that so.”

My brain screamed, Stop psychoanalyzing your boss, Eden, but my mouth ignored it. “And they mate for life. Kind of sweet, actually.”

He coughed, like maybe something was stuck in his throat. “I suppose.” Then, after a beat, “Your room is here.”

He opened the next door with an elegant flick of the wrist. Inside, the space was bigger than my whole apartment.

Canopy bed, bay windows, pale gray walls hung with enormous oil paintings of wild landscapes.

The bedding was crisp white, pillows perfectly fluffed.

There was a writing desk with a leather chair, and a bathroom through a carved archway that probably had heated floors.

He set my suitcase by the closet. For a second, we just stood there. The silence was thick, and not the comfortable kind. I had the wild urge to say something, anything, to break it.

Instead, I fished my phone from my purse as he turned to leave.

THE BOSS OPENED THE DOOR HIMSELF. He is HOT. Like, can-see-his-biceps-through-the-suit hot. Also, house is haunted. Probably.

I hit send, then realized Gareth had paused in the hallway. He was watching me with those unsettling eyes, arms folded. I pretended I’d just been checking the weather.

He said, “Maribel will expect you for dinner at seven sharp.” His voice was softer this time, almost… almost… wary.

I nodded, lips parted, but nothing came out. He left, footsteps perfectly silent.

I sat on the edge of the bed, heart still punching at my ribs. My phone buzzed with a reply.

My best friend, Ruby, had responded: Send pics or you’re making this up. Also, DIBS IF YOU DON’T WANT HIM.

I smiled, in spite of myself.

Down the hall, I heard the faint click of a door, likely Gareth. I wondered if he was as rattled by this as I was. Probably not. He seemed immune to human emotion, unless irritation counted.

I flopped back on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and told myself to chill. Just a job. Just a boss. The world’s most beautiful, emotionally unavailable boss, who smelled faintly of cedar and probably regret.

This would be fine.

Totally fine.

At 6:58, I double-checked my hair in the mirror and gave myself a pep talk worthy of an Olympic gymnast about to attempt the uneven bars blindfolded.

Dinner with the staff. Normal. I’d survived worse, well, maybe not worse, but weirder?

Actually, nothing in my life had quite prepared me for working in a literal castle with a boss whose presence was both arctic and somehow flammable.