Her Evergreen Billionaire (Billionaires of Pleasure Valley #2)

Chapter 1

MOLLIE

Being early for an eight o’clock meeting was a rookie mistake.

And yet, there I was…early. Always early. If punctuality were a crime, I’d be serving a life sentence with no chance of parole.

People said it was a virtue, but honestly? Sometimes it felt like a curse. Especially today, when I was about to plan the most important event of my life.

The reception desk sat empty, taunting me with its total lack of receptionist. After an awkward minute or two, I started wandering, trying not to look like a lost intern.

My laptop bag was cutting into my shoulder, my storage container of cranberry-orange muffins was threatening to slip from my arms, and I had two precariously balanced coffees on top like some sort of festive Jenga tower.

Peppermint mocha for him, gingerbread latte for me.

Because if I was going to charm a billionaire, I’d better start with caffeine.

The hallway was quiet as I marched down it, squinting at the gold plaques mounted to the left of each door. Conference Room A, Storage, Conference Room B—there it was.

I took a deep breath. My palms were sweaty. Why was I nervous? I won this gig fair and square with my badass snowman cookies. Technically, that made me the client. This billionaire dude worked for me.

Right?

I eyed the door to my right. The plaque on the wall to my left read Conference Room B. This had to be it.

Except now that I was standing here with my arms full and zero free hands, I was realizing this whole beverage situation was poorly thought out. I had no hands free to open the door.

Maybe I could hip-check it open? I set my weight against it, gave it a solid nudge—

The door flew open from the inside.

Time slowed down in that special way it does right before disaster strikes.

I lurched forward, stumbling into the office as the coffees launched themselves off the muffin container.

The peppermint mocha arced through the air, splattering across the sleek desk directly ahead of me.

My gingerbread latte followed, hitting the floor with a dull splat that sounded expensive.

I let out a noise somewhere between a squeak and a whimper.

Standing slightly back, holding the door open, was a man in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my rent.

He was tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair, a sharp jawline, and eyes that were currently staring at the coffee dripping down his desk with an expression of barely contained horror. He had a phone pressed to his ear.

“I have to call you back,” he said, his voice deadly calm.

He hung up without waiting for a response.

“Oh my god.” I dropped to my knees, frantically pulling napkins from my bag. “I am so sorry, I thought this was Conference Room B, I had an eight o’clock meeting, and I brought coffee—which was clearly a mistake—and I just—”

I scrubbed frantically at the carpet, probably making it worse, definitely creating a scene.

“Stop.”

His voice sliced through my panic. I froze, looking up at him from my position on the floor.

He was holding out his hand. “You’re rubbing it in.”

I let him pull me up, and that’s when I realized he was really tall. And really handsome. And really, really not smiling.

“This isn’t Conference Room B,” he said.

“I’m getting that now.”

“And you are?”

“Mollie Gregory. I have an eight o’clock about the private party booking? Wait.” I blinked up at him. “Are you… Are you Grady Thorne?”

“I am.”

Oh, crap. This wasn’t just some random office I’d destroyed. This was his office. The office suite of the man I was supposed to be impressing. The man who controlled whether my party happened at all.

My stomach dropped somewhere into the coffee-stained carpet.

His eyes flicked to the container I was still somehow clutching. “And those?”

“Cranberry-orange muffins. With white chocolate chips. They’re…Christmasy.”

I sounded defeated. I felt defeated. This was not how this was supposed to go.

A long pause stretched between us. I was sure he was about to kick me out, ban me from the venue, and possibly call security.

“One of those coffees was mine, I assume?”

“Yes. It was a peppermint mocha.”

“I’m allergic to peppermint.”

My face fell. “Of course you are.”

Another pause. His expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes—amusement? Disbelief? A silent prayer for patience?

“Conference Room B is the next door down. On the left. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes after I call maintenance.”

“I can pay for cleaning—”

“Conference Room B. Next door. Ten minutes. Don’t bring beverages.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

I clutched my muffins to my chest like a shield and backed toward the door, trying to salvage what was left of my dignity. “Right. Yes. I’ll just…go.”

He was already reaching for his phone.

I speed-walked into Conference Room B and collapsed into a chair. The muffins sat in front of me, mocking me with their perfect cranberry-studded tops.

Great start, Mollie. Really nailed that first impression.

I pulled out my laptop with shaking hands and tried to calm myself. This party was too important to let a little coffee catastrophe derail everything. These people—my people, the only family I’d ever really had—deserved the perfect Christmas party. And I was going to give it to them.

Even if it meant dealing with a billionaire who probably thought I was a walking disaster. Which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely inaccurate.

Ten minutes later, the door opened. Grady Thorne walked in like he owned the place. Okay, technically, he did. He’d changed his tie. The coffee-splattered one was gone, replaced by a deep navy that matched his suit jacket perfectly.

He sat down across from me, set his tablet on the table, and folded his hands. “Ms. Gregory.”

“Mr. Thorne.” I pushed the muffin container toward him like a peace offering. “I really am sorry about the…incident.”

He glanced at the muffins but didn’t touch them. “Let’s review the venue contract first. There are liability clauses you’ll need to initial.”

I blinked. “Oh. I thought we’d start with the concept. I have this whole—” I turned my laptop around excitedly, showing him the vision board I’d spent three days perfecting.

Twinkling fairy lights woven through evergreen garlands. A hot chocolate bar with twelve different toppings. A photo backdrop that looked like a winter forest. Hanging ornaments catching the light like stars.

He studied it for exactly three seconds. “Hanging installations from the ceiling require engineering approval. Next slide.”

“But this is the feeling I’m going for—”

“Feelings don’t pass fire inspection, Ms. Gregory.”

I clicked through anyway and talked faster, trying to make him see it. The magic I wanted to create. The warmth. The joy.

He interrupted with questions about weight loads. Vendor insurance. Setup timelines.

My frustration built with every clinical question, every dismissed idea. “You’re sucking all the joy out of Christmas,” I finally said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.

He leaned back, that infuriating calm settling over his features. “And someone has to be the adult in the room. This is an eight-thousand-dollar venue, not a craft fair.”

Something in me snapped. I closed my laptop with more force than necessary and stood up, grabbing the muffin container. He hadn’t even looked at them.

“You know what? I’ve dealt with grumpy men my whole life. My uncle couldn’t be bothered with Christmas either. But I’m not letting you ruin this for me or the people I love.”

I was at the door when his voice stopped me. “Ms. Gregory.”

I turned, expecting an apology. Or maybe another lecture about fire codes.

“We have another meeting scheduled for Thursday. Two p.m. Don’t be late.”

I stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“Extremely.” He opened his tablet, already moving on. “And Ms. Gregory?”

“What?”

“Next time, skip the coffee.”

I left before I could say something I’d regret.

The hallway felt too bright, too cheerful with its tasteful holiday decorations. I clutched my muffins and tried not to cry.

This party was supposed to be perfect. A thank you to everyone who’d ever made me feel like I belonged. And now I was stuck planning it with a man who thought magic could be measured in weight loads and engineering approvals.

I’d survived worse than Grady Thorne.

I’d survived being shipped off to Seattle at six years old to live with an uncle who barely knew I existed. I’d survived Christmases spent alone while he worked or drank or both. I’d survived building a family from scratch, piece by piece, holiday by holiday.

I could survive this.

Even if it killed me.