1
LILY
The water is perfect. Hot enough to ease the tension I’ve been carrying for months.
Steam curls toward the vaulted ceiling as I sink lower, trying to loosen muscles I didn’t realize were clenched. I close my eyes, breathing in the faint scent of eucalyptus from whatever ridiculously expensive bath oil sits on the edge of the tub.
The Cole estate sprawls across the Aspen mountainside—dark timber beams, floor-to-ceiling windows, views that belong on a postcard. I’ve been here exactly two hours, and none of it feels real.
Three months. Live-in position. The salary alone made me check the listing twice because surely there was a typo.
There wasn’t.
I wiggle my toes beneath the water and let out a breath I’ve been holding for eight months. Since Mom’s diagnosis. Since the bills started piling up like snowdrifts. Since the funeral I’ll be paying off until I’m approximately deceased.
Eighty-five thousand dollars. That’s what I owe. The number that wakes me at 3 a.m., gasping.
But this job might actually save me.
Maggie, the head housekeeper, told me during my video interview that Mr. Cole was finally returning to the Aspen property. “He’ll arrive next week,” she’d said. “That gives you time to settle in and learn the house. Just have everything pristine by then.”
So when I arrived this evening, exhausted from two connecting flights and a shuttle up the mountain, I figured, what’s the harm? The staff quarters have a nice bathroom, sure, but the master bath—attached to the master suite—I just couldn’t resist.
The tub is the size of a small swimming pool. There are jets. Jets. And the view through the window is all snow-capped peaks and frosted pines, and I just wanted one moment of pretending I’m the kind of person who belongs in a place like this.
I pop in my earbuds and let my favorite playlist wash over me. Taylor Swift is informing me I’m the problem, and honestly, she’s not wrong. I shouldn’t be here. This is probably a fireable offense, day one, using the boss’s bathtub like I own the place.
I sink deeper, water lapping at my collarbone, and close my eyes.
Just ten more minutes of pretending. Then I’ll go back to being responsible, practical Lily Harper. The girl who works two jobs and never takes vacations and always, always does the right thing.
“What the hell are you doing in my bathtub?”
The voice hits me like ice water.
My eyes fly open. My heart slams. And I scream. A real horror-movie scream—tearing out my earbuds as my whole body jerks toward the sound.
A man stands in the doorway.
I don’t think. My hand closes around the nearest object—a shampoo bottle—and I hurl it at his head.
He catches it. One-handed. Without flinching.
Of course he does.
Now my brain catches up—and I actually see him. Broad shoulders that block the entire doorframe. Dark hair, damp with snow. A jaw carved sharp enough to cut, shadowed with stubble. And eyes—ocean blue, furious—pinned on me like I should already be packing.
I’m completely naked in a bathtub that is very much not mine. And there is a man—a strange, terrifying, unfairly attractive man—staring down at me with the kind of expression that says I have about thirty seconds to explain myself.
“Get out!” I gasp, sinking lower into the water. The bubbles have mostly dissipated. There is nothing between my naked body and his gaze except bathwater and wishful thinking. “What is wrong with you? Get out!”
“This is my house.” His voice could freeze lava. “My bathroom. My bathtub.”
His gaze drops—just for a second—before snapping back to my face.
Oh no.
“You’re Mr. Cole?”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares. Which is answer enough.
“Kitchen. Five minutes.” His voice is clipped. “Don’t make me wait.”
Then he turns and walks out, pulling the door shut behind him.
I sit there, shaking, water dripping down my face, pulse roaring in my ears.
I am so fired.
I have never moved so fast in my life.
I yank on leggings, a sweater that is definitely inside out—I don’t care—and twist my soaking wet hair into something that vaguely resembles a bun.
No bra. No time. I shove my glasses onto my face and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror—flushed, wild-eyed, looking exactly like someone who just got caught committing a crime in a billionaire’s bathtub.
My hands still shake as I make my way to the kitchen—all sleek marble countertops and ridiculous pendant lights hanging like small fortunes.
Grayson Cole is waiting in the middle of it.
His coat is gone, and without it, I can see the full breadth of his shoulders, the way his black sweater pulls tight across his chest. Long legs in dark jeans. He looks bigger without the coat. Taking up more of the room than one person should.
He’s poured himself a whiskey. He doesn’t offer me one.
Rude. I definitely need one more than he does right now.
“Sit.”
It’s not a request. I sit.
The kitchen island stretches between us like a battlefield. He stands on one side, all six-foot-four of barely contained irritation. I perch on a barstool opposite him, trying to project “competent professional” and probably landing somewhere closer to “soggy disaster.”
“Explain.”
One word. No warmth. Just a command that makes it very clear—I am an inconvenience he’s deciding whether to deal with or discard.
I swallow hard. “I’m Lily Harper. I was hired as—”
“I know what you were hired for. I want to know why you were in my bathtub.”
Because it has jets, sir. JETS. It’s basically a small ocean but warmer.
Obviously, I don’t say that.
I push my glasses up my nose—a nervous habit I’ve never been able to break.
“I... I was told you wouldn’t be here until next week.
” My voice comes out smaller than I want it to.
I force myself to sit up straighter. “Maggie said I’d have time to settle in.
Learn the house. I didn’t think anyone would—I didn’t know—”
“So you decided to make yourself at home in the master suite.”
“No! I mean—” I close my eyes, take a breath. “It was stupid. I know. I saw the bathroom and I just... I’ve never seen anything like it. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”
He says nothing. Just watches me, swirling the whiskey in his glass.
The silence stretches. I want to fill it—to keep apologizing, to beg him not to fire me. But something tells me that would only make it worse.
I press my lips together and wait.
Finally, he speaks.
“You have one chance.” He sets down his glass with a deliberate clink against the marble. “One. If you do anything—anything—like this again, you’re gone. No discussion. No second chances. Clear?”
I blink. Wait.
“I’m... not fired?”
“Did I say you were fired?”
“No, but—”
“Then don’t put words in my mouth.”
I snap my jaw shut. My pulse is still hammering.
I’m not fired. I still have the job. I can still—
“However.”
Oh no.
“You’ll stay out of the master suite. Out of my study. Out of any room I’m occupying unless you’re called for.” His eyes pin me in place. “You’re here to work. Not to test-drive my amenities. Understood?”
“Understood,” I manage.
He picks up his whiskey again. Drains it in one long swallow. I watch his throat work and look away before I do something embarrassing.
Absolutely not. We are not doing that.
“Maggie will go over your duties in the morning.” He turns away from me, setting the empty glass in the sink. “I expect this house to run smoothly. I expect discretion. And I expect to never find you in my bathtub again.”
“You won’t,” I say quickly. “I swear. It was a one-time thing. Temporary insanity. It will never, ever happen—”
“You’re rambling.”
I clamp my mouth shut.
He turns back to face me, and for a moment, something flickers in his eyes. Not warmth, exactly. But not quite the cold fury from before, either. Like I’ve just come into focus.
Then it’s gone.
“Go to bed, Miss Harper.”
Miss Harper. Not Lily. The formality lands like a door slamming shut.
I slide off the barstool, my legs still unsteady. “Thank you,” I say, because manners don’t disappear just because someone has seen you naked and threatened your livelihood. “For not firing me. I really do need this job.”
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look at me.
I take that as my cue to leave when his voice stops me.
“Miss Harper.”
I turn.
He’s still facing the sink, his back rigid.
“I’ll need fresh towels in my bathroom. It seems someone used mine.”
Heat crawls up my neck all over again. Before I can respond, he’s gone.
I stand alone in the massive kitchen, pulse finally slowing, trying to process what just happened.
I’m not fired.
My boss is terrifying, impossibly handsome, and has the personality of a glacier. Three months. I just have to survive three months working for him.
How hard can three months be?