Rachel
Weirdest billionaire ever.
The rustic cabin exterior is not a façade. The inside matches the outside. Dark wood floors that match the paneling running up the walls. It’s like we’re inside an actual tree rather than a home. Lamps light the home because there is no recessed lighting. No chandeliers either. I thought a billionaire would have at least one. He has a fire going to help heat the cabin because it’s needed, not because he wants to play the part of brooding hunter.
Weird.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize again, wincing as I think about the wreck.
“Stop that.”
He leans against the mantle of the fireplace. His intense dark eyes locked on mine. This guy might be a billionaire, but he doesn’t look like one with his reddish-brown beard. He looks like a mountain man. A man used to living alone. A reclusive hunter.
If Yesenia hadn’t told me the truth, I never would have suspected it.
“You don’t need to apologize to me.” The way he stares at me has my body sitting up and taking notice. I shift restlessly in my chair trying to discreetly rub my thighs together to ease the ache between them. Snow isn’t the only thing getting me wet tonight.
My foot bumps the wicker basket at my feet and mortification makes my cheeks burn.
Of course he doesn’t need my apology. He probably owns a mansion and is just staying in this cabin temporarily to keep himself humble. The cost of that porch was equal to a cup of coffee for someone like him.
“This is for you,” I say as I hand him the basket. “Yesenia said you like cinnamon.”
The basket creaks as I pass it to him.
“You made all of this?” he asks holding the basket up with one hand like it doesn’t weigh fifty pounds.
“Yes. I work at theAlpine Peaklodge as their pastry chef.”
He peeks into the basket, shifting containers aside as he takes stock of the contents. A stray thought crosses my mind that he resembles a bear rummaging through a hiker’s backpack.
“Which is your favorite?” His question catches me by surprise.
“The crumble. I love anything with apples. Cider, jelly, applesauce, all of it.”
“Apple cider vinegar?”
I don’t bother dignifying that with an answer. No one, and I mean no one likes that stuff. Not for the taste anyway.
He smiles at the face I make, and I nearly melt into a puddle of goo at his feet. His face lights up when he smiles, highlighting the flecks of gold in his dark brown eyes that glint in the warm light of the fire. He’s handsome but there’s more to it than simple good looks. Dominic is a good man. He’s protective and caring, even for a woman who crashed her car into his house.
My stomach flipped itself into knots when he threw a soft blanket over my shoulders and handed me a bowl of stew he made. Homemade stew. It’s been so long since I’ve had a meal I didn’t cook myself.
Dominic is certified grade A husband material.
Not for me, I remind myself. I’m here on business, no matter what scheme my boss cooked up. He cuts two slices of the crumble before I can protest. His portion is twice the size of mine.
His eyes shine when he takes the first bite. I love the crumble for its texture. The softness of the apples pairs well with the toasted brown sugar oats on top. Before I can finish my slice, he’s going back in for seconds.
His enthusiasm fills me with bravado and I find myself rallying.
“I want to open a café.”
“You definitely should.”
“There is just one tiny problem.” I wince at the awkward tone of my voice. I’ve been on my own for so long, the idea of asking for help makes my throat burn. Even if it’s not a handout. It’s an investment where he’ll make all his money back and then some, if I’m successful.
And I will be successful.
