Page 78 of The Rebel Billionaire

She inclines her head slightly. “You’re not an ogre. You’re meticulous, disciplined. Some might say a workaholic, a perfectionist, but there’s nothing wrong with that. You run an international, multi-billion-dollar business. I would expect no less, it goes with the territory… I can imagine.”

She speaks with confidence. It’s as if she’s experienced it firsthand, but I think back to her CV and realise I must be imagining it. She can’t understand the pressure someone like me is under.

“It’s kind of you to say so,” I say drolly, making her chuckle.

She takes a mouthful of food and groans in delight, and my eyes instantly drop to her lips.

“Sorry, but this is amazing,” she says when she looks up to find me staring at her.

“The best in this part of town. Believe me, I’ve tried them all.”

“I knew it… Workaholic,” she teases.

“What about you?” I ask.

“What about me?”

“How are you finding New York? Have you done much sightseeing?”

I think back to the conversation I overheard between her and the delivery guy.

She shakes her head. “I’ve been concentrating on work.”

Her words hit me in the chest, stirring guilt over everything I’ve asked her to do.

“Where’s your boyfriend tonight?”

She looks up, her brow wrinkling.

“Boyfriend?”

“I thought you were dating a New Yorker?”

Her brows draw closer together, her nose scrunching, until understanding dawns, and she smiles, her eyes twinkling.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she admits. “I used that as an excuse to divert unwanted attention.”

It’s my turn to look confused.

Ah, the delivery guy was not her type.

Stop.

I don’t need to think about the type of men Brooke Feldmann is attracted to.

She smiles. “I don’t think that, with the hours I work here, that I have much time for romance.” She looks up at the clocks on the wall before her gaze drifts back to the takeaway cartons. “Not that I mind. I didn’t come here for that.”

It’s ten thirty on a Thursday evening.

I stare at her, my chin dipping as I run a hand over the back of my neck.

Didn’t come here for that?

What twenty-four-year-old doesn’t want some form of romance, or even sex? I know I did at that age. My mind begins to wander. Has she been badly hurt in the past? Does she have a boyfriend back in England? Am I really working her so hard that she has no life outside the office? Maybe she doesn’t date, just picks men up for sex?

My mouth goes dry at the thought. I can’t imagine she hasn’t been asked out since she arrived here. I’ve seen the looks she gets when she walks through the various departments. The guys are like puppy dogs, their jaws hitting the floor as they pant. My temperature rises as I imagine her writhing underneath or on top of one of the men who works here. I swallow my groan.

Shit!