Page 12 of Beauty and the Billionaire

“I don’t drink,” I said, teeth closing around my lower lip before I could stop myself. Dominic’s back was straight, his face drawn tight with discomfort he couldn’t seem to shake off. “Water?” I suggested.

“Of course,” Dominic said. He lifted another pitcher and poured me a glass of water.

“This is…” I hesitated, not sure how to put it.

“Not what you expected,” Dominic finished for me. “I’ve been thinking about what you did.”

“What did I do?” I asked, lifting my glass of water to my lips and taking a long sip. The water was cold and delicious.

Dominic studied me for several long heartbeats. He uncovered one of the dishes, which was a Lebanese chicken on rice with dips from my father’s country. I wondered if Dominic had requested this or if the cook thought it would be appropriate. “I hope your apartment is good enough.”

“Good enough?” I asked, unable to stop myself.

“Is something wrong?” Dominic asked, raising one perfect black eyebrow to emphasize his confusion.

A million questions swirled around me. “It’s just that…I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I said. “The room you gave me is bigger than any I’ve ever had. I napped all day. And now we’re dining together.”

“It’s not what you expected,” Dominic said.

“No,” I said. “Not even a little.”

“What did you expect?” he asked, serving himself a pita bread and several dips.

I copied him and piled my plate with dips and bread. “I dunno,” I admitted. “To polish your shoes.”

“Orwell does that,” Dominic said, missing the irony completely.

A snort ripped out of me.

“Is my way of life funny to you?” Dominic asked pointedly.

“This is weird,” I said as bluntly as I could. “Why am I having dinner with you?”

“Why shouldn’t you? Is it a problem?” Dominic asked.

“No,” I said, unsure how to put it. After a moment of silence, I asked, “Do your other servants dine with you?”

Dominic shook his head.

“Why me, then?” I asked.

“For one thing, we need to discuss your role here,” Dominic said matter-of-factly. “You also happen to entertain me.”

“Like a clown,” I said flatly.

“If you have to be cynical about it, yes,” Dominic said, meeting my gaze.

I swallowed. His eyes were like burning ice, freezing everything they touched. My hand found my glass, and I distracted myself by drinking water. By the time I was finished, Dominic was looking at his plate again.

“My household is well managed,” he spoke as if we hadn’t just dueled a little. “Orwell is in charge of Harringford Manor, and I wouldn’t hand him an inexperienced employee for the sake of the last seven years he had spent with me.”

“Ah, nice,” I said spitefully, feeling more like a petulant child than ever before.

“So you will work with me,” Dominic said.

I choked on a bit of pita bread with spicy pepper and roasted walnut dip. “What?”

Dominic met my gaze with steadfast determination. “Orwell looked up your record. You took Business Administration in college, you graduated with high marks, and you promised to work for your father’s debt. So here it is.” Dominic lifted a folder from the seat of the chair to his left and set it between us. “I prefer a structured relationship to an improvised one. You may take your time to read the contract and raise any concerns you have in the morning. As for your duties, they will revolve around helping me organize the details for my new ventures.”

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