Page 8 of Billionaire Accidental Daddy

Or maybe not odd, considering she knows I’m one of her bosses now. There’s something sweet and Southern in her accent, but I can’t quite place it.

I frown, surprised to realize I don’t liketimidon her. I like her spitting fire.

“Whatever it is, spit it out,” I say impatiently. “I don’t bite.”

“You just kick,” she says, then claps a hand over her mouth, like she can’t believe she said that.

I glance at the overturned chair, the corner of my mouth twitching. “Fair enough,” I say, and she blinks.

“I, uh, came to apologize,” she says. “About this morning. I shouldn’t have—”

“No need to waste my time with an apology—”

“Assumed you were a serial killer,” she finishes on a rush.

I open my mouth. Close it again. Start to ask...but no. I don’t have time for this. Ireallydon’t have time for this.

But for some reason I can’t help myself. She’s so...unexpected. “You thought I was a serial killer.”

“Not any serial killer,” she says, like that makes her theory make more sense. “The elevator one. Specifically.”

I know better than to ask but I do anyway. “Why?”

“You have angry bear eyes,” she says. “Possibly more wolf.”

I peer at her. It’s funny. Shelookssane. And then she opens her mouth.

She backs away, hands up in a placating gesture, like she really does think I’m a wild animal about to charge.

And maybe I am, because despite the absolutely hellish day I’ve had, some part of me wants to give chase.

It’s been a long time since I wanted that.

“Anyway. That’s it. I’ll go apologize to your dad, uh, I mean Howard. Then back to the graphic design pen. You’ll never see me again, I swear.”

“Wait.” Something in her babbling sparks my brain back into gear. I need a graphic designer who won’t betray me to my dad. And she needs someone to keep my dad from firing her when he eventually crosses paths with her in the hallway and remembers she hair-sprayed him in the face.

“Stay,” I say. “And close the door behind you.”

Amelia swallows, the movement drawing attention to her delicate neck. For a second I’m back in the bakery, crashing into blonde curls that smell like oranges and sunshine.

And then Amelia straightens her shoulders, nods, and does what I say.

It’s a small victory, but it’s satisfying as fuck.

3

AMELIA

Cole gestures for me to take a seat so I do, waiting for him to do the same. I can’t tell if the fact that he wants to keep talking means my apology worked...or is about to blow up in my face.

I imagine going home to my cat and explaining we have to take him off wet food because Mamma lost another job.

I should have adopted a cat with less expensive taste.

Instead of sitting down with me, Cole walks around to my side of the desk and leans back against it, crossing his arms.

Oh good. He’s loomer.

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