Page 7 of Billionaire Wolf Needs a Maid (My Grumpy Werewolf Boss #6)

NINA

Pine Falls welcomed me back like a warm hug, its familiar streets a soothing balm after the cold steel and glass of Huntington Harbor. Wind chimes tinkled in the distance, and garden ornaments glistened under the sun. The air smelled like fresh-cut grass and backyard barbecues. The quiet suburbs were a far cry from the city's noise and constant buzz.

Maggie's house sat at the end of Clementine Drive, a cozy two-story with fading blue paint that needed touching up and cheerful yellow curtains that always made me think of sunshine. Max's red bike with its training wheels lay tipped over in the front yard, exactly where it had been during my last visit. The concrete path leading to the door was cracked, with dandelions pushing through.

The screen door burst open before I reached the porch.

"Aunt Nina!" Max came flying out, a blur of Marvel t-shirt and untied sneakers. I caught him mid-leap, spinning to absorb the impact as he wrapped his arms around my neck. The scent of baby shampoo and fruit snacks filled my nose, and the tightness in my chest loosened. "You came back!"

"Of course I did, superhero." I buried my face in his hair, soaking in his warmth. "I promised, didn't I?"

"Nina!" Maggie appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted dish towel. Her smile was warm, but I caught the concern in her eyes. "You're just in time for cookies."

Inside, the house was its usual cheerful chaos. Crayons and action figures littered the coffee table, and a half-finished puzzle of dinosaurs sprawled across the dining room floor. The air was thick with the smell of chocolate chip cookies and coffee, making my mouth water. It felt worlds away from Dean's sterile penthouse with its chrome and glass and lingering secrets.

"So," Maggie said once Max had dragged me to the kitchen table and presented me with his latest artistic masterpiece, a crayon drawing of me in a flowing purple cape, brandishing what looked like a glowing mop at shadowy monsters. "How's the city treating you?"

I traced the wobbly lines of Max's drawing, buying time. The monster shapes in the corners were darker than his usual style, almost ominous. "It's different."

"Different good or different bad?" She set a steaming mug of coffee in front of me, the ceramic warm against my palms.

"Both?" The coffee was perfect. "The job is challenging, but interesting. Dean is..."

"Still throwing things?" Her eyebrow arched.

"No, no, nothing like that." I struggled to find the right words. How could I explain the way he shifted between arctic distance and scorching focus? The electricity that crackled between us in quiet moments? The glimpses of vulnerability I caught when he thought no one was looking? The dark past he didn't want me to look into? "He's complicated."

"Complicated." Maggie's voice flattened. "Nina, please tell me you're not developing feelings for your boss."

"Of course not!" The denial came too quickly. Heat crept up my neck as Maggie's knowing look pierced right through me.

"Aunt Nina's turning red!" Max announced helpfully, looking up from his new drawing. "Like a tomato!"

"Thanks, buddy." I ruffled his hair, grateful for the distraction. "What are you drawing now?"

"It's you fighting the bad guys!" He held up the paper proudly. "With your super mop powers! See? The monsters can't get near you 'cause you're too bright!"

The crayon figure wore a flowing cape that seemed to radiate light, keeping the dark shapes at bay. Something about it made my throat tight. Was that how Max saw me? A light in the darkness?

"Can I keep this one?" I asked softly.

Max beamed. "Yeah! You can hang it up in the big tower where you work!"

My heart squeezed. If only he knew how much darkness that tower held.

"Sometimes late at night, when the penthouse was silent except for Dean's restless pacing, I could feel the oppressive weight of secrets pressing down, making the air thick and heavy. The way shadows seemed to gather in corners despite the modern lighting, as if drawn to whatever pain Dean carried. Max's innocent belief in my ability to fight monsters made my chest ache. How could I explain that some monsters weren't crayon drawings, but memories that haunted people until they built walls so high even they couldn't escape?"

"Nina." Maggie's voice pulled me back. She waited until Max had turned his attention to adding more monsters to his drawing. "I know that look."

"What look?"

"The one that says you're about to do something stupidly brave." She reached across the table to squeeze my hand. "You've always had a thing for fixing broken things, but some people don't want to be fixed."

"He's not broken." The words came out sharper than intended. "He's just guarded."

"And you think you can get past those guards?" She sighed. "I've seen this before, remember? With Travis?"

The name hit like a slap. "Dean's nothing like Travis."

"No?" Her eyes drifted to where Max sat drawing, blissfully unaware of the conversation. "Travis seemed complicated too, until he wasn't. Until he was just cruel."

"That's not fair." But my voice wavered. "Dean wouldn't."

"Wouldn't what? Hurt you? Break your heart?" Maggie's eyes softened. "You see the best in everyone, Nina. It's what I love about you. But sometimes people are exactly who they seem to be."

I stared into my coffee, watching the light play on its surface. "And sometimes they're not."

Later, as I hugged them goodbye, Maggie pulled me close. "Just be careful, okay?" she whispered, her arms tight around me. "I can't watch you get hurt."

"I know what I'm doing," I assured her, even as doubt gnawed at my stomach.

"Do you?" She pulled back to study my face. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're falling for someone who's already told you to keep your distance."

I couldn't meet her eyes. "It's not like that."

"It never is, until it is." She squeezed my shoulders. "Just remember you have people who love you, okay? People who'll be here no matter what."

Max's goodbye hug was easier, all enthusiasm and sticky kisses. "Don't forget your superpowers!" he called as I headed for my car. "You gotta keep the monsters away!"

If only it were that simple.

The city welcomed me back with its usual soundtrack of horns and sirens. Gone were the cheerful gardens and quiet streets, replaced by steel and glass towers that blocked out the sun. The familiar tension crept back into my shoulders as I made my way to Dean's building, Max's drawing tucked safely in the bag slung across my shoulder. The doorman nodded as I passed, and the elevator whispered upward with its usual efficiency.

"Welcome back, Miss Sorenson," Jenkins greeted as the penthouse doors slid open. "I trust your day off was rejuvenating?"

"It was nice to see family." As soon as I stepped inside, I was already scanning for tasks. The coldness of the penthouse was stark after the warmth of Maggie's house. "Anything urgent need attention?"

"Mr. Nightfang has been in his office since dawn," Jenkins reported. "He's consumed approximately three pots of coffee and has not eaten since yesterday evening. His vital signs suggest increasing irritability."

I sighed. "I'll make something."

The kitchen was spotless, my doing, but the coffee maker showed signs of recent abuse. Dark drops stained the area around the counter. The hopper, which was refilled with coffee beans when I left, was now half empty. I started a fresh pot and assembled a sandwich, adding extra tomatoes because I'd noticed Dean seemed to like them. The scent of fresh coffee filled the air, a poor substitute for chocolate chip cookies but comforting in its own way.

As I worked, Max's drawing fell from my bag, bright colors stark against the monochrome floor.

"What's that?" Jenkins asked as I bent to retrieve it.

"My nephew's artwork." I smiled at the crayon figure, its cape flowing with childish enthusiasm. "He thinks I'm some kind of superhero maid."

"How charmingly optimistic." Jenkins' tone was dry. "Though given your success rate with Mr. Nightfang's chaos, perhaps not entirely inaccurate. You do seem to have a certain calming effect."

I laughed, setting the drawing aside to plate the sandwich. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Dean's office door was closed, the heavy oak a barrier between worlds. Through it came the angry staccato of keyboard strikes, too fast, too harsh, like rainfall turning to hail. My stomach tightened at the familiar sound. This was his spiral pattern. He would work until exhaustion, then work harder. I adjusted the plate in my hands, drew in a steadying breath, and knocked softly.

"What?" The word was sharp and distracted.

I pushed the door open. "You need to eat something."

He looked up, and the full weight of those hazel-gold eyes slammed into me. My breath caught. Dark circles colored the skin beneath them, making the sharp angles of his face even more pronounced. His hair stuck up in wild peaks. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his shoulders were tense enough to snap steel. His black t-shirt was rumpled, sleeves pushed up to reveal corded forearms. Something about seeing him like this, rumpled and focused and somehow vulnerable, made my heart twist.

As I balanced the plate and coffee, my mind raced with contrary impulses. Part of me wanted to retreat, to maintain the professional distance he so clearly preferred. But the part that noticed how his hands shook slightly from too much caffeine and too little food, the part that caught those rare unguarded moments when he looked almost lost, that part couldn't step back. Maggie's warnings echoed in my head, but they were drowning under the steady drum of my heart.

"You look like you've been wrestling with your keyboard," I said, aiming for lightness. "I think the computer's winning."

"I'm busy." But his gaze lingered on the sandwich, and something in his expression softened infinitesimally.

"You're always busy." I set everything on his desk, careful not to disturb the organized chaos of papers and tech. "But you still need food."

He opened his mouth, probably to argue, but his stomach growled traitorously. A hint of color touched his cheeks, and for a moment, he looked almost human instead of the untouchable CEO or the man with dangerous secrets, just someone who'd forgotten to eat lunch.

"Eat," I said firmly. "Doctor's orders."

His lips twitched. "You're not a doctor."

"No, but I am the one who has to deal with you when you're hangry."

That startled a laugh out of him. It was a real one, warm and rich. The sound did funny things to my insides, like butterflies taking flight. His eyes crinkled at the corners, a rare glimpse at the man behind the stressed CEO exterior.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of routine tasks. I was elbow-deep in mopping the balcony when Jenkins spoke.

"Miss Sorenson? Mr. Nightfang would like to see you in his office."

My stomach dropped. Maggie's warnings echoed in my head as I wiped my hands on my jeans.

But when I entered his office, Dean wasn't at his desk. He stood by the window, silhouetted against the city lights. Max's drawing was in his hands, held with surprising gentleness.

The blood drained from my face. I had forgotten all about the drawing I left in the kitchen. Dean must have seen it when he went to refill his coffee.

"Your nephew drew this?" His voice was soft, almost contemplative.

"Yes, he's always drawing. Says art helps him fight the scary things." I shifted my weight, watching Dean's face carefully. "Kids have their own way of processing fear, I guess."

"And what about adults?" He looked up. "How do we process it?"

"Some build towers," I said before I could stop myself. "Others try to face it head-on."

His jaw tightened. "And which am I?"

"I think you know the answer to that." I twisted my fingers together. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to leave it."

He turned, and something in his expression made my heart leap. The usual sharp edges had softened, replaced by something almost wistful. "No, it's good. He has talent."

"He thinks I'm a superhero." I smiled despite my nervousness. "Fighting monsters with my magic mop."

Dean's lips curved slightly. "Smart kid." He traced one of the shadowy figures in the corner. "He sees things clearly."

The city lights painted shadows across his face, casting him in gold and shadow. He looked younger somehow, more approachable. Almost lonely.

"Nina." He set the drawing down carefully. "About yesterday—"

"It's okay." I cut him off, not ready to hear whatever walls he was about to rebuild. "I understand. Your family is off-limits."

He studied me for a long moment, with an unreadable expression in his eyes. "It's not that I don't trust you."

"I know." And somehow, I did. Whatever darkness lurked in his past, whatever secrets he was protecting, it wasn't about me. Not really.

He took a step closer. "You're good with him. Your nephew."

"Max makes it easy." I smiled, remembering sticky hugs and endless questions. "He sees the best in everything."

"Like his aunt." The words were so quiet I almost missed them. They hit me like a physical touch, warming places inside that I'd tried to keep cold. It was dangerous, this softening between us. Every small crack in his armor revealed something that made me want to break down the rest of his walls, even as my self-preservation instinct screamed to run. It was the same feeling that led me to my disastrous relationship with Travis. But this felt different. Dean's darkness didn't feel like cruelty waiting to explode. It felt like pain waiting to heal.

Before I could process that, he cleared his throat and turned away. "You should go home. It's late."

"I live here now, remember?" I tried to keep my tone light. "Part of the job description."

He stiffened slightly. "Right." A pause, then he spoke, so softly that I almost missed it. "Thank you. For the sandwich."

I went back to the living room to grab my messenger bag.

As I turned to leave, my bag caught on the edge of the coffee table, spilling its contents across the floor. Among the scattered items, my wedding planning journal fell open, pages of carefully collected photos, color swatches, and neatly written notes on display.

I scrambled to gather everything, heat rushing to my face, but Dean was faster. He picked up the journal, his eyes scanning the pages with interest.

"These are good," he said, surprising me. His fingers traced over a detailed layout I'd drawn for a garden ceremony. "You have an eye for design."

"It's nothing," I mumbled, reaching for the journal. "Just dreams."

He held onto it for a moment longer, studying a page of venue research. "Dreams matter, Nina. These aren't just sketches, they're business plans. Thorough ones." His eyes met mine, and for once, there was no wall between us. "Why aren't you pursuing this?"

The question caught me off guard. "I don't have the connections. The top firms won't even look at my portfolio without industry experience or references."

"Sometimes the best businesses start from scratch." He handed the journal back, his fingers brushing mine. "You have talent. And determination. Those are harder to find than connections."

Something warm unfurled in my chest at his words. "You really think so?"

"I built my company from nothing but code and caffeine." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Sometimes all it takes is one person believing it's possible."

For a moment, something blossomed that felt dangerously like hope. It wasn't much, but it was progress. Like maybe, beneath all his walls and warnings and family secrets, there was someone who just needed a little light in his darkness.

"Don't work too late," he said before disappearing behind his office door.

"You too," I whispered.

As I cleaned up the kitchen and packed up the day's garbage, I caught my reflection in the window. There was no cape, no superpowers, just me. But maybe Max was right. Maybe sometimes fighting monsters didn't require magic at all.

Just patience, understanding, and maybe a little faith.

The service elevator hummed as it descended to the underground parking garage. I balanced the day's garbage bags, still mulling over Dean's words about my wedding planning dreams. The garage was eerily quiet at this hour, my footsteps echoing off concrete walls.

"Nina, dear! What perfect timing!"

I turned to find Mrs. Abernathy emerging from her parking spot, her floral housecoat swished as she walked.

"I just pulled a lemon cake from the oven," she said. "It's far too much for one person. Won't you join me for a slice?"

"Oh, I couldn't."

"Nonsense!" She waved away my protest. "You look like you could use a friendly ear. And my Arnold always said there's no problem that can't be improved by cake and conversation."

Before I knew it, I was settled in her cozy apartment, watching her pour tea into delicate china cups.

"Now then," Mrs. Abernathy said, setting a generous slice of cake in front of me. "What's troubling you, dear? And don't say nothing. I've been reading people longer than you've been alive."

I poked at the cake with my fork, the buttery, rich aroma making my stomach growl. "It's complicated."

"Ah." She smiled knowingly. "Matters of the heart usually are."

My head snapped up. "I didn't say any such thing."

"You didn't have to." She settled into her armchair, teacup balanced perfectly.

Her eyes twinkled. "Dean reminds me of my Arnold, actually. When we first met, he was the grumpiest bear you'd ever seen. Wouldn't say two words unless they were complaints."

Despite myself, I leaned forward. "What changed?"

"Persistence, dear. And understanding." She sipped her tea. "You see, Arnold had been hurt before. Built walls so high he forgot how to let anyone in. But I knew, deep down, there was a gentle soul behind all that growling."

"How did you know?"

"The little things." She smiled at a photo on the mantel. In the brass picture frame, a younger version of herself smiled at the camera while a tall man looked at her like she hung the moon. "The way he'd leave fresh flowers on my doorstep but never admit to it. How he'd check my car's oil without being asked. His walls came down brick by brick, not all at once."

I thought about Dean's small gestures. The way he noticed when I was tired, how he encouraged me to pursue my dreams, his gentle handling of Max's drawing.

"But weren't you scared?" I asked softly. "Of getting hurt?"

"Terrified." Mrs. Abernathy reached over to pat my hand. "Love is always a risk, dear. But sometimes the ones who seem the hardest to love are the ones who love the deepest, once they let themselves."

"Dean's complicated."

"The best ones usually are." She winked. "And I've noticed he barks considerably less since you arrived. Used to hear him stomping around at all hours, muttering to himself. Now? Much more civilized."

I couldn't help but laugh. "I'm not sure 'civilized' is the word I'd use."

"Progress takes time." She cut another slice of cake. "And patience. And occasionally, really good lemon cake."

As if to prove her point, she wrapped up several thick slices. "Take these up with you. That boy's too thin anyway."

Later, as I rode the elevator back up to the penthouse, I thought about Mrs. Abernathy's words. About walls coming down brick by brick, and the courage it takes to be patient with someone else's healing.

The cake felt warm in my hands, like it was infusing me with the fire and strength to take a leap of faith. Maybe some risks were worth taking, even if they might break your heart.