Page 2 of Billionaire Wolf Needs an Assistant (My Grumpy Werewolf Boss #2)

KATIE

"I'm so sorry, Mom," I whispered, fighting back tears. My family crowded around the laptop screen, their faces glowing in the warm, golden light of the Christmas decorations they'd hung behind them. The cheerful twinkle of the lights only made my bare, dimly lit apartment feel colder, emptier. The silence here was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of the radiator struggling to keep up with the winter chill. To make it worse, Lacey was miles away in Paradise Peaks with her boss, leaving me utterly alone on what was supposed to be the most magical night of the year.

"I know this job came up suddenly," I continued, my fingers nervously twisting the strand of yarn in my hands, "but I promise I'll make it up to you at Easter. I'll be there. I swear."

Mom's brave smile wobbled, and my chest ached at the sight of unshed tears in her eyes. She blinked quickly, trying to hide them, but I knew her too well. "We understand, sweetheart. Your career has to come first. I only wish you had chosen a less demanding job." Behind her, my younger sisters made funny faces at me, already wearing the matching Christmas pajamas I was supposed to have gotten at our annual holiday exchange. The empty spot on the worn plaid couch behind my mom where I should have been sitting felt like a physical wound, reminding me of everything I was missing this year.

"I've been crocheting your presents," I said quickly, desperate to fill the silence. I held up the half-finished scarf in Mom's favorite shade of blue. The cheap acrylic yarn was a far cry from the soft merino wool I'd dreamed of giving her, but I'd put extra love into every stitch, hoping that it would somehow make up for my absence. "I'll overnight them tomorrow. They should arrive before New Year's."

"Just take care of yourself," Dad chimed in, his forehead creased with worry lines I didn't remember being there last summer. His voice was gruff, but the concern in his eyes was unmistakable. "That fancy harbor city is expensive. Are you eating enough?"

I angled the camera away from my dinner of instant ramen and the stack of unpaid bills on my tiny kitchen counter. "I'm fine, Dad," I lied. Forcing a bright smile on my face, I shrugged. "The job pays well, and I'm already learning so much." There was no need to mention the impossible demands from Mr. Song or the way most of my coworkers looked at me like I was dirt on their designer shoes. "My boss is challenging, but in a good way. He pushes me to be better."

"Like that time you said the neighbor's mean dog was just particular about people?" my sister Amy teased. Her tone was light, but I caught the concern in her eyes.

"Hey, I won him over eventually!" I protested. Privately, I wondered if Reeve Song would prove harder to charm than old Rex had been. At least the dog had accepted treats. Something told me my new boss wouldn't be swayed by sugar cookies and burger scraps, but that wouldn't stop me from trying.

After saying goodbye to my family, I curled up on my threadbare couch. My hands moved automatically through the familiar motions of crocheting, the rhythmic stab and twist motions providing a small comfort as I blinked back tears. The loneliness pressed in like the winter darkness outside my window, but I refused to let it win. I'd make this work. I had to.

The last several days had been an unexpected, but welcome reprieve. Mr. Song had been completely absent from the office. According to Sophia, he was off on some important business trip to Paradise Peaks. She mentioned something about working with Wulfthorn Baked Goods to secure a deal, but said nothing more to me. His return to the office tomorrow meant that my easy week at work was going to come to an end. My stomach churned at the thought of what fresh hell he was going to have waiting for me. Crocheting was not doing much to ease my anxiety. I needed to do something else to take my mind off of work tonight, something physically stimulating. Baking always helped.

The next morning, I arrived early at the office with a tin of homemade cookies and some subtle decorations for my desk. Nothing overboard, just a small poinsettia plant and a tasteful strand of white lights. Pete, the security guard, accepted a cookie with a grateful smile, the first genuine one I'd seen in this glass fortress.

"You're too nice for this place," he warned, though there was fondness in his gruff voice. "They'll eat you alive up there."

"Then I'll make them choke on me," I replied with a wink.

I was arranging the lights around the poinsettia when Sophia walked past my desk in her designer heels. She was wearing a figure-hugging black and white dress cinched at the waist with a thick leather belt. Today's outfit probably cost more than three months of my rent.

She paused, perfectly manicured finger hovering over the tablet in her hand. "How quaint," she said, her words as cold as her smile. "Though perhaps a bit unprofessional for an executive floor?" She inhaled slightly, nostrils flaring in a way that reminded me of a predator scenting prey. "Mr. Song prefers a more polished aesthetic. We wouldn't want him thinking you're unsuitable for this position."

Ignoring her barbed words, I held out my tin of homemade cookies. Just to piss her off, I pulled my lips into an extra wide beaming smile. "Would you like one? They're still warm," I replied cheerfully.

She wrinkled her nose as if I had just shoved roadkill into her face. "Ugh, carbs are so last decade."

I had just settled at my desk and opened my email when Mr. Song's voice crackled through the intercom, sharp and demanding. "Ms. Clark. My office. Now."

As I got up, I caught the smirk spreading on Sophia's face. Bitch.

When I entered his office, he was standing at his window, looking down at the city below. There was tension in his shoulders. He was coiled tight as a spring. Slowly, he turned around, his stormy gray eyes locking onto mine. His nostrils flared when he laid his eyes on me. For a second, I thought he actually snarled.

"What is that smell?" he demanded.

Despite the tremor in my legs, I forced myself to walk across the room. "Uh, freshly baked sugar cookies, sir. Would you like one? It's my grandma's recipe." I lifted the lid off the tin and held it out toward him.

He clenched his jaw, but something flickered in his expression, temporarily softening the harsh lines of his face. "I don't celebrate Christmas."

"Everyone celebrates cookies," I said before I could stop myself. Was that a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth? For a moment, the air between us felt charged with something I couldn't name. Something that set my heart racing.

He broke the moment by dropping a massive file on his desk. "The Singapore Cruises account needs a complete presentation by tomorrow morning," he said. "The board meets at 8 AM sharp. Our entire Asia Pacific strategy depends on this proposal. Handle it."

I set the cookies down on the corner of his desk and flipped through the papers. My heart sank as I scanned the requirements. The time difference meant working through Christmas Eve, and the data alone would take hours to compile. But I lifted my chin, meeting his challenging stare. Something sparked in those gray eyes when I didn't back down.

"Of course, sir. I'll have it ready."

The hours blurred together as I worked, fueled by determination and coffee courtesy of the Bean Brewing and Sipping coffee shop downstairs. Everybody had already gone home, leaving the office empty except for Mr. Song and me. Christmas lights twinkled through the windows of the buildings next to us, a cruel reminder of the holiday I was missing. Only the hum of my computer and occasional sounds from Mr. Song's office pierced the thick silence.

My phone buzzed with a text from Lacey, accompanied by a photo of a luxurious suite decked out in Christmas decor.

Lacey: "You would not BELIEVE this place! The suite is bigger than our entire apartment, and I have a view of the mountains."

Me: "Rub it in, why don't you? How are you feeling?"

Despite her job being more glamorous than mine, Lacey had been in a bad car accident a couple of days ago.

Lacey: "Blake's been amazing. He and Emilia have barely left my side. They're decorating gingerbread cookies right now. How's your billionaire tyrant?"

I glanced in the direction of Mr. Song's office.

Me: "Still grumpy. Still difficult. Drowning in spreadsheets. You will have to celebrate Christmas for both of us."

Lacey: "Don't tell me he's making you work on Christmas Eve! I'm going to have Blake talk to him."

My heart jumped. I knew Lacey meant well, but her interference would only prove to Mr. Song that I couldn't handle the workload.

Me: "No! I can't abandon ship now. Besides, someone has to show him that Christmas miracles exist. I will get this project done even if I have to work my fingers to stubs."

Lacey: "Girl, take care of yourself! He's an idiot if he can't see how amazing you are."

I worked straight through until dawn. By the time I knocked on his door, my eyes burned and my hands shook from exhaustion and caffeine overload.

He looked up from his computer monitor. The first light of Christmas morning crept over the city skyline behind him. It wasn't fair that after an all-nighter, he looked fresh and rested as if he had just arrived at work.

"The Singapore presentation, sir," I said, trying not to sway on my feet. "I've included market projections, demographic analysis, and a strategic implementation timeline. The slide deck is formatted for both Western and Asian business styles, with cultural considerations integrated throughout."

I wrung my hands as he flipped through the materials I had prepared. A frown appeared on his face as his fingers traced the charts I spent hours compiling. Was that a sign of disapproval of my work? Or was he surprised that I managed to pull it off in such a short time?

"This is acceptable," he said finally, his voice rougher than usual. For a moment, he seemed to lean slightly toward me, that strange tension filling the air between us again. "Take tomorrow off."

"Thank you, sir. Merry Christmas," I said. My heart swelled at his reluctant praise. For Mr. Song, acceptable was the equivalent of receiving a gold medal and confetti raining on me. It was a Christmas miracle. As I turned to leave the office, I noticed the tin of cookies was still on his desk. There was an entire layer of cookies missing inside.

Biting my lip, I suppressed the smile that threatened to spread across my face. With a renewed spring in my step, I walked out of the office. Reeve Song had a tough exterior, but I was going to crack through it.