Page 12 of The Billionaire's Redemption

Confusion flickers in her eyes like a candle flame. “What?”

I tuck my hands in my pockets, walking towards her slowly, as I speak. “I admit, I may have been presumptuous there. She looked quite young, and I’m well aware of Braxton’s nature and his hiring practices. However, I should not have assumed. I should’ve talked to you first.”

The fight begins to leave her body gradually, and she looks more confused than ever, as if she’d been prepared for battle only to find her opponent laying down arms. Did she expect me to argue with her, to dismiss her concerns?

“Oh.” She looks genuinely uncomfortable with my response. “Well. Yes, I’d appreciate that next time.”

“Next time?” I raise a brow, moving closer until we’re mere inches apart. We’re close enough now that I can smell the enticing vanilla and lavender scent clinging to her skin. I look down at her, noting that her lipstick has faded throughout the day, yet she hasn’t bothered reapplying it. Her red hair that had been clipped into a tight bun is beginning to unravel, some of the strands framing her exquisite face like silk threads. I reach out and take a strand of her hair, curling it around my finger with deliberate intimacy.

“I thought you were planning to leave the company.”

She smacks my hand away with sharp precision, but not before I catch the slight tremor in her touch. “I didn’t give you permission to touch me.”

Delight fills me at her reaction. She’s not as unaffected as she wants to appear. “And will you? Give me permission, that is?”

“If you’re here to become Braxton 2.0, you’re going to have a hell of a fight,” she begins sharply, making me scoff with amusement.

“I’m not interested in following in your previous CEO’s footsteps. I’m only interested in one woman, not everything in a skirt.”

“Yes, well, find a woman who’s interested in you back.” She steps away from me, her hand already reaching for the door handle, but there’s something in her voice—a slight breathlessness that tells me she’s not as immune to me as she pretends.

I don’t stop her, simply asking with calculated casualness, “Are you done going over the contract?”

When she looks over her shoulder at me, I see the fire return in those blue eyes with renewed intensity. If looks could kill, I’d be lying on the floor.

She slams the door in my face, and I can hear her heelsclicking furiously as she storms off, each step echoing her frustration.

I chuckle into the empty room, the sound filled with dark satisfaction.

“All roads lead to me, Natalie. Just where are you going to go?”

CHAPTER 3

NATALIE

‘I’m onlyinterested in one woman.’

I slam my bag into the living room couch with enough force to make the cushions bounce. “He must think I’m on my last two fucking brain cells!”

My flatmate, Sarah, peeks out from the kitchen of our small but comfortable apartment, her spiky pink hair catching the afternoon light filtering through the large windows. “What was that?”

I nearly jump out of my skin upon hearing her voice. “What’re you doing home?! I thought you’d be at work,” I gasp, hand pressed against my chest.

“I took a day off from work. I got back at four this morning and was supposed to be back in at nine? I’m a sous-chef, not the Flash. Staten Island is two hours away by subway. This last week has killed me dead.”

“I was wondering why I hadn’t seen you around lately.” I observe her tired expression, noting the circles under her eyes. “You do look exhausted. Can’t you ask to stay in the Manhattan branch?”

“I’m working on that.”

Sarah walks out of the kitchen wearing a thin tank top and shorts, her damp hair suggesting she’s just emerged from a much-needed shower. “You’re supposed to be on a beach in Hawaii, soaking up rays and forgetting all about work.”

“Yeah. Long story.” I rub my temples, feeling the tension headache that’s been building all day. “Is there something to eat? I’m starving.”

“I was making Fettuccine Alfredo for myself. You want some?”

“Please.”

As I enter the kitchen, she glides over to the wine cooler to retrieve a fresh bottle of red wine, setting it on the kitchen counter while pulling out two large glasses with practiced ease. “So I suppose this would be a bad time to tell you your mother called?”