Holidays with the Billionaire

Chapter 7

Adlee

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I almost choke. “I’m sorry, sir. What?”

I stare into his impossible blue eyes, and where he normally looks stoic and almost pissed off all the time, now he almost looks... amused. I think I even see a small lift to one side of his perfect lips.

Why am I looking at his lips!

“Is that going to be a problem?” he asks, leaning forward on his desk, his light-blue dress shirt tight around his bulging biceps. The sleeves are rolled to the elbows and he folds his hands together, a silver watch gleaming in the light coming in through his massive windows as his powerful forearm muscles bunch. His jaw tics a few times as he stares into my eyes.

Well, shit. How can I say no to this Adonis? This god in a business suit...

I try to think of an excuse. Any reason to get out of this. I hate the snow. I don’t ski. I’ll break my neck trying. I don’t know how to do the job, let alone on location. I might flirt with him and lose my job.

None of them sound good enough or anything I’d actually let come out of my mouth.

I swallow hard again and decide to ask some questions.

“So, what, ah, do I have to do?”

“Well, it’s not that difficult, Miss Phillips. ‘Everything I tell you to’ is pretty much the answer.”

I purse my lips to keep from snapping off a rude—or God forbid, a perverted—response, and put on a pretty smile. “Could you be more specific?”

He pierces me with another intense gaze, not breaking eye contact while he reaches into his desk drawer and produces a piece of paper. He slides it over to me while lifting a pen from the desk and handing it to me.

I reluctantly break his stare and move mine down to the paper. The usual jargon with my full name is at the top, and the list of duties underneath:

You will stay onsite and be available to Mr. Fox or any of the shareholders (listed below) for any company-related needs.

You will take meeting minute notes at the shareholders’ meeting.

You will order provisions from the kitchen at the behest or request of any of the executives and shareholders.

You will participate in all activities, including sporting events, parties, and anything else asked of you.

You will not imbibe in alcohol except during your own leisure time.

You will dress professionally and appropriately during all business-related activities.

All of these duties will be expected of you, along with any others assigned to you at the discretion of Kelton Fox, CEO, Fox Investments.

My eyebrows go up. For once, I think before I speak, and reply, “So, just be...” your bitch wants to come out, but instead, I say, “at y’all’s beck and call?”

Kelton leans back and nods slightly. “Sure, if that’s how you want to think of it.”

“And how long is this trip and when is it?” I ask.

“We leave Thursday and return the following Wednesday,” he answers.

I nod. “I see. Mind if I check my calendar first? I think my niece has a Christmas play at her school, but I’m not sure of the day. If I don’t go, my sister will be upset. My phone’s in my desk, so I could run and—”

“No,” he cuts me off. “Sign it or don’t, Miss Phillips. I need an answer today. I have too much stuff to get done before now and Thursday, and if you’re not going to be available, then I’ll have to make other arrangements.”

I want to laugh. Other arrangements? Like what? Lea’s down for the count, and he has no one in the office who will do this shit for him.

As I stare at the paper, I can feel his eyes on me. The last line about along with any others assigned to you at the discretion of Kelton Fox concerns me. He could ask me to give him a blow job every day and I’d have to?

I mean, not that I’d mind, because I have a feeling this guy is seriously aggressive in bed, just like I like them. Plus, he’s “retired” from one of the most hostile sports in history. I glance over at his Colorado Avalanche trophies and then back to him.

“Something interesting over there?” he asks with amusement in his eyes.

I clear my throat. This dickhead is trying to intimidate me. I won’t fall for it. I try to think what I have going on for next week, but deep down, I know there’s nothing. No appointments, nothing with my family. Just Christmas shopping and Netflix.

“No, but I’m thinking. Can I take a day or two to decide?” I try.

“No. Sign it or don’t. I don’t have all fucking day.”

Okay then. Aggressive much?

I snatch the proffered pen he holds, trying not to be shocked by how heavy it is for a pen, and scribble my name on the line at the bottom.

He smiles in triumph and I wonder if I’ve made a big fucking mistake.

I rest my head in my hand as Gabe stares at me with wide eyes. His beer is paused at his lips. “Why is it a mistake?”

“You should have seen the contract,” I answer, lifting the martini to my mouth and take a big swig. “It was ridiculous. Basically, I’m going to be everyone’s bitch for a week.”

“Mmm. I’d love to be Mr. Foxy’s bitch.” He winks at me.

We’re at The 303 having after-work drinks on a Monday night because it’s been one of those days.

“I hear Lea’s still in the hospital,” he says.

“Yeah, gonna be there a while. Why do I feel bad?” I ask.

He lifts a shoulder. “Not sure. It’s not like you pushed her down the stairs.”

“I know but... now I’m practically taking her job because she had an accident.”

“A job you should have had to begin with. I mean, she’s a nice girl, but she’s definitely not qualified. She needs more experience. You shouldn’t have to do her job for her,” he reminds me.

I take a sip of my martini and set it down. “And you know what else? Laskin will be there. If he tries to boss me around even worse than he already does, I’m gonna snap.”

“Oh, I have no doubt he’s going to do just that, girlfriend.” Gabe chuckles.

“Great,” I groan.

He reaches over and squeezes my arm. “You’ll be fine. It’s practically a free vacation. Can you imagine how cool the resort must be? They own it. It’s probably bad-ass. It’s not like it’s gonna be some rinky-dink place. The Foxes are fucking loaded. Kelton’s house alone is worth a few million and it’s not even anything fancy.”

My eyes widen. “What? How do you know where he lives?”

He sets his beer down. “I saw his address on some tax paperwork. So I googled it.”

I smack his arm. “That was so...” I cock my head. “I mean, what’s it look like?”

He chuckles. “Old house, like a hundred years old on a few acres. No idea what the inside looks like. There’s no pics, just the outside. And no I’m not giving you the address so you can be nosy.”

“Hypocrite,” I murmur.

“I’m half thinking about putting that info on my office drama series,” he mutters, speaking of his overly dramatic TikTok channel he posts on.

I lift an eyebrow. “I dare you.”

He’s about to retort when the server delivers us chicken wings and French fries. My mouth waters, I’m so hungry.

Gabe takes a bite of a wing and makes a face.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, tucking the napkin into my shirt to get down with some wings.

“Not enough spice,” he replies. He looks around and snatches some hot sauce off a nearby table.

I bite into my wing and it takes a minute, but I suck in a breath at the spice. I quickly pick up my water and drink it. “What the hell! Do you have no tastebuds or even nerve endings? How does this not have enough spice, you psychopath?” I choke.

I watch in horror as he shrugs and dumps half a bottle onto his wings, his fries, and even into his ranch dressing.

“I hope you’re not kissing anyone later. God knows I sure won’t be,” I continue, reaching for a fry.

“I’m sure that buffalo sauce breath will be gone by next week when you’re cozied up to Mr. Foxy in his fancy ski chalet, warm by the fire, drinking a rum toddy.”

One brow lifts, a wing paused at my mouth. “You have an overactive imagination.”

“One of us has to have one,” he replies dryly, lifting his beer. “I mean, I would be willing to put money on it,” he continues.

I furrow my brow. “Money on what?”

“You and Foxy are gonna hook up.”

I stare at him in horror. “Absolutely not. The boss and his secretary? Cliché much?”

“There’s a reason it’s cliché, because it happens. Tons of movies and books about it too.”

I shake my head. “I’m not going to be another statistic, a girl falling for her boss only to get her heart broken.”

He points a French fry at me. “Who says he’s going to break your heart? Only if you catch feelings. Leave it out of the equation. Just have fun.”

If I could stomp my foot, I would. “I’m not screwing my boss!”

A few heads turn in my direction, and my cheeks flame. I offer apologetic smiles to them.

Gabe chuckles. “Famous last words.”