Chapter 29
Chapter 29:
Jocelyn stared at the text. In the Wolfe house, dinner was whatever Elouise wanted. If Jocelyn didn’t like it, she didn’t eat. No one had ever asked her what she preferred.
“What is this?” she asked.
“Modern household management,” Gaston said, settling back into his seat. “It’s efficient p>
“They’re asking me what I want to eat p>
“You live here now,” Gaston said simply. “You eat what you want p>
Jocelyn felt a lump form in her throat. It was such a small thing, but it felt enormous.
“I like paella,” she said softly. “Seafood p>
“Tell him,” Gaston said. “Marco makes an excellent paella p>
𝘛𝘩е 𝗯es𝘵 r𝗲𝘷𝘪𝘦𝗐𝘀 𝗼𝘯
Jocelyn typed her reply. Seafood paella would be lovely. Thank you.
Gaston picked up his newspaper again. “Also, I had your Honda towed to a secure storage facility. The brake pads were worn — I couldn’t have my wife driving a death trap. There’s a replacement for you in spot B2 of the garage p>
Jocelyn looked at this man — this stranger who had bullied her into safety, who respected her boundaries while quietly testing them, who fed her.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Don’t thank me,” Gaston muttered, retreating behind the business section. “It’s in the contract p>
The study was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the green banker’s lamp on the desk and the glow of Jocelyn’s laptop screen. It was past eleven, but she was wide awake.
She was buried under a mountain of spreadsheets. The Wolfe Hotel’s financials were a disaster zone — Elouise and Robert had treated the company account like a personal piggy bank for years.
“You’re sighing,” a voice said from the doorway.
Jocelyn jumped. She hadn’t heard him approach.
Gaston walked in carrying two mugs of steamed milk. He set one down beside her laptop.
“I’m not sighing,” Jocelyn lied, rubbing her temples. “I’m breathing heavily with frustration p>
“Same thing.” Gaston leaned against the edge of the desk. He was wearing navy silk pajamas — frustratingly elegant even at this hour. “What’s the problem p>
“The depreciation schedule on the kitchen equipment,” Jocelyn said, pointing at the screen. “It doesn’t make sense. They wrote off the industrial ovens three times in four years p>
Gaston moved behind her chair. He placed one hand on the back of the wood and the other on the desk surface, effectively caging her in, and leaned down to look at the screen.
His chest brushed against her shoulder. The scent of him — soap and that distinct, woody musk — enveloped her.
“Here,” he said. His voice rumbled right beside her ear.
He reached out, his hand covering hers on the mouse. His fingers were long and warm. He guided her hand, clicking on a hidden tab in the spreadsheet.
“They’re burying the assets in a shell company,” Gaston explained. “See this transfer? It’s fraud, but it’s clever p>
Jocelyn couldn’t focus on the numbers. All she could feel was the heat of his body, the weight of his hand on hers. It felt intimate. Too intimate.
Rule number three.
“I — I see it,” she stammered. Her heart was racing.