The Billionaire’s Secret Heirs (Celine and Hunter) novel Chapter 46

Chapter 46

-HUNTER-

I shuffle through the stack of papers on my desk, frustration building with each document that isn’t what I need. The Stevens contract should be here somewhere.

“Damn it,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair.

Caroline would know where everything is. My cousin might be a pain in my ass, but she has an uncanny ability to organize my chaos.

I check my watch–past six. The meeting with the investors is tomorrow morning, and I need those documents tonight.

Grabbing my phone, 1 dial Caroline’s number. Straight to voicemail. Perfect.

I stride from my office, making my way toward the kitchen where I’d last seen her with Caesar. The thought of the boy sends an uncomfortable jolt through my chest. Those blue eyes. His question.

“Maybe you can be my daddy?”

I shake the thought away. Not now. I can’t deal with that right now.

The kitchen is quiet when I enter, only Sally, the head maid, wiping down the counters. She straightens immediately when she sees

1. me.

“Mr. Reid,” she says, her voice stiff with formality. “Can I help you with something?”

“Where’s Caroline?” I ask, scanning the room as if my cousin might be hiding somewhere.

*Miss Crawford left about twenty minutes ago, sir,” Sally replies. “She mentioned something about dinner plans.”

“Fuck,” I curse under my breath.

Sally’s eyes widen slightly, clearly shocked by my language. I rarely lose my composure in front of the staff

“I apologize,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I needed help with some documents.”

Sally’s nods, her posture relaxing slightly. “I can send one of the maids to assist you,

I’m about to refuse when my gaze falls on the plate of cookies on the counter–chocolate chip, the same ones Caesar had been eating earlier. My stomach growls, reminding me I’d skipped lunch.

“Those cookies,” I say, nodding toward them. “Are there more?”

“Yes, sir. Cook made plenty. Would you like some?”

“Please. And a drink. Bourbon, neat.” I pause, then add, “Actually, make it a scotch.”

Sally nods again. “I’ll have someone bring them to your study right away And I’ll send Maria to help with your documents.”

I’m almost at the staircase when I stop, turning back to face her. “Sally?”

“Yes, sir?”

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“Is Celine still here?” The question comes out before I can stop it.

Sally’s expression shifts subtly. “I believe she’s finished her duties for the day, sir. She should be in the staff quarters with her son

Thesitate, knowing I should let it go. Let her go. But the thought of Caesar’s smile, the way he’d so easily made himself at home in

my space….

“Send Celine instead,” I say, the words hanging between us.

Sally’s brows furrow slightly. “Celine, sir? Not Maria?”

“That’s what I said.” My

“That’s what I said.” My tone hardens, daring her to question me further.

Sally nods quickly. “Of course, sir. I’ll send her right away.”

Itum and continue up the stairs, ignoring the twist of something like anticipation in my gut.

Back in my study, I try to focus on the files again, but my mind keeps wandering. To Caesar’s blue eyes. To Celine’s scent when. she’d appeared in the doorway.

To the possibility I’ve been avoiding since I first saw the boy.

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. Cook enters with a tray of cookies and a glass of scotch.

“Thank you,” I say, taking the drink and immediately swallowing a mouthful. The burn is welcome, and grounding

“Will there be anything else, Mr. Maxwell?” she asks.

“No. Actually, yes.” I glance at the cookies. “Bring another glass of juice. The kind Caesar drinks.”

Cook’s eyebrows rise slightly, but she nods. “Right away, sir.”

She leaves, and I’m alone again with my thoughts and the smell of chocolate chip cookies. I take one, surprised by how good it

tastes.

Simple. Sweet, Nothing like the elaborate desserts served at business dinners.

Time passes. One cookie becomes three. The scotch glass empties. Cook returns with the juice, sets itne edge of my desk, and

leaves without a word.

One hour. Then nearly two.

No Celine.

Irritation rises, sharp and hot. Did Sally forget to tell her? Did Celine refuse?

The thought of her defying my direct request fuels my anger. I’ve given her a job, a place to live, despite our complicated

situation.

The least she could do is show some basic respect.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m on my feet, striding toward the staff quarters. The halls are quiet, most of the day staff gone home, the night staff busy elsewhere.

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1 barely knock before pushing open the door to the small apartment allocated to Celine and her son.

She’s at the sink, her back to me, hands submerged in soapy water. Her hair is down, cascading past her shoulders in soft waves I’ve never seen before.

She turns, startled by my entrance. Water drips from her hands onto the floor.

“You were late,” I say, my voice hard.

Confusion flashes across her face, then understanding, followed by something like defiance,

“I was putting my son to bed,” she says, grabbing a towel to dry her hands.

I step closer, the small space of her quarters making my presence feel overwhelming even to me. “This job isn’t some favor Im doing for you. You have responsibilities.”

Something flares in her eyes–anger, frustration, something I’ve never seen from her before.

“And I fulfill them,” she snaps. “But I’m also a mother. And I don’t get to turn that off.”

Topen my mouth to respond, but she surprises me by stepping right into my space, glaring up at me despite the difference in our heights.

“You think I’m lazy?” she demands, her voice low but intense. “Do you know what it’s like to work three jobs just to afford diapers? Have you ever gone to bed hungry just so someone else could eat?”

I’m stunned, in the weeks she’s worked for me, I’ve never seen her like this–fire in her eyes, chin high, her small frame practically trembling with frustration.

For a second, my gaze flickers–to her parted lips, to the delicate curve of her throat as she breathes hard.

And then something happens. The tension shifts.

My anger ebbs into something else, something far too dangerous.

Her eyes widen slightly as if she feels it too. This pull. This heat.

The air between us is thick. I notice her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. My gaze drops–just for a second–to her mouth.

But then I step back, my jaw tight, forcing distance between us. “What the hell was that?”

I finally turn away, unable to look at her any longer. “Be on time tomorrow,” I mutter, but my tone is different–less harsh,

more…uncertain.

I leave without waiting for her response, striding back to my study with my heart hammering in my chest.

The cookies sit untouched on my desk. The juice I’d requested for her remains undrunk.

I sink into my chair, running a hand over my face.

What is happening to me? Why can’t I stop thinking about her? About the boy?

“Maybe you can be my daddy?”

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The question echoes in my mind, refusing to be silenced.

And for the first time, I let myself consider the possibility that, somehow, against all medical odds….

Caesar might be mine.