STUCK WITH MR. BILLIONAIRE FOR CHRISTMAS novel Chapter 16

Chapter 16

DANTE:

The bed was perfect.

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Soft mattress that cradled my spine without swallowing me whole. Pillows that actually supported my neck instead of collapsing into useless lumps. Sheets that didn’t scratch or tangle The room sat at exactly the right temperature, cold enough to keep me from sweating, warm enough that I didn’t need to dig for an extra blanket.

I sank into sleep faster than I had in weeks.

Then the nightmare came.

The helicopter spun. Metal screamed. My father’s hand gripped my shoulder so hard it hurt.

“Hold on!”

*We hit the ground. Impact rattled through my bones, teeth slamming together, head cracking against something solid. Fire erupted somewhere behind us, heat licking at my skin.

Dad dragged me out, stumbling, blood pouring from the gash above his temple. He got me twenty feet away. Turned back.

“Dad, no!”

He ran toward the wreckage. Toward the pilot still trapped inside

The explosion swallowed him whole.

I jolted upright, chest heaving, sweat soaking through my shirt.

My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape. The room spun slightly, shadows floating in from the

corners.

The cabin was still, but my body wasn’t. Every nerve felt electrified, as if the crash had followed me into the present and refused to let go.

=

I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, forcing my breathing to slow.

“In. Out. Count to four. Hold. Release.”

A habit my therapist drilled into me. Something I still clung to, no matter how much I pretended I’d outgrown the need.

Once my pulse stopped racing, I reached for the nightstand.

My sleeping medication. The prescription I’d been taking for two decades to keep the nightmares at bay, to get sleep more than three hours without waking in a cold sweat.

I opened the drawer.

Empty.

That bottle wasn’t just pills. It was the thin thread between me and another night of watching my father die.

I checked my suitcase. Went through every pocket, every compartment.

Nothing.

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I must’ve left it in Alabama. On my bathroom counter. Right next to the coffee maker I used every morning.

“Perfect,” I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose.

Sleep had abandoned me a long time ago. Tonight just decided to follow tradition.

I grabbed my laptop, settling back against the headboard. If I couldn’t sleep, I might as well work.

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I pulled up the new files Martin had sent, spreadsheets outlining projected costs for the resort construction. Land acquisition budget. Infrastructure development. Permits and zoning requirements.

Numbers were predictable. Clean edges, no surprises. A language I could speak even on the days my mind felt like a battlefield.

Annoyingly, tonight, my brain refused to focus.

The cursor blinked mockingly on the screen.

I closed the file and opened my browser instead.

One thing nobody knew about me, something I’d never shared with anyone was that I read. Voraciously.

My father imbeded that habit in me and after he died, it helped me escape when the anxiety got too loud. Lana Steele was my favorite author.

Whoever they were because the internet had no consensus on whether Lana Steele was a man or woman, they knew how to write.

I navigated to their page, hoping they’d posted something new.

Twenty chapters.

Twenty new chapters of “Scored Her Heart, Not The Puck.”

A smile spread across my face.

I clicked the first one, adjusting my reading glasses, and dove in.

The story grabbed me immediately. An injured hockey player with a reputation for being cold and untouchable. A nurse determined to heal him. The tension between them was electric, every interaction loaded with subtext and unspoken desire.

I read one chapter. Then another. Then another.

Time disappeared. The world outside the bedroom faded. There was only the story, the characters, the way Lana Steele made me forget I was sitting alone in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, pretending to be engaged to a woman who hated

When I reached the end, I left a comment which was rare for me

“Please upload more chapters soon. This is incredible.”

Then I noticed the clock.

5:03 AM.

I’d read for hours without realizing it.

My eyes burned slightly from staring at the screen, but I felt calmer. Centered. The nightmare had faded to background noise, manageable instead of overwhelming.

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Chapter 16

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I closed the laptop and stood, stretching. My back popped in three places.

Sleep wasn’t happening. Not without the medication. And I was bored.

Might as well start the day.

I walked into the living room, expecting silence.

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Cinnamon lay on the couch, curled into a ball beneath a thick blanket. Her hair spilled across the pillow in dark waves. Her face was soft, relaxed, lips slightly parted.

She looked peaceful.

Completely, blissfully peaceful.

It irked me.

Not her, specifically. But the fact that she could sleep. That her brain let her rest, let her sink into unconsciousness without nightmares or anxiety or the constant hum of thoughts that refused to quiet.

Sleep was a luxury I’d lost twenty years ago. Seeing someone else enjoy it so easily made bitter and jealous.

I drifted toward her, steps quiet on the wooden floor, stopping a few feet from the couch.

She didn’t stir. Just kept breathing slowly, deeply, lost in whatever dream played behind her closed eyelids.

I paused, knowing that what I was about to do would piss her off and it was wring. We’ve had a long day and she needed her rest. But this quietness was messing with me. I needed noise even if it came in the form of her fury

I cleared my throat.

Nothing.

Louder.

Still nothing.

Fine.

“Darling,” I said, pitching my voice just loud enough to be obnoxious. “Would you be kind enough to make your fiancé some coffee and breakfast?”

She jolted upright like I’d set off an alarm.

Her eyes flew open, wide and disoriented. Hair stuck up in wild directions. She blinked rapidly, trying to process where she was and what was happening.

“What?” She wiped the back of her hand across her face, “What? What?”

I crossed my arms, savoring the moment.

Realization dawned slowly. Her gaze focused on me. Then her expression changed from confusion to absolute fury.

“Dante Moretti.” She growled. “You selfish penguin. How could you wake me up?”

“Watch your mouth, lady, or-”

“Or nothing.” She stood, wobbling slightly, the blanket dragging Behind her. “It’s five in the goddamn morning. You can make your own stupid coffee and breakfast.”

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Chapter 16

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Heat radiated off her in waves, her anger filling the room until it felt too small to contain her.

She stretched, joints popping audibly. Her spine cracked. She rolled her shoulders, grimacing.

I raised an eyebrow. “I see that sofa wasn’t all that comfortable.”

The look she gave me could’ve shattered the windows. She wrapped the blanket tighter, sat down with a bounce, and glared.

“You know I can fire you on the spot,” I said mildly.

“Good luck with that, fiancé.” She practically spat the word. “Stop threatening to fire me before I quit myself.”

I studied her. Disheveled. Furious. Wrapped in a blanket like a very angry

She wasn’t going to make the coffee.

Fine.

burrito.

I walked to the telephone mounted on the wall near the kitchenette and dialed the front desk.

“Oh, you know how to use that after all,” Cinnamon mocked from the couch, settling back down.

I ignored her.

“Front desk, how can I help you?”

“This is cabin seven. The temperature dropped overnight. Can you adjust the heat?”

“Of course, sir. Right away.”

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