Page 11 of Faking It with my Small Town Billionaire

Until last week, I hadn’t thought much about Lily Harper. But then, once I left Willow Creek, I didn’t think much about anyone. Apart from Jake, but he’s a different story. Other than my closest friend through school, I wanted to forget as much of this place as humanly possible.

And yet, after seeing and speaking to her at the end of that meeting, memories of Lily have slipped back into my consciousness. Memories of the times she was kind to me when no one else was. I don’t know why she treated me better. I just know it was a pleasant change from the constant persecution.

That might sound dramatic, but my family’s name made my life hell. A small town with small minds, the rumors were never investigated, just shared and regurgitated like sheep eating grass. And like sheep, the townsfolk were easily led, all following each other mindlessly. I’m not sure whether they’ve ever had a critical thought between them.

Okay. Maybe that’s unfair. I can’t tar them all with the same brush. Still, my grandfather has a lot to answer for, sending me back here. If I end up strangling the living daylights out of someone, it’ll be his fault.

I take a deep breath and check the time. I should get going.

The little bell tinkles as I enter the bakery, but I don’t see any sign of Lily Harper.

“Come in and lock the door,” I hear her call from somewhere at the back of the shop. “I don’t want to be the talk of the town tomorrow.”

I smile at her sarcasm and do as she asks. I then take a second to glance around the place.

It looks different from the last time I was here. At the meeting, the main lights had been on, flooding the room with a harsh glare. In stark contrast, I notice the warm glow emanating from the vintage lamps fitted into the wall. There are only five tables, but each one has a tiny white vase with a fresh gathering of small flowers and a lit candle.

The walls are two-tone, with light green paint on the plaster at the top and dark wood paneling at the bottom, running from the front to the back of the room. It sits well with the vintage theme, as do the wall hangings.

“I’m sorry,” Miss Harper says a little breathlessly as she glides into the room. “I needed to wash up and change.”

“Never worry,” I reply with an easy smile. “I’m sure a bit of flour would not have bothered me.”

“I wouldn’t want to get any on your expensive suit,” she fires back as quick as lightning, a smile dancing at the corner of her mouth.

I smirk. Maybe I should employ this woman. I could do with that sharp brain in the office.

“Shall we sit?” She gestures to a table.

“Thank you.”

Once we’re seated, I place the file on the table. “Miss Harper—”

“Lily. Please.”

I hesitate, wondering if I should offer my own name, but I back out at the last minute. I don’t know why.

“Lily,” I start again. “I have drawn up some ideas for the bakery, and I would love your opinion on them.”

“All right,” she says, scooting her chair closer to mine and leaning over to look at the file.

Immediately, a soft musky aroma reaches my nostrils, and it takes a huge amount of effort not to inhale deeply. Her scent is intoxicating, so much so that I’m knocked off balance.

“What’s this?”

She’s pointing to a bar graph that shows projections of what we hope to achieve over the coming months. Steeling myself, I snap back to the moment and begin explaining it to her.

We talk for about an hour. I tell her that this is not merely a financial venture but a collaborative effort to enhance the town’s appeal, drive tourism, and ultimately rekindle the sense of pride and prosperity that once defined the area. All the while, I’m trying to remain undistracted by her aroma and the intent attention of those green eyes.

She doesn’t fight the plans as much as I thought she might, and as we’re wrapping up, I’m feeling quite confident that I might be on the road to winning her over. If I can win her, then the rest will likely follow. Or at least, that’s my thought process.

And then she throws me a curveball.

“I think you should offer this proposal to all the residents of Willow Creek. I understand that you’re concentrating on the businesses, but I think if everyone knew the great ideas you’re putting forward, it would be good for morale. And”—she shrugs—“maybe they’d be more receptive to you being here.”

She looks at me expectantly, waiting for my response, but I can’t say I’m particularly eager. It isn’t exactly what I had in mind. Seeing everyone in that meeting had hardly been the highlight of my week. While I’m proud of my achievements—and, yes, a part of me wanted to rub that in their faces—I wouldn’t choose to do it again.

But how do I get out of it? And then it hits me. There are not many places the whole town would fit. The town hall is under repair, and without a roof, we can hardly hold the meeting there.

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