Page 34 of Faking It with my Billionaire Grump

“I need a brush,” I declare as I enter.

Evidently, Jake didn’t hear me come into the room because he spins around with a spatula in hand, a slightly surprised look on his face. He doesn’t say anything for a second and instead gives me a long look.

“You look far better without all that muck on your face.”

“Well, whose fault was that?” I retort.

His eyebrows dance a little. “I was talking about your makeup.”

His words and the way he’s looking at me bring me up short. Here I am, all ready for a fight, and instead, Jake throws me a compliment. What am I supposed to do with that?

He never did like me wearing makeup, and admittedly, when we were together, I wore very little. He always told me I was pretty enough. I didn’t need all that “muck,” as he called it. When I moved to the city, all the girls in the office wore it, and somewhere along the way, I followed the crowd and started doing the same.

“A brush?” I repeat, not really knowing how to reply.

He smirks then. “I don’t own a brush. You may not have noticed, but I’m a guy.”

“Then how do you clean your floors?” I balk.

He looks confused, which quickly morphs into realization. “Oh, a brush.”

I look at him like he might actually have lost his mind.

He laughs then. “I thought you meant for your hair.”

I don’t laugh and just stare at him, waiting for him to give me the answer I’m looking for.

“What do you need a brush for?”

“I got mud all over your house. I need to clean it up.”

Jake shakes his head. “Leave it. I’ll do it later.”

“No. I’ll do it now. Where is it? If you don’t tell me, I’ll just go looking until I find it.”

“But this is nearly ready.” He nods to the bacon in the pan.

“I’m not spring cleaning the house, Jake.”

He huffs and shakes his head. Eventually, he points to a door. “In there.”

The door leads to a cleaning cupboard, and upon discovering a brush and dustpan, I leave him to his cooking and find where my trail of mud begins.

Ten minutes later, there’s no trace of me or my mud-covered boots, and after tossing the mud outside, I return to the kitchen to put the brush and pan back where I found them. There are two plates loaded with food sitting on the island; Jake’s already tucking into his.

“Come on. It’s getting cold.”

Admittedly, I am starving. Maybe that has something to do with my earlier exercise, not that I would recommend piglet chasing as a fitness regime. There are far easier ways to burn calories. I settle myself at the table and look at the array of bacon, sausage, eggs, and pancakes. My plate is as full as his, though there isn’t a chance I’m going to eat it all. Maybe Elsa might like a treat later.

We eat in silence, the tension heavy between us. While I’m not as angry as earlier, I’m certainly not thrilled, either. Apart from getting in such a mess, my pride is punctured. I was the entertainment for all those farmers, and no doubt, I’ll never hear the last of it anytime I meet them in the future.

“I’m sorry, Tilly,” Jake says.

His words surprise me. Partly because I didn’t expect him to apologize, and partly because it feels like he might have just been reading my mind.

“It was only meant to be a bit of fun. You’ve had so much on your plate with this ex of yours; I just wanted to hear you laugh again.”

“It was everyone else who was laughing, Jake,” I snarl.

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