Page 33 of Stuck with the Billionaire Celebrity

I’m losing track of time in this mansion.

Theo’s no help, he’s either locked away in his study, brooding over whatever rich people brood over, or silently glaring at me as if my mere existence is an affront. I can’t stand the tension anymore.

I need to do something. Anything.

It doesn’t help that all I can think about is the mind-blowing sex from the other day and how I want to be climbing that man as much as possible…except for the fact that he acted like I was a leper immediately after.

I need to burn off this energy.

I decide to bake.

The kitchen is massive, industrial even. It has gleaming countertops, an ultramodern oven, more drawers than I could ever need, and enough kitchen gadgets to host a televised cooking show.

It’s a bit intimidating, but I figure it’ll keep me occupied for at least a couple of hours.

How hard can it be, right?

Famous last words.

I rummage through the cupboards, trying to figure out what to make. Cookies seem like a safe bet. Chocolate chip cookies, to be exact. I start pulling out ingredients like I’m on a mission; flour, sugar, eggs, butter, chocolate chips, until the kitchen island is covered in supplies.

I even find this fancy vanilla extract, the kind that probably costs more than my entire grocery budget for the month.

“Alright, Grace,” I mutter to myself. “You’ve got this.”

I’ve never baked cookies from scratch before, but how complicated can it be? The recipe is simple: mix the dry stuff, cream the butter and sugar, add eggs, stir in the chocolate chips, and bake.

Easy.

Except it’s not.

For starters, I can’t find a mixing bowl. I search through drawer after drawer, finding bizarre contraptions that I don’t even know the names of, but no bowls.

Eventually, I find one shoved at the back of a cabinet, but it’smassive. The kind of bowl you’d use if you were making enough dough to feed a small army. I shrug.

“Bigger is better, right?”

I begin throwing the ingredients together, not really measuring because eyeballing is faster. That’s when things start to go awry.

First, I dump the flour into the bowl, and the cloud that rises from it nearly chokes me. I cough, waving my hand in front of my face, but the flour gets everywhere—on my clothes, in my hair, and on the countertops.

I shake my head and keep going, figuring I can clean up later.

Next is the butter. I forgot to soften it, so I throw it in the microwave. But instead of melting it gently, I hit the wrong setting, and it explodes in a buttery mess all over the microwave.

I groan but soldier on, scraping the remnants into the bowl.

By the time I add the eggs, the dough looks... wrong. It’s too wet, and I realize I probably used too much butter. So, I add more flour. But now it’s too dry.

So, I add more milk. It’s a back-and-forth mess, and by the time I’m done, I have this sticky, questionable-looking dough that’s more paste than anything.

I go ahead and spoon globs of it onto a baking tray, popping it into the oven with a silent prayer. At this point, the kitchen looks like a warzone. Flour is smeared across the countertops, there’s a trail of chocolate chips leading to the fridge, and my clothes are covered in dough.

But I’m determined to see this through.

I begin cleaning up. At some point, I start to smell something. Not the sweet, comforting smell of baking cookies, but the distinct scent of burning sugar.

I rush over to the oven and open the door, only to be greeted by a wave of smoke. I forgot to set the timer.

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