Page 35 of Stuck with the Billionaire Celebrity

“Good intentions don’t clean kitchens,” he retorts, though there’s no real bite in his words. “You do realize you’ll have to clean all of this up, right?”

I groan. “Don’t remind me.”

He crosses his arms, leaning back against the counter, still watching me with that amused expression.

“You know, for someone who’s clearly never baked before, you’ve managed to make quite an impression.”

“Is that your way of saying I’m talented?” I ask, grinning at him.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He straightens up, glancing around the kitchen once more before his gaze lands on me again. “But you did accomplish one thing.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“You made me laugh.”

The sincerity in his tone catches me off guard, and I don’t know how to respond. A warm flush creeps up my neck, and I feel a strange sense of accomplishment. I made him laugh.

“Well,” I say, smiling a little wider, “I guess that’s something.”

“It is,” he agrees softly. “I needed it.”

We stand there for a moment, the tension between us shifting into something lighter, something almost... comfortable. It’s the first time since I arrived that I feel like maybe we can get along.

Or at least, not actively hate each other.

“I’ll help you clean up,” he says suddenly, pushing off the counter and moving toward the sink.

I blink in surprise. “You will?”

“Don’t look so shocked,” he says with a smirk. “I’d rather not have you set off the smoke alarm again.”

“Fair enough.” I laugh, grabbing a dish rag and starting to wipe down the flour-covered counters.

As we work together to clean up the mess, I catch glimpses of him out of the corner of my eye. He’s still the same guy, but there’s something different now—something softer.

Maybe it’s the laughter, or perhaps it’s the fact that we’re actually talking like normal human beings for once, but I feel like we’ve crossed some kind of invisible line.

This is what he was like the first time we met.

By the time we’re done, the kitchen is spotless, and the smoky smell from the burnt cookies has faded. I lean against the counter, exhausted but strangely content.

“Well,” I say, “that was a disaster.”

“A memorable one, at least.”

I glance at him, feeling a slight smile tug at my lips. “Thanks for helping me.”

He shrugs. “Don’t get used to it.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

And just like that, he walks out of the kitchen, leaving me standing there, surrounded by the remnants of my bakingdisaster. I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly as I glance around the room.

The kitchen may be clean now, but the air still smells faintly of burnt sugar. I missed a small smear of flour on the edge of the countertop. I wipe it away with the dish towel, my thoughts drifting to Theo as I do.

I made him laugh.

I’m not sure why that feels like such a victory, but it does. For the first time since I arrived here, I feel like we’re not just coexisting in this strange bubble of awkward tension and unspoken resentment.

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