Page 44 of Billion Dollar Dispute

He leans his elbows on the table as his gaze flicks between Molly’s and mine.

“I watch my Grams bake, and I lick the bowl.”

I snort, but I end up coughing and my food gets stuck.

“You alright?” he asks, frowning.

I nod vehemently. Trying not to look at his worry-filled eyes, I take a sip of water, washing it away.

“So you can’t bake but you can cook?” Molly asks.

“I can bake.”

“Bullshit,” I retort.

His eyebrows lift to his forehead as he clasps his hands together. My eyes follow the way the shirt gapes open and his chest contracts. He’s firm everywhere… and a flush rushes through me.

“Let’s have a baking competition,” Molly exclaims.

“I don’t have time for this,” I argue with her.

“You can’t bake.” Harvey chuckles.

His teasing makes my teeth grind as I get up to get a napkin. “I can. Fine, Molly, let’s have this dumb bake-off.”

I curse myself, unable to believe I’m agreeing to this.

“So what are we all baking? To make it fair, everyone has to do the same thing,” Molly interjects, calming the fire burning between us.

“Who’ll be the judge?” Harvey asks as I walk back to my chair. My eyes cast over his more relaxed posture. I don’t miss his forearms; the vein popping, and I tear my gaze away when I reach my seat.

Molly purses her lips. “I should and you both have to put it on the same plate, so I have no idea whose is whose.”

“Good idea,” I murmur with a smirk. She’s my friend, surely, she will know which one I baked and choose it. This will be a piece of cake!

Literally.

“Cake.”

They both look at me.

“We’re making a vanilla sponge cake, and it’s due Monday,” I announce, folding my arms across my chest.

“Easy,” Harvey says as he sits back to pull his phone out of his pocket, the light on his screen lighting up his face.

“What does the winner get?” I ask, my tone light, but with an edge of curiosity.

“I’ll choose,” Molly says with a mischievous twinkle dancing in her eyes that I don’t like.

“Bring on the baking. I can’t wait to win,” Harvey says as he winks at me, which sends a shudder of annoyance straight down my spine.

“How will we know you baked it?” I ask, raising an eyebrow as I lean forward.

“You don’t trust me?” he asks through a tight mouth and a challenging gaze.

Is he kidding?

“No. You will need to call your grams when you bring it in,” I say matter-of-factly.

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