Page 76 of Scarlett and the Big Bad Billionaire
Conscious of Vivi watching and listening, I widened my eyes and glared a silentshushat him.
He just laughed and went to join her at the table.
“What are we working on today? The Sistine Chapel?”
“No. This is Glennray Tutor’s work. Scarlett ordered it for me.”
“He’s a photorealist painter,” I said. “I found him on Instagram.”
Gray smiled over at me. “Someone’s becoming quite the art aficionado.”
I shrugged and lifted the platter of hot cookies, carrying it to the table. “I’m picking up a few things here and there. It’s the environment. Hanging out with all these art snobs is rubbing off on me.”
Gray and Vivi both reached for the same cookie—the biggest one.
“You sure you want that one?” he teased her. “Don’t you need to watch out for your girlish figure?”
She snatched the cookie and took a big bite. “No one’s watchedthisgirlish figure for a long time now. That’s one of the joys of living to be eighty-nine—you can eat anything you want without guilt.”
Gray selected a (slightly smaller) cookie for himself and bit into it.
“Fuck.” He shot a hand out toward Vivi. “Sorry. Excuse my language.”
“Was it too hot?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “It was toogood. These are unbelievable. What brand is this dough?”
“That isn’t store-bought dough. It’s Scarlett’s own recipe,” Vivi told him proudly.
“You’re kidding,” he said. “This is literally the best cookie I’ve ever tasted.”
Vivi went on bragging. “Scarlett isSweet Scarlett, the chocolate chip cookie queen of Minnesota.”
I shook my head. “That’s not exactly true—though I do appreciate the hype job, Vivi.”
Directing my attention at Gray, I explained. “I have a booth at the Minnesota State Fair every summer. My cookies are pretty popular there.”
“I can see why. I can’t get enough of these.”
He took another cookie from the platter then a third. I stopped what I was doing and watched him chew. His face looked a little like it had last night in bed, blissed out and somewhat disbelieving.
Picking up his phone, he tapped the screen a few times.
“This article says they’re more than just ‘pretty popular.’ It says you sell out every day of the fair and calls your cookies a ‘Minnesota tradition.’”
Reading on, he said, “It says people are clamoring for grocery stores to carry your cookies and there’s enough demand for you to open franchises. Scarlett—this is a big deal. Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
“Have you told me every last detail about your life?” I challenged with a raised brow.
Gray got quiet.
“Scarlett’s sister and her roommate have told her the same thing,” Vivi said. “I think she should quit that boring office job she hates, move to Eastport Bay, and make cookies full-time.”
“I can’t move, Vivi. And I can’t quit. My stepdad counts on me. Besides, starting a business from scratch takes money.”
It was my grandmother’s turn to get quiet. She went back to her puzzle, taking another cookie from the plate and munching it as she searched for the right fit.
Gray apparently wasn’t ready to let the subject rest.
