Page 72 of Don't Fall for the Billionaire
“Ashton.” She nodded.
“Don’t Charlotte’s pies look delicious?”
“Not really. I’m not a pie person, and I would never buy one.”
“Then move along.” He waved his hand.
“How dare you, Ashton Cross?” She turned on her Louboutins and stomped away.
“I heard what you said to her.” He hooked his arm around my waist and squeezed it.
“I only tell the truth.” I smiled.
“Where is Eloise?”
“She’s running around with her friends.”
“There you are,” Ashton’s mother and Raphael walked over. “Oh my goodness, Charlotte. Your pies look fabulous.”
“Thank you.”
“Hello, mother.” Ashton kissed her cheek and then shook Raphael’s hand.
“Save me one of those apple pies. I’m purchasing one. In fact, we’ll be back. Raphael and I are going to look at the other tables.”
“I’m going to walk around,” Ashton said. As he began to walk away, I grabbed his hand.
“I need you to stay here.”
“Why?” His brows furrowed.
“Because I need your help.” I reached under the table and pulled out a red apron with the words “Pie Guy” written across the chest. “Put this on.”
“What the hell is that? No way am I wearing that.”
I let out a heavy sigh. “Listen, Ashton. You’re sexy, and sex sells.”
“This is absolutely ridiculous,” he said, putting on the apron.
“You look adorable. Now, hold up this pie. And smile! You look like you’re at a funeral.”
“How’s this?” He grinned.
“You look like a deranged serial killer. Natural, Ashton.”
I noticed Mrs. Peterson, head of the PTA, kept staring at us. I was sure she disapproved of my marketing tactics.
Soon, women started gathering at my table, eyeing Ashton up and down, asking him about the pies in a flirty manner only these socialites would.
“You’ll have to ask her. She’s the baker. I’m just the marketing pie guy.”
Every pie I had sold out within thirty minutes.
“See.” I grinned. “You’re the face of my pies.”
He shook his head and took off the apron. “I don’t like being objectified, Charlotte.”
“Oh, please. Yes, you do.” I laughed.
