Page 3 of Burning for the Billionaire 5

I watch her for a moment, taking in the way her eyebrows furrow. She’s been getting lost in her head since she got here. “Was your day that bad?”

When I called her earlier today to confirm our weekend, she’d sounded distracted, distressed even, and had mentioned something about a disaster at her new job.

Her eyes snap back to my face. “Oh, no. It was... I survived.” She smiles brightly and digs back into dinner.

“Grace.”

She looks up again.

“You’re backsliding.”

Eyebrows puckering, she tilts her head to one side. “What?”

I have to bite back the smile surfacing because of her adorably confused expression. “We talked about you not hiding behind a chirpy optimistic front when something is bothering you.”

“We did talk about that.” She sighs. “It’s a habit.”

Right. Because she grew up with asshole parents who tried to keep her suppressed in a boxtheydeemed acceptable, and she’s always had to hide her misery. We’ve only been seeing each other for a few weeks but I’ve learned a lot about her already.

“Tell me about your day. Your week. You sound like you hate the new job.”

She puts her fork down and inhales. “I don’thateit...” Her gaze bounces around. “Okay, I do hate it.”

I smile. Grace can’t lie to save her life.

“There’s nothing wrong with being a barista slash waitress. It’s just that I miss my art. Teaching art to kids was awesome. But I’m getting the hang of this new gig, and I do like interacting with the customers.”

And I bet she brightens everyone’s day the way she does mine.

“Today, though, turned out to be craptastic. My new boss ignored that I’ve been freakingstellar—for a newbie—all week and flipped on me. He called me incompetent and a disaster waiting to happen,” she finishes on a grumble.

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

Her snort echoes in the kitchen. “You’re well acquainted with Awkward Grace.”

I can’t help chuckling. “Uh-huh.”

“Apparently Grace the Klutz is a thing, too. She introduced herself today.”

Although amused, I hate that she sounds so miserable. “What happened?”

“I ruined about a dozen orders and spilled drinks on two customersandmyself. Then I had another accident and broke one of the espresso machines. That cost will gradually be deducted from my paychecks, and I really can’t afford tolosemoney.”

“You’re not usually accident-prone.”

She stares down at the counter. “Well, I was jumpy this afternoon... extremely flustered. I went around back to the kitchen and the cook did something that caused this huge blaze. I freaked out and everyone was looking at me like I was crazy.”

I groan. “Shit. Grace—”

“No, I’m fine now. I overreacted.”

“Being traumatized isn’t overreacting. Are you sure—”

“Don’t even say it.” She holds up a finger. “I don’t need therapy. I’mfine.”

Snapping my mouth shut, I sigh heavily. I want to tell her not to be so stubborn about getting help and to stop worrying about the money. It kills me that her brush with death is still causing nightmares and making her freak out at work. But I don’t want another debate over her mental well-being. She seems stressed enough as it is.

“It wasn’t just that frightening blaze in the kitchen,” she continues. “My mother called right after and...” She rubs her forehead. “I just always get worked up after a conversation with her. My head wasn’t in the game all afternoon, and I messed up. A lot. It was so embarrassing trying to explain to my new boss that I’m notusuallya blundering idiot.”

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