Page 15 of The Billionaire Is Back

She’s all woman now.

She’s no longer just pretty. She’s beautiful. Beautiful in the way a fond memory is beautiful. Beautiful in the way a pang of longing is beautiful because wanting something makes life worth living. And hot. Fuck me, she’s hot. Little Sweeney grew up hot. Like a bonfire that turns into a wildfire.

“Hi,” I croak, finding my voice.

“Hi…” she says hesitantly.

“Do you work here?”

Not only do her eyes now show determination, she’s only gotten better at rolling them.

“Yes, but I also own the place,” she informs me.

My eyebrows rise. “Really? Wow. That’s great.”

But she clearly doesn’t think what I said was great. The fire in Claire’s eyes burns hotter, and she folds her arms defensively. In a tone that’s about as warm and embracing as an empty house and a welcome-home cake you have to pick up yourself, she says, “Welcome back.”

Chapter 5

Can’t Buy Me Muffin

Claire

“My bakery closes at two,”I tell Grady, keeping my arms folded in front of my chest to hide two parts of me that have suddenly sprung back to life. I should have kept my apron on. “It is now after four thirty. I stayed late because I thought your mom was coming to pick up the cake she ordered.”

“Well, she isn’t. I am. Sorry to inconvenience you.”

Only Grady Barber can pull off sounding polite and snarky at the same time. “Well…I will get that cake from the kitchen, then.”

“Great. Please do.”

“I’m going to.”

“Fantastic.”

I finally sent Vera home at three, even though she very much wanted to stay with me until Mrs. Barber showed up. She claimed she wanted to be here foremotional support, but I know she just wanted to watch me act all weird. She will be disappointed to have missed watching me prove to Grady just how over him I am. I look forward to a time when my nipples get the memo.

“Here I go,” I say as I back away from him. “To get your cake.” Why am I backing away from him? Because I suddenly feel self-conscious about how tight these jogger pants are around my magnificent cake. Which is ridiculous. Because I do not care if Grady Barber sees my behind and I certainly don’t care what he thinks about it. I don’t care about that, nor do I care that he didn’t even know I bought the bakery. I don’t care that I’m all sweaty, and I certainly don’t care how freaking handsome he looks with his perfectly tousled hair and his sun-kissed face and forearms.

“I’ll be right here, waiting for you to return with it,” he says, dragging his fingers through his hair and then resting his hands on his hips.

Same old dragging-the-fingers-through-his-hair move, but the hands-on-the-hips thing is new. I definitely don’t care about how damn beautiful his hands are or how expensive that watch must be.

Just as I’m about to turn away from him, I see Crabby approach the front door. Clarence “Crabby” Crawford works at the hardware store, is approximately nine thousand years old, and is a hardcore addict. He’s addicted to my chocolate chip cookies. The most basic item on my menu. I used to sell them at the farmers’ market before I bought this place, but when I reopened the store they weren’t on the menu. Crabby quietly spearheaded an aggressive campaign and petition to get me to sell themhere. He could have just asked nicely, but that’s not how Crabby rolls.

“You still open?” he steps inside and asks, gruffly.

“Nope.”

He narrows his eyes at me, but he’s smirking. Helluva smirk on that crabby old face. He cranes his neck and spots the leftovers that are still in the display case. “Liar. Sell me your leftover cookies.”

“Ask me nicely.”

“No.”

“Fine. I have a half dozen leftover chocolate chip.”

“I’ll take ’em. Don’t try to charge me full price.”

---