Page 16 of The Billionaire Is Back

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.”

He eyes Grady, who’s smiling at him politely. “You’re the billionaire.”

“Grady Barber, sir,” he says, holding out his hand to shake Crabby’s. “I believe you know my father.”

Crabby gives him a little nod, a quick firm handshake, and a grunt. “Yeah. Just saw yer folks at the beach.” He gives Grady the once-over, lingering at his beautiful leather shoes and fancy pants, which are probably bespoke and Italian. “You on yer way to a fancy party?”

“No, but I’m always ready for one,” Grady replies without missing a beat.

Crabby is wearing old paint-stained overalls and work boots. He always looks so out of place here in my attempt at an Instagram-worthy boutique destination. He grunts again and then looks back at me, cocking one of his astonishing eyebrows. “Well? I look like I got all day?”

I shake my head, grinning. He is such a grouch. “Where were you right before two o’clock? You’re the one who’s late.”

“You’re the one standing between me and my cookies.”

Grady is watching our back and forth, amused. I bag up the cookies. I didn’t box up the leftovers or flip theOpensign on the front door yet because I figured I might as well keep the pastries out while I waited for Mrs. Barber. I was expecting more foot traffic, but apparently everyone’s at the beach this afternoon.

“That will be three dollars, please,” I say to Crabby with all the warmth I can project. “Thank you so much for stopping by, Clarence!” And then I grit out, “I’ll get your cake now, Mr. Barber.”

I catch a flash of something unexpected in his eyes as I glance at him. His jaw tightens and he rubs the palms of his hands together. “No rush, Ms. Sweeney,” he says in a wholly unfamiliar tone that speaks directly to my ovaries.

No rush, but I duck into the kitchen before he can see me blushing. I grip the edge of the counter for support. Why are my knees weak? Why do I feel dizzy? And thirsty?

What. Is. Happening?

Nothing, that’s what’s happening. I’m probably just dehydrated from stress and from…unwillingly hydrating my panties. Which makes no sense because I’ve spent the last twelve years willing myself to get over him. Maybe it’s not Grady that my body is responding to. Maybe it was the crackling banter with Crabby Crawford. He trimmed his nose and ear hairs, so he looks extra special today.

Or maybe I need to get out of here.

I take three deep breaths, dab some vanilla extract behind my ears, and then carry the cake box out to the retail counter.

Old Man Crawford is still here, eating a cookie and eyeing Grady with suspicion.

Grady is staring into my display case. He points down, tapping his index finger on the glass. “I want your muffin,” Grady says in that intense, determined way he used to always say things when he knew what he wanted and declared it so the universe would listen.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Is that carrot cake?”

“Yes.”

“You finally perfect your carrot cake recipe?”

I can’t believe he remembers I was always working on a carrot cake recipe back then. “Yes. I did. But you can’t have that muffin. It’s for Mrs. Edelstein.”

“Oh. Custom order?”

“No. She just comes in most days for a carrot cake muffin. She hasn’t come by yet today.”

“But it’s after hours.”

“And yet I’m still here. Dealing with customers.”

“A customer who wants to buy your last muffin.”

Crabby clears his throat. “Two customers who want your muffin.”

I wrinkle my brow at Crabby. He has never, ever bought a muffin before. “It’s not for sale,” I tell Grady.

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