Page 29 of The Billionaire Is Back

And if I’m being honest with myself, I’m happy too.

I have a reason to go see Claire again.

Chapter 9

A Giant Pain in the Bundt

Claire

The billionaire hasn’t even been backfor twenty-four hours, and already my whole world has been turned upside down.

Okay, not my whole world and not all the way upside down, but my brain is throbbing inside my skull and everything is out of whack.

I forgot to set my alarm, so I slept in until four thirty and had no time to shower. I got exactly zero positivity texts from Vera. My stupid car smells super-extra like soup this morning because I forgot to crack the windows open when I got home yesterday. Because I was so busynotthinking about Grady. Because it was no big deal that I saw him.

I have a hangover—for wine and cookie reasons. Not for Grady reasons. I definitely didn’t allow him into my brain while I was taking a bath after my parents went tosleep, and I certainly didn’t fantasize about stopping by his stupid barbecue in my prom dress, which still magically fit me, because I was on the way to dinner with present-day Andrew McCarthy. I obviously did not turn up that D’Angelo song while quietly soaping up and diddling myself to thoughts of Grady grabbing me by the arm and leading me to his old bedroom while grumbling about how delicious my muffin and cookies were. And if I came and sobbed at the same time, it was because I was thinking about how hot Andrew McCarthy is now—and an excellent writer too. It was not because I was imagining Grady’s head between my legs or his tongue gliding over every inch of my warm, wet skin. It was certainly not because I fantasized about having to cover his mouth with both of my hands to keep him from shouting out how much he loved me while frantically fucking me against the wall of his bedroom, slamming into me so hard that the whole house shook.

I hit the brakes, realizing there’s a raccoon hobbling across the street ten feet ahead. “Sorry, buddy!” I call out through the open window. Thank God I didn’t hit him, but if I had, it would have been Grady’s fault. Because everything is Grady’s fault and everything is out of whack this morning.

I’m going to get everything back into whack now.

I am going to do my affirmations for the rest of my drive to the bakery, and once I’m there, in my happy place, I will be able to find my footing again.

“I own and operate a sexy barbery business,” I mumble to myself.Wait, what?“A successful bakery business. That is what I own and operate. I deserve andattract the love of a wonderful, top-notch man who doesn’t criticize or question every single thing I do and every choice I make. Someone who loves Beacon Harbor. Someone who stays in Beacon Harbor. Someone who invests love and passion, not money. Someone who appreciates my tits and supports my ass.”Wait, WHAT?!“My talent and my assets. Aspirations. Fuck! Someone whowantsto kiss me. All over. Someone who wantsme. More than he wants anyone or anything else. And if he could be at least as handsome as that asshole Grady Barber, but preferably even more handsome, that would be really great! Peace on Earth, please keep everyone I love safe and happy and healthy, ’kay thanks bye, amen!”

I turn the corner onto Main Street, with its hanging flower baskets and dim street lamps, feeling like everything is back in the whack. I am an amazing, gorgeous, heat-seeking missile of success on a trajectory of glory. Nothing is going to get in my way.

Except—hello! What have we here? An unfamiliar male-specimen morning jogger in gray sweatpants with a confident stride and a firm, jaunty backside?! Thank you, Universe, I’ll take it and have some more!

Except…

Wait…

I recognize the back of that head. And that cocky stride and obnoxious backside.

I recognize the way the rest of the world around him darkens and fades away. The way I’m holding my breath, the way my heart is racing. I recognize the internal hurricane of thoughts and feelings. Excitement because it’s him. Melancholy because it’s him. A faint, glowing littlespark of something that could be hope or joy or anger, depending on how he looks at me or what he says to me, and I don’t want him to have that kind of power over my spark. But I also wish I wasn’t so damn relieved to discover that the spark is still there inside of me. After all these years of trying to find it again with someone else. At least it’s there.

I do not slam on the brakes in order to avoid hitting that particular mammal on the road ahead of me. I have slowed my speed to about one mile per hour and hunched down behind the wheel. I make a very quick, rational decision to quietly and carefully come to a complete stop. Then I calmly put the car into Park in the middle of the street. Reclining the seat back until I’m horizontal, I cover my face—because maybe if I can’t see him then he won’t see me, and he probably can’t even see cars that cost less than sixty thousand dollars anyway. “I am an invisible, successful bakery business owner who is attracting the perfect man for me right now,” I whisper into the palms of my hands.

There’s a tap on the roof right above me, and it scares the ever-loving shit out of me, but I don’t uncover my face, because maybe he’ll think I’m dead if I don’t move?

“Claire?”

Shit.I forgot to roll up the window. And actually become invisible.

“Sweeney. Are you okay?”

“Why? Do I not seem okay to you?” I reach down to pull on the seat recliner handle, and it sends me straight upright with a jolt. Which is all Grady’s fault. Standing there in an old T-shirt and gray sweatpants with hishands all on his hips. Breathing heavily. Being all concerned and judgy.

“You’re parked in the middle of Main Street at five a.m.”

“So? I’m on my way to work. This is my neighborhood.” I turn on the ignition. “I’m supposed to be here. Why are you even up this early?”

He drags his fingers through his hair before kicking his foot up behind himself to stretch his quad muscles. He doesn’t even have to rest his hand on my car because he has excellent balance.

This is infuriating to me because I am literally strapped into a car seat right now but I feel like I could fall over at any second.

“I usually get up at five to work out,” he says, grunting through his stretch. “But I had trouble sleeping, so I figured I’d get up and go for a run.” He raises his arms overhead, bending one elbow and grabbing on to it behind his head with the opposite hand. It causes the fabric of the T-shirt to stretch across his pecs, but I couldn’t care less. I only glance up at the bare skin and flexed muscles in his arm because a flock of seagulls are flying by in the distance. He exhales sharply, and I get a waft of minty-fresh breath, which somehow smells more expensive than everyone else’s minty-fresh breath. “Wanted to run the route I usually took back when I lived here.”

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