Page 42 of The Billionaire Is Back

I sit on a big rock and watch him work, like I watched him rig the sailboat. I’m just not used to not doing things. I’m not saying I want to get used to this, but I’m also not saying that I am not enjoying this. If my nose is tingly and I’m tearing up, that has nothing to do with the fact that Grady is building a fire for us on a secluded beach that he has sailed us to so we can talk about my bakery while the sun sets. It has everything to do with the fact that I’m trying to remember the last time I just sat still and watched as someone else did something for my benefit. I was probably four or five. Plenty of people have attempted to do things for my benefit since then—I may have just forgotten that I don’thaveto work in order to be appreciated.

But that is not something I’m going to think about while sitting on a beach, alone with a handsome billionaire.

Or maybe we aren’t alone?

Grady and I both startle at the sound of a young woman’s squeal as it echoes around the rocks and across the water. It’s quickly followed by joyful laughter and a young man’s chuckle. We look back toward the entrance to the forest and see a young couple. They’re teenagers, maybe college students. A guy and a girl that I don’t recognize. He is carrying her over his shoulder and then lets her slide down the front of him. They kiss and thenhold hands, unaware of our presence. Probably unaware that anyone else exists in the world. Images dance through my mind. They aren’t memories of anything that actually happened. They’re daydreams I used to have when I was in my mid-teens of me and Grady. I imagined us at that age, holding hands as we went on day trips.

I’m so glad I mostly forgot about those childish daydreams.

The adorable couple slows their pace as they realize they aren’t alone in their love bubble. Grady concentrates on stoking the fire, probably worried they’ll recognize him, but I make eye contact with them. I see no recognition in either of their expressions—of Grady or myself. The girl smiles at me and the guy gives me a friendly nod.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I say, trying to sound like I hang out with gorgeous billionaires on beaches all the time.

Grady politely acknowledges them.

“We’ll get out of your hair—don’t worry,” the guy says. I’m about to explain that the quiet, annoyingly handsome man and I aren’t a couple, when he asks, “You want a couple of beers?” He removes the backpack from his shoulders and pulls out a six-pack.

Grady shakes his head, but I say, “Yeah, that’d be great!”

I unzip my backpack. “You guys want chocolate?”

The girl nods enthusiastically, “Yes, please.”

“Come by Sweet Treats on Main if you’re in Beacon Harbor,” I tell them as I share a bar of the artisan milk chocolate I order from Canada. “This is the kind of chocolate I use.” Boom. I just did some marketing.AndIgot beer. Do I really need anyone’s help with my business? I think not.

“Oh, cool!” she says, politely feigning excitement. I don’t even shudder or grimace when she asks if I sell keto options. And then she giggles because her boyfriend’s hand slides down to her butt, and they leave, to do what couples do.

Somehow I feel even more aware of being alone with Grady than I did before we had company.

I hold out a can of beer to Grady. “You always carry around premium chocolate?” he asks, as if he already knows the answer.

“Obviously.” I crack open my beer and take a sip. “Actually, I brought more than just chocolate.” I reach for my backpack again. “In case of campfire emergency.” I kneel down in the sand, and then I pull out a box of graham crackers, a bag of marshmallows, skewers, aluminum foil, and bars of Hershey’s chocolate. Because I’ve sampled hundreds of kinds of chocolate, but Hershey’s plain milk chocolate is the best, and I mean theonly, chocolate that should ever be used in s’mores. I will die on that eleven-percent-cacao hill.

I arrange all of my ingredients in front of me before looking up at Grady, fully expecting him to be shaking his head at me like I’m nuts.

Instead, his gaze has gone soft as he stares at my impromptu s’mores station. He cracks open his beer. “Surprise and demands,” he mumbles. At least that’s what it sounds like.

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” He joins me in taking a seat on the sand,sitting on his butt, his feet flat on the ground, arms wrapped around his bent legs as he holds the beer can with both hands. He looks so good as he takes a sip of beer and stares at the fire that I forget why I’m mad at him for a minute.

We’re back to being silent in each other’s company again. I like it. I can’t help but wonder if he’s ever this comfortable being quiet with anyone back in New York. I wonder if he’s still happy. I wonder if he’s dating anyone, if he’s ever been in love, and I also don’t want to know.

“So…what do you want, Claire?” he finally asks. “Tell me.” Okay, he’s back to ordering me around.

I gulp down half my can of beer and then fix him with my gaze.I wantyou, you big, beautiful, clueless man. Even when I don’t want you, I want you. Good luck helping me with that.“What do you mean?” God, I hope he can’t hear the lump that has formed in my throat.

“What’s your goal for Sweet Treats on Main? I have some ideas, but it really just comes down to what you ultimately want. What did you originally want when you bought the business from Buddy and Ruthie?”

I’m on my knees in the sand, roasting a marshmallow at the end of a skewer, and I wait until it’s perfectly, evenly toasted before answering him. Then I place the squishy golden-brown marshmallow on top of the square of chocolate that I’ve already assembled on half a graham cracker. Grady puts down his beer and reaches out to take the handle of the skewer from me so I can top off my campfire delicacy with the other half of the cracker. I sandwich everything together just enough so the marshmallow starts to ooze over the edges but not so much thatit drips. Grady slowly pulls the tip of the skewer out from the marshmallow, and I can barely deal with how intimate and sensual this simple act feels. Fortunately, the flush in my cheeks can be explained by the fire and the sky that’s already starting to turn pink and purple.

“Thanks,” I say, taking the skewer from him and handing over the s’more. “I love Beacon Harbor,” I state. “And I loved the idea of owning Sweet Treats because it’s always been such an important part of Main Street. Everyone who’s grown up in our town has memories of getting cakes and pastries from there.”

He nods in agreement and then takes a bite of my s’more. His eyelids flutter shut in slow motion, and he emits a guttural sound that is so gratifying. I wait for him to finish chewing and swallowing before continuing my answer. He doesn’t have to tell me how good and perfect this thing is that I just made. I know it’s good and perfect. I know what I’m good at, and he’s hardly even gotten a taste of it.

“I apprenticed there, you know? I was so honored that they gave me an exclusive offer for their business. Buddy and Ruthie taught me everything I needed to know about how to run their bakery. Their recipes as well as the lease and licenses and permits and everything in the kitchen and storefront were included in the LLC transfer.” I toast another marshmallow. “I wanted to honor what they’d built and what they meant to the town. I wanted to give the new generation of Beacon Harbor and the tourists the same kinds of memories I had. But I wanted to update the business and make it my own. Buddy and Ruthie were so generous when I workedfor them, but I realized pretty quickly that they weren’t open to my ideas. And that was fine. They were very old-school, as you know. I mean, they were profitable based on word of mouth alone. But they didn’t do any marketing. They hadn’t updated their menu or equipment or decor in over twenty years. I wanted to bring it into the twenty-first century. And I needed money.”

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