Page 70 of The Billionaire Is Back

“Coffee?” he asks while washing his hands.

God, I love a man who keeps his hands clean.

“Please.”

He pours it into a perfect white coffee cup that’s already on the counter. I walk over to take it from him. “Perfect timing,” he says as I take my first sip. “The dough has risen.”

“Fuck me, that’s good,” I blurt out.

He laughs. “The beans are from Mount Kilimanjaro.”

“I love the chocolate notes.”

“I thought you might.”

“What are you making? That better not all be for me. I thought you don’t eat breakfast.”

“Only on very special occasions.”

“What’s the very special occasion?” I ask, trying not to smile too brightly. It’s me. It better be me. “That you’re cooking?”

“Oh, no. I love to cook. And bake.”

“Oh,really?”

“Yeah, really. It relaxes me. That and sailing. No, the special occasion is that I’m wearing you down,” he says as he removes the plastic wrap from the mixing bowl.

I guffaw, perhaps a little too vehemently. “You aren’t wearing me down.”

“Yeah,” he says as he washes and dries his hands again, “I am.” He uses one hand to gently deflate the expanded dough inside the bowl. “Andyou’re glad I am too.”

“No. No to all of that. I wouldn’t want you to gain an ounce of body fat in vain. Maybe I should eat all of this.”

“Oh, I’m gonna eat it, Claire.” He pours the dough out onto the marble countertop, where it’s already lightly floured, and then folds it over and over into itself until it’s rounded. Picking it up, he molds the dough into a smooth ball. “And I’m going to enjoy it.” He pinches out a couple of air pockets and then slaps the dough ball back onto the counter. I wince and shudder every time his palm makes contact with it. “And so are you.” He keeps watching me as he spanks that smooth, round ball of dough, and I keep feeling it.

I feel it, but I’m not going to let on that my butt cheeks are tingling in anticipation and that there is a tiny orgasmic fireworks show going on in my lower belly.

He uses his hands and knuckles to press and massage the dough, stretching it out and shaping it into a rough rectangle before finally using a big rolling pin to flatten it out just a bit more.

He’s making pizza dough.

Oh, yeast almighty, he’s making a breakfast pizza.

I’m dead.

He rolls the dough back over the pin and lays it out onto a cookie sheet that’s sprinkled with cornmeal, using his hands to stretch it out, covering the entire surface of the tray. He grabs a bottle of olive oil, drizzles it all over, then layers mozzarella and freshly grated parmesan cheese, tops that with bacon and tomatoes, then cracks half a dozen eggs over all of that. Sprinkles of salt and pepper over everything, he washes his hands yet again, and then the pizza goes into the oven.

I am salivating for so many reasons, and I’ve forgotten to drink the rest of my coffee because watching Grady do anything is always thrilling, but this is the first time I will get to eat the thing that he’s made with his beautiful, bare hands.

He sets a timer for fifteen minutes and starts cleaning up. I immediately start to help him, but I get a look that tells me to stop without him even having to order me to stop doing things. I’m getting better at letting him do things for me. I’m not great at it yet, but I am getting better.

When he’s done cleaning up, he takes my coffee cup from me, dumps the cold coffee into the sink, and pours me a fresh cup. “You put up a good fight, Little Sweeney,” he offers generously.

I’m about to protest, but the timer goes off, and I just want to sink my teeth into that pizza. Dear God, I am starving for it. He lets it cool for a minute before cutting into it. Then we eat directly from the tray, standing over the counter.

I groan without shame. This is, admittedly, even more satisfying than eating my own therapy bakes. Grady Barber made me a breakfast pizza from scratch. It’s gonna be all downhill from here.

“What is this, like, five hundred calories a slice?” I ask without apprehension.

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