Page 9 of The Billionaire Is Back

That guy can suck it.

And I have no room in my brain for thoughts of men anyway.

I don’t even have time to wash my hair.

“I own and operate a successful bakery business,” I mutter as I load up my toothbrush with toothpaste and stare at the affirmations on the bathroom mirror. My mother wrote them for me on neon Post-it notes two weeks ago. She said one of her real-estate clients told her that she manifested her fancy Rhode Island fiancé within one month by doing affirmations. I didn’t have the heart to tell my mom that her client has been known for manifesting really great blow jobs ever since junior year, but I mean, maybe the affirmations helped her snag a fiancé too!

“My bakery attracts the perfect clientele,” I say around my toothbrush, “who love and appreciate my French pastries and create even more business for me through positive word of mouth.” I spit and rinse. “I deserve and attract the love of a wonderful, top-notch man who appreciates my talents and supports my aspirations.” I wipe my mouth and apply lip balm. “Also,” I add, “I have a greatass-piration. And I’m a badass.”

Welp. Off to work. I am all affirmed and ready to attack my day.

Just kidding, I need caffeine first.

I tiptoe downstairs so I don’t wake up the dogs or my parents—definitely not dwelling on the weirdness of being twenty-eight and living with my mom and dad.

Grabbing an apple and a protein bar from the kitchen, I draw little hearts on the notes my parents left me on the island counter.

We believe in you, honey! Don’t forget to take your multivitamin!my mom wrote on herHelen Sweeney, Licensed Realtornotepaper. Her smiling face and crossed arms exude confidence and small-town charm. But I’m not going to take my multivitamin because I’m a rebel.

My dad left me a printout of the photo he took of a puffin yesterday. He signed it,The only thing cuter than your muffin is this puffin! —Bob Sweeney, the Birder of Beacon Harbor (aka your dad who is very proud of you, sweetheart).I really wishmuffinwasn’t slang for anything. But he’s adorable, and the puffin really is cute.

The five-minute drive to my bakery is uneventful. Not even a raccoon sighting, and it’s too early to spot any seagulls eating fried clams off the boardwalk. The hanging flower baskets along Main Street are still dimly illuminated by the street lamps, the store windows are all dark, the brick sidewalks are empty.

I stay focused on what’s going on around me to distract myself from the shitbox I am currently driving. When the lease on my Prius was up, I could only afford to buy an old Honda that had over three hundred thousand miles on it, had been involved in “at least one accident” according to the description, and smells like soup. But it hasn’t broken down yet!

Vera is already unlocking the door to the kitchen when I park. “Turn off your headlights!” she reminds me as I step out of it. I keep forgetting this car doesn’t have automatic headlights.

“Got it! Thanks.”

Vera holds the door open for me, and that is probablythe last truly helpful thing she’ll do here all day, besides keep me and our customers entertained. But that is enough. I switch on the lights and straighten a hand-painted sign that says,In this bakery, carrot cake counts as a vegetable.It doesn’t go with the rest of the decor in here since I redecorated, but it’s been hanging on this wall ever since Buddy and Ruthie opened this place, I was told. So I could hardly take it down.

Vera turns on some music in the kitchen and scrolls Instagram on her phone while I make us espressos. She hands me an apron, puts on her beanie cap over her short hair, which currently features temporary royal-blue chunky highlights, then places my chef beret cap on my head, angling it just so.

And for the next couple of hours, we get to work.

We sanitize the kitchen while singing along to her Motown mix, which means she’s horny but not so horny that she’s agitated.

Then I preheat the ovens and make dough while Vera wipes down the counters and tables out front. I wiped them down before leaving yesterday, but I learned a long time ago to give her that kind of task. When I let her help me with the actual baking, bad things happen. She handles the social media posts, though, and she’s very good at that.

“Hey, we just got an online order!” she calls out.

“Oh yeah? A real one, or an offer from ‘Hugh Jorgan’ to butter our muffins?”

“It’s a real order. A rush order. For this afternoon…for a large custom cake…” she says, mysteriously.

“Amazing. What kind? I hope I have all the ingredients.”

“Absolutely. I have always believed you have all the right ingredients, she said enthusiastically—metaphorically anyway.” Sometimes Vera narrates instead of talking like a normal person. She enters the kitchen. I look up from the pot as I’m waiting for the mixture to boil so I can add flour for my choux pastry dough. She’s staring at me with her eyes wide, clutching the iPad to her chest. Her burgundy-stained lips are clamped shut.

“What?”

“It’s an order from Mrs. Barber. For a chocolate cake with Swiss buttercream frosting, no decorations except berries, and lettering that says…” She pauses dramatically. “‘Welcome Home, Grady.’”

And suddenly, my ears are ringing and my insides go as cold as the freezer.

But then it all comes rushing back to me. The feelings. The feelings I tried to bury. I took all the humiliation and disappointment from that one time I tried to kiss Grady Barber, and I kneaded it into so much dough. Actual dough for baking, obviously. I think we’ve established that I seem to have misplaced the recipe for making metaphorical dough.

Baking has been my therapy for twelve years, but I seem to be having a relapse.

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