Page 92 of The Billionaire Is Back

“I’m gonna get us a house with the perfect kitchen,” I tell her.

“I’m gonna bake you perfect carrot cake muffins every day.”

I make a mental note to find a local personal trainer and then forget it immediately when Claire’s lips find mine as I carry her back to the Hair of the Sea Dog.

This. It’s moments like this that I tried so hard not to envision for years. Now I can’t stop.

“I love you,” I tell her in between sweet kisses.

“Not as much as you’re gonna love waking up to my muffin,” she whispers.

This.

Chapter 24

Ladyfinger in the Streets, Tart in the Sheets

Claire

I’ve been cookingand rearranging furniture and dec-organizing ever since I got home from the bakery at two thirty.

“Home” is now a five-bedroom house by the water. My mom found us this property the day after Damien’s show at the bar. It had been on the market and empty for half a year because of the 2.5-million-dollar asking price. Helen Sweeney was able to get us a lease with the option to own that same week. And by “us,” I mean Grady. My name isn’t on the lease, but my panties are in the drawers. My KitchenAid mixer is on the counter. All of my baking tools have moved from my parents’ house to this massive kitchen. I’m sleeping on the finest sheets I’ve slept on since Grady’s penthouse.

Oh, and when we moved in there was a brand new Prius in the driveway. He didn’t want me gettingstranded anywhere in case I forgot to turn off the headlights. I already miss that soupy old shitbox.

Just kidding—I hated that thing.

I don’t know how I got here. How did I start this summer in my parents’ house with a small business that was hemorrhaging money and no romantic prospects whatsoever? And all of a sudden, I have a renovated bakery, an actual business plan; I’m the dessert caterer of the Beacon Harbor Shellibration; and I’m living with the man I’ve secretly loved my whole life—in our hometown. Living in a four-thousand-square-foot house! With so many rooms. There wasn’t a lot of inventory to choose from, and Grady wanted the best. The best happens to be the biggest. There are five bedrooms as well as the home office and guest house.

This is the kind of house you raise a family in.

Does Grady want kids? Am I ready for that? I mean, I didn’t think I was emotionally ready to handle having his penis inside of me a couple of weeks ago, but now I don’t like it when his penis isn’t inside of me. I am definitely open to possibilities. Or maybe I’m just horny.

We may be moving too fast, but we’re making up for lost time, and I can’t wait to see him again. I can’t believe we went twelve years without seeing each other at all. Now we text each other every couple of hours if our schedules allow it. But this will be the first time he comes home from a trip to find me here in his house. This will be the first time we get to spend a night at home together, just the two of us. I’ve been looking forward to dinner on the patio, drinks down by the water, followed by binge-watching a few episodes of something or other and thenbath time in the deluxe jacuzzi tub before bed—all of the above with Grady.

It has been an hour and a half since he sent me a text from his private jet in Portland, so he could be back any minute. My heart starts racing even before I run to the kitchen to check on my roast chicken. We may not be pretending anymore, but all afternoon it’s felt like we’re playing house—and I love it more than I ever dreamed I would. We could be living in his parents’ garage and I’d still feel all my nerve endings vibrating at the thought of him coming home to me.

Just as I’m checking the meat thermometer, I hear the front door opening, and I actually squeal and hop up and down.

“Honey, I’m home!” Grady calls out from the foyer.

I am so giddy and impatient to see him that I don’t even check my hair or remove my stupid apron that saysI COOK AS GOOD AS I LOOKbefore sprinting to greet him.

He’s carefully placing all of his bags on the floor, but as soon as he realizes I’m coming at him, he braces himself, holds out his arms, and twirls me around when I leap up into them. He stops spinning, lowers me to the ground, and we both let out a long, loud sigh as we hold each other tight. The rush of seeing and smelling and touching him after missing him for three days is like nothing I’ve ever known. It’s even more thrilling and comforting than curling up in front of a fire with a brand new recipe book while drinking wine and listening to Taylor Swift.

We finally pull apart enoughto kiss each other. He tastes like espresso and scotch and dark chocolate, and I’m not even mad about the dark chocolate. I have so much I want to say to him that it comes out like, “Imislovedyou so much it’s so good to hope you’re hungry!”

I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for him to tell me he’s made a terrible mistake and will need me to move out by tomorrow. But he doesn’t.

He puts his hands on my face. “Open your eyes.”

I do. He looks so concerned, it’s almost comical.

He inspects my retinas, holds a finger up. “Follow my finger.”

My gaze follows his finger as he moves it in sweeping motions in front of my face. “I didn’t have a stroke—I’m just too excited to speak,” I tell him.

He cracks a smile, his eyes sparkling. “I know. I’m just messing with you.”

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