Page 110 of The Billionaire Is Back

“That campaign is central to our plan,” I tell him.

“I know,” Aston says, concerned. “But before you proceed, I think you need to know the full story.”

I’m not one to believe that cell phone signals give you cancer or anything like that. But I can feel my phone radiating in my hand. It has formed its own gravitational field, and it’s pulling me away, whispering,Go to the airport, go into the sky to get to the sea to get to your girl.

But the faces in front of me anchor me here.

Handle your business.

If you want to give that girl the world, you have to keep conquering it.

I put my phone back into my pocket.

“Of course. You have my full attention.”

Chapter 29

Just a Cupcake Looking For Her Stud Muffin

Claire

GRADY: Baby. You are magnificent, and I’m so proud of you. I hope this day feels like the dream it is. A dream you’ve made real. I’ll be thinking about you today—more than you’ll ever know. I love you. See you soon.

I readthe text a few more times before putting my phone back into my pocket, as if the more I read it, the truer it will become. It’s still the same lovely message I received when I woke up this morning. But it’s aging like bread rather than wine, since there hasn’t been a follow-up. Several texts from me to Grady have gone without a reply, so I gave up sending them.

But today has felt like a dream. Like a lucid dream that I can control, only with the lingering sense that itisn’t real. A sense that at some point, I’m going to wake up.

I stare at myself in the mirror here, in the little public bathroom in my bakery. It has new wallpaper with cupcakes all over it, and it’s the cutest, happiest little bathroom I’ve ever been in. There’s a smudge of flour on my forehead, which I consider leaving there for Grady to wipe away when he gets here.

The opening went as well as I could have ever hoped. My baking, decorating, and presentation were all perfect. Vera didn’t screw up anything for once. All the wildlife of Beacon Harbor remained outside. The whole town came and cleaned out everything I had to offer. They even paid for it too! And many just hung around because it’s such a pleasant, comfortable place to be. Who knew I’d been repelling people by forcing them to pronounce French words?

I got a double thumbs-up from the mayor right after she spurned her juice cleanse to partake in a strawberry–cream cheese Danish. “Claire Sweeney,” she said. “This…is the best Danish I have ever had in my entire life. You are a bona fide treasure.” Before leaving to run back to her office, she told me that even if Grady hadn’t agreed to give a speech at the end of the summer, she would want me to be the official pastry chef for the annual Shellibration. It felt good.

I take a deep breath, possibly the first full one I’ve managed since before dawn today. I do feel good. Just unsettled.

No, not unsettled—incomplete.

“I own and operate a successful bakery business,” Isay out loud, very quietly, to my reflection. It has been ages since I did these affirmations, it seems. “My bakery attracts the perfect clientele.” I can hear laughter outside the door, and it makes me smile. It doesn’t feel quite right saying these affirmations anymore. Not because they’re untrue—just the opposite. They feel like cold, hard facts. I might as well be sayingA day is twenty-four hours longorWater freezes at thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit. I should probably move on to keeping a gratitude journal now.

Just for fun, I say to myself, “I deserve and attract the love of a wonderful, top-notch man who appreciates my talents and supports my aspirations.”

It’s tough to get a notch topper than the boy you’ve had a crush on your whole life, who’s now a billionaire who fell for you and notches you exclusively. And I wouldn’t be saying these things in the perfectly decorated little bathroom of my successful bakery business if he wasn’t always ready to place a gentle, supporting hand on my aspirations—or give them a quick little spank if that’s what my aspirations were asking for.

It feels like a fact. Mostly. But it’s not as cut and dry as the other ones. There’s still a little hope and dream left in there to be squeezed out of it.

I wipe the flour from my forehead before rejoining the dwindling party. At this point, it’s my parents, Jake, and Vera. They are still here, I know, because they’re concerned that if they leave before Grady arrives, he has officially missed the opening. As long as I stay open and there are still people around, there’s still a chance. Crabby waited around forever because he was hoping to be my knight in rusting armor if Grady didn’t show up,but he finally had to get to the hardware store when his shift started. And I have to wrap up an interview I’ve been doing with an adorable girl who’s working as an intern for theBeacon Harbor Register.

I spot Maisy talking to my mom, over by the coffee stand. Maisy is tilting her head and nodding while holding her phone in front of her to record a voice memo, and my mom is gesticulating wildly, probably telling her about the time she found me baking cookies at midnight when I was ten. I join them just as my mom says, “And hopefully Grady will be putting a bun in her oven soon—wouldn’t that be wonderful?!” She rubs my belly.

“Please don’t put that in the article,” I say to Maisy.

“I’ve got plenty of other anecdotal material,” she replies, smiling. “Can I get a quote from you, Mr. Sweeney?” she asks my dad.

“You sure can.” He puts his arm around me and says, “The only thing cuter than a puffin is Claire Sweeney’s muffin.”

“Please don’t put that in the article either.”

“But it’s true!” My dad squeezes my cheeks. “Look at those cheeks. My daughter’s got the sweetest cheeks.”

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