Page 17 of The Billionaire Is Back

“Really? Is this a pastry library? Can I borrow it for a few minutes, then?”

“First of all, muffins are not considered a pastry.Muffins are breadstuff. They are classified as quick breads. I meant it’s not for sale toyou.”

“I will take that muffin to go,” Crabby declares, his mouth full of cookie.

“I will give you all the cash I have in my wallet for that muffin,” Grady states, as if that solves everything.

“That will be two dollars, please,” I say to Crabby.

He stares down Grady as he hands me two dollars and takes the muffin. “Wanna watch me eat it, Mr. Moneybags?”

“No. I wanna buy it from you. For, let’s say…”

“Your big-city money’s no good here, Grody Borber!” I exclaim.

Ignoring me, he pulls out a wallet and from there, takes out a crisp hundred-dollar bill. “One hundred dollars.”

“Enjoy your carrot cake muffin,” Mr. Crawford says, swiping the hundo as he hands him the muffin. He looks at me apologetically. “Need new gutters.”

Dammit. I should have just taken all the cash in his wallet. I saw a lot of crisp bills in there.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” he says to Crabby, then winks at me.

Crabby grunts in defeat and exits the store without saying goodbye to me.

I just frown at this man. I have no idea why I find him so infuriating, confusing, titillating, and yet somehow comforting. His presence is comforting to me, under all the overwhelming exasperation, because…it’s Grady. My brother’s best friend. My first crush. The only thing in life that has ever stirred up as much passion in me as baking has.

“Well,” I mutter, “that was the dark chocolate of victories.”

“It was semisweet,” Grady says. But there is no regret in his tone.

I open up the cake box to show him the cake. “If this is to your satisfaction, I will tie it up for you.” I really wish I had piped the wordsSuck it, Grady!on there. That would have been a perfect button for this whole conversation. But I didn’t. It saysWelcome Home, Grady.Because I am a professional.

“That looks amazing,” he says. “Is it paid for?”

“Yes.” I close the box and tie it up aggressively, like I’m binding all of my instincts and feelings.

“You should charge more for your product,” he says as he places a twenty-dollar bill in the tip jar. “Supply and demand, remember? If that grumpy guy’s coming in for your cookies every day, then he’ll pay full price if you ask him to. This is a business, isn’t it?”

“Not that it’s any ofyourbusiness,” I say, sliding the box across the counter, “but this is how all bakeries operate. Baked goods in a bakery are basically worthless if they aren’t fresh, so unsold bread is repurposed and sold as bread crumbs and croutons and leftovers are sold at a reduced price at the end of the day. Anything that doesn’t get sold by closing time is either donated to the food bank or I give it to friends or take it home. Some days I drop things off at the police station on the way home or I give them to Jake for the rest of the crew at thefire station. Some things I can sell the next morning at day-old prices.”

“Oh, he’s still at the fire department? Jake?”

How does he not know that? “Yes, Jake is still a firefighter. It’s his calling. Why wouldn’t he work there?”

“I’m glad to hear it. I’ll be giving him a call. But my point still stands—if Grumpy Gus is coming in every day for your cookies, he’ll pay the regular price for them, even at the end of the day.”

Now my hands are on my hips. I wish I was wearing five-inch stilettos instead of sneakers so I could be eye to eye with this jerk. “For your information, this bakery is a vital part of the community. It’s not all about money. Yes, Crabby usually comes in right before closing time to get the reduced prices. I tried to give my unsold pastries to him for free at first, but he always insists on paying me the day-old prices, and then he hangs around to eat the cookies and chat with me while I’m cleaning up, but he saves a couple of cookies to eat later. He’s a widower. He’s lonely. He doesn’t like going home to an empty house.”Take that, Mr. Big Shot.I leave out the fact that I bake extra cookies for Clarence. The chocolate chip would almost always sell out otherwise.

“Point still stands. Even more so if he’s also paying for the pleasure of your company. Which, in my experience, is worth top dollar.” He smirks. “I see you have a number of leftovers.” He glances at my unsold madeleines and profiteroles. “When did you take over from Buddy and Ruthie?”

I release the loud, dramatic sigh I’ve been storing inmy chest for what feels like an eternity. So many questions. Always. “Why are you here, Grady?”

“To pick up my welcome-home cake.”

“I know, but why are you back? Now?”

He takes in a deep breath before saying, “My dad had an angina attack. I’m here to help out my parents.”

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