Page 18 of The Billionaire Is Back

Well, now I feel like an asshole. His dad is friends with my dad. Poor Mr. Barber. I hate hearing this. I sigh again, and everything in me softens. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“He’s okay now, I’m told. It wasn’t a heart attack, but he needs to take it easy for a while to prevent one.”

“Well…it’s nice of you to come back and help them out.”

“Least I could do,” he says, and I can tell he means it. Holding the muffin in one hand, he places his free hand on top of the cake box and then reaches up to gently swipe at my jaw with his thumb. “Got some flour there,” he says quietly. “Been driving me nuts this whole time.”

And I don’t even know why I do it—I don’t even think about it—but I lean into his hand. Again. My eyelids flutter closed, and I just want to feel his hand on my face. His beautiful hand.

This time, it’s me who pulls away first.

“Welcome home, Grady,” I say, and I retreat to the kitchen again without looking back.

I recite a silent affirmation to myself on the fly:Grady Barber falls head over heels in love with my carrot cake muffin as soon as he takes that first bite of moist-but-dense goodness that is naturally sweetened by finely shredded carrots and perfectly balancedwith cozy warmth from a hint of spices; the texture of just the right amount of chopped, toasted walnuts; and the simple yet decadent, unexpectedly tangy cream-cheese-frosting glaze. He will appreciate that there are no raisins because raisins are gross in all baked goods—except for oatmeal cookies.

Chapter 6

Between a Rock Lobster and a Hard Place

Grady

Claire Sweeney’smuffin is delicious.

As I lick the last remnants of the perfect cream-cheese frosting from my fingers, driving back to my parents’ place, I am fully aware that I should not be thinking this. Or that I should find it amusing.

But I don’t.

I find it exciting.

And I findthattroubling.

She really has perfected her carrot cake recipe. The walnuts are the exact right addition.

And thank God there aren’t any raisins. It has never made sense to me why people add raisins to anything for no good reason, and it never will. It doesn’t magically become health food just because you added dried grapes.

Claire’s muffin is perfectly moist…

Dammit.

I shake that thought out of my head. I’mjustthinking about the texture of the muffin she baked. The one I’m allowed to eat. The one I can enjoy without feeling guilt, unless I’m being accountable to my personal trainer—andscrew that guy.

She did look amazing, even when she was glaring at me harder than Harrison Lynch did. God, was that meeting really just this morning? It already feels like a week ago.

I arrive back at my parents’ place and step out of my car, wiping the tiny crumbs from my fingers and wiping the thoughts of Claire Sweeney’s muffin from my mind. Claire is the ultimate distraction. She does not align with my goals. Seeing her just now was the opposite of how I felt as I looked out at the view from the top of the Empire State Building:None of this can ever be yours. Look elsewhere.

I grab the cake box without any more thoughts of the person who made the cake and pick up the flowers I bought for my mother. My father’s truck is back in the driveway, so I know the front door will be unlocked this time.

“Welcome home!” I say sarcastically as I enter.

But no one hears me. My parents are not waiting expectantly in the living room. I only find my brother, Damien, sitting on the couch, rocking out on his guitar.

You’d think he was playing to a big crowd at the Bowery Ballroom in New York with that intensity. But he’s just sitting there on a floral sofa, looking cool and just a little bit vulnerable. I’ve heard Alice use the termswoonywhen speaking in hushed tones to other women,and I guess that’s what she’d say about my brother right now.

Swooniness aside, we couldn’t be more different. On the outside, Damien and I are a similar height and build. Despite his longish hair and sad eyes, anyone could tell we’re brothers. But the similarities are only skin deep. While I have always been type A—for ambition; never stop advancing, never stop accomplishing, my brother is type D—forDude, relax. Don’t worry so much.

He doesn’t take anything seriously. Never has. Not school, sports, jobs, or girls. Not that those things haven’t always come easy for him. Not that he didn’t always enjoy those things. He just never did anything beyond enjoying them. The only thing he’s taken an interest in is music. He looks up and finally stops playing his guitar, casually resting his forearm and hand on the guitar’s body, the way a good boyfriend never stops touching his girlfriend, even when he’s talking to someone else at a party. It takes him a moment to snap out of rocker mode to register that I’m here. His only brother. In the family living room. Four years—it’s been four Thanksgivings since we’ve seen each other. He looks like he’s in way better shape than the last time I saw him. Because the one and only thing my brother has always taken seriously—and way too seriously at that—is his partying.

“Hey” is all I say. Because that’s the only word I speak of Musician.

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