Page 22 of The Billionaire Is Back

“True. But I did learn a thing or two from a chef named Bobby Flay—perhaps you’ve heard of him—when he gave me a personal lesson.”

“Enh.” He waves me off. “That guy’s got charm, but I’d beat him in a grill-off, no question.”

“No question. But I’m cooking the barbecue tonight,” I insist.

“I’ll need you boys to help take more chairs outside,” my mom says. “Not you, mister,” she tells my dad. “You can make the salads.”

“Aw, he’s gonna make the meat all fancy schmancy,” my dad complains.

“I just might,” I threaten, pointing a finger at him in the same way my mother does. “If that’s what it takes to keep you from eating it.”

He frowns and waves me off good-naturedly. “This guy’s back for ten minutes and thinks he’s running the place.”

I get no more resistance and go out back to fire up the grill, happy to see that while they haven’t made any renovations to the house, they did have new concrete poured over the patio and they bought a top-of-the-line gas grill. So they used about half of one percent of the money I wired them. Although I guess they also used some of it for the lobster tank.

I wonder if anyone invited the baker to the barbecue, if she’d even show up.

I allow myself exactly thirty seconds to imagine grilling for her and to wonder if she’d find my thick, juicy meat as delicious as I found her muffin.

Chapter 7

Rolling Pin the Deep

Claire

Grady Barber’sface is infuriating.

I hope he stuffed it with my muffin. I wish I could have watched his tea-brown eyes flutter shut and heard him groan as he slowly sank his gleaming white teeth into the generously frosted, evenly browned crust, through the rounded top. I would have gloated as he savored the voluptuous delights of its moist, pillowy interior with his tongue.

I also wish I could stop imagining myself licking cream-cheese frosting off his lips.

And sucking it off of his thumb.

And cleaning it off his abs with my tongue.

God dammit.

I can’t believe I leaned into his hand like that when he was wiping flour off my jaw. Like a lonely, attention-starved kitten who secretly wanted him to make out withher and touch her boobs. When really I’m a badass tough cookie who’s spent over a decadenotwanting him to make out with me or touch my boobs.

I thought I’d buried all that longing under so many dates with other guys and so much flour and sugar and eggs and butter that I’d never be able to feel it again.

So I’m doing the only thing I can do—burying it under even more flour and sugar and eggs and butter.

And drinking wine.

And listening to Adele.

It doesn’t mean he’s still important to me. I got emotionally sideswiped, that’s all. By an aggressively handsome billionaire. That fucker came out of nowhere.

Fortunately I had the foresight to make sugar cookie dough last night, so it has been chilling in the fridge and it’s nice and firm. I take about half the batch of dough into my hands and massage it. I mold the perfectly smooth, pliable, magical substance into a beautiful, firm mound before slapping it on top of a sheet of parchment paper that I’ve laid out over the granite countertop. Closing my eyes, I rest the palm of my hand over the rounded dough, gently stroking and savoring the suppleness of it.

I think of nothing but the simple pleasure of creating something delicious from flour, butter, sugar, eggs, baking soda, baking powder, and vanilla extract.

Then I press the heels of my hands into it, to flatten it just a bit, lightly swirling my fingertips across the surface because it feels so good.

I definitely do not visualizeanyone’s anything while gently but masterfully manipulating it with my soft but capable hands.

After placing another sheet of parchment paper over the flattened dough, I reach for my rolling pin. Using the perfect amount of pressure, I roll out the dough, changing angles with each pass, ensuring that every inch of it is tended to. I’m careful not to overdo it, of course.Iwant to bea tough cookie, but nobody wants to eat one.

---