Page 27 of The Billionaire Is Back

“Oh my God.” I cover my face. “Why are you laying into me about this all of a sudden?” It’s not all of a sudden. He is always laying into me about this subject. It just feels especially intense because this is the exact opposite of baking and eating sugar cookies. “Maybe I don’t want him to know that I’m not making a profit, Jake,” I mutter into the palms of my hands.

“Listen,” he says. I can hear him scrubbing the pilot-light head and drip pan within an inch of their lives. “You can’t be too proud to ask an expert for advice. He’s here. I don’t know how long he’ll be in town for, but this is your chance to get some face time with the most successful person we’ll ever know.”

I turn away from my brother because my cheeks get warm thinking about getting some face time with thatparticular person’s face. “Grady is not an expert on the bakery business.”

“A business is a business, kid.” In the reflection of the oven door, I can see Jake rinsing off the sponge, putting the spray cleaner and sponge back under the sink, drying off the drip plate with a paper towel, and replacing the burner grate.

“I’m not a kid. And it’smybusiness—it’s not any of yours or his.” I check my timer, trying not to reveal how proud I am of that incredibly clever, conversation-ending sentence I just uttered. My brother does not congratulate me for being witty, nor does he acknowledge that I am not a kid. I hear the satisfying click of a gas burner lighting up and turn to look. “You fixed it!”

“Yeah.” He switches off the burner. “It was all clogged up from dried butter and flour, you dork.” He crumples up the paper towel and tosses it at me.

“Oh.”

“Oh,” he mocks. “Little Miss I Didn’t Do Anything Wrong. So, what are you gonna do tonight, then?”

“Not that that’s any of your business either,” I say as I pick up the balled-up paper towel and whip it back at him, “but I’m going to get into the bathtub with a mug of decaf tea and my cookies, listen to some vintage Dolly Parton, and read Mom’s oldGlamourmagazines. Be in bed by seven o’clock, cry myself to sleep by eight. Wake up refreshed at four a.m., ready to face another day of my glorious life.”

He doesn’t blink as he stares at me. “Come to the barbecue with me.”

I dry my hands. “No.” My timergoes off, and I put on my oven mitts. I don’t even feel like eating anymore. My brother has ruined everything. Everyone has ruined everything just by saying Grady’s name over and over. Therefore, Grady has ruined everything.

Except this batch of beautiful, perfect sugar cookies.

“Why don’t you take these cookies to the Barbers’?” I say, sweetly. “Give Grady my best.”

My cookies and pastries are, literally, the best I have to offer anyone at this point. And sure, it would be gratifying to be there to watch that know-it-all billionaire’s tea-brown eyes flutter shut and hear him groan as he sinks his gleaming white teeth into these magnificent, pillowy-yet-firm round tastes of heaven. But I only attend welcome-home barbecues for people who actually want to kiss me.

Chapter 8

A Friend in Knead

Grady

As I’m marinating,searing, and seasoning, I realize that barbecuing my own welcome-home dinner is a blessing in disguise. People can say hello to me as they get their food, but they have to keep moving to make room for the next in line. A lot of people show up. Cousins of neighbors that I barely remember. People from school and locals from the town. Most are good about not asking me for money. But they are clearly paying extra attention because of who I am and how much I am worth. There are a few local girls who are dressed up way beyond what is appropriate for a barbecue. Of course, I couldn’t be less interested in them. There’s only one local girl I’m thinking about.

Claire never shows up, though.

Which is probably another blessing in disguise. It’s disguised as a barbecuing billionaire who isn’tdisappointed. On the other hand, I’m the guy who wipes flour from her face. Who’s going to wipe delicious animal grease from mine?

I’ve said hello to a lot of people and cooked a lot of meat, and the party is now in full swing. This certainly isn’t an estate, but the backyard is spacious and it feels great to be able to look up and see the sky, unobstructed by skyscrapers. I take a seat in an Adirondack chair by the copper fire pit, trying to relax and take a moment for myself when I hear “What’s up, G?” from behind me.

I smile even before turning around. “What’s up, Jakey?” I say as I rise.

Jake Sweeney saunters toward me with a big smile on his face, carrying a six-pack and a clear plastic container of cookies. He’s wearing a blue Beacon Harbor Fire Department T-shirt that hugs his huge muscular frame. He’s got a couple of inches on me—six foot four at least—and outweighs me by about fifty pounds. There isn’t a hint of bitterness in his expression even though we haven’t been in touch for a few years.

We slap hands and hug.

“It’s good to see you, brotha,” he says.

“Damn good to see you.”

Sitting down by the fire, we each crack open a beer. We tap bottles and then start drinking. We shoot the shit, talk about our lives, how business is going. We talk about the fire department and some of the rescues and major firefights Jake has been in. Then a couple beers in we devolve intoRick and Mortyimpressions.

This right here—this doesn’t feel like an “almost.” The town, my parents, my brother, and even Claire arealmostlike my memories of them. This doesn’t feel like the past has shifted and changed and aged and weathered into somethingalmostlike I remember. Sitting with my best friend and cracking jokes with him, it feels like it always has with him.

It feels like I never left.

“My sister said she saw you today at the bakery,” Jake says and takes a pull of his beer. I don’t hear anything extra in his voice. He’s just making conversation.

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