Page 32 of The Billionaire Is Back

Somewhere in the universe, there is a record scratch.

The whole world goes silent for a few magnificent seconds.

Of all the sentences I never thought I’d hear the golden boy of Beacon Harbor say, that one is at the top of the list, only afterI love you, Claire Sweeney.

Vera’s jaw drops to the floor. And then she tilts her head to look at me, and we both burst out laughing so hard I think we might die.

“You gotta shake that healthy bundt, baby,” Vera says to me when she can finallyspeak again. “I’ll deep-six the special order, though. And don’t forget we’re out of chocolate chip and apple fritters.”

I clear my throat and get my head back in the game. “Right. On it.” I glance over at Grady, who seems a little embarrassed, which is not a look I’m used to seeing on him. Did we laugh too hard? Does he think we were laughingathim and not with him? Why do I care?

“Tell whoever ordered the bundt cake that I make a beautiful lemon layer cake with lemon–cream cheese buttercream.”

“You got it, boss.” Before going back out front, Vera turns on the Bluetooth speaker for the kitchen, taps at her phone, and blows me a kiss as her Motown playlist starts up. Which means she wants me to be horny, but not so horny that I’m agitated. I’m almost grateful that she didn’t cue up the obvious choice—Sir Mix-a-Lot.

So, this is happening. But I have to make two dozen chocolate chip cookies and a small batch of apple fritters, and I don’t have time to plan Vera’s untimely demise. She should have given me more of a heads-up that we were almost out of chocolate chip and apple fritters, though. And I should have known we would be. But I didn’t, and that’s Grady’s fault. I go to my stove and fill my stock pot with oil for the fritters. I should have asked Vera to bring me more apples from the fridge, and if I’m being honest, she should have known that her job is to do that kind of thing for me when things are this busy. But I can get them.

Crossing to the fridge, I notice that Grady is washing his hands at my sink.

Why is he washing his hands at my sink?

“I’m gonna help you,” he tells me. I don’t even have to ask.

He helped me once when I had to bake two hundred cupcakes for a bake sale as a freshman. He was actually helpful. And I do need help. So I tell him to peel, core, and dice the Granny Smith apples. I’m so busy getting the cookies into the oven, I don’t even think about how I’m swaying my hips and singing along to “This Old Heart of Mine.” I barely notice the veins in Grady’s hands and forearms as he peels those apples. I have to reach across the counter for a clean spatula and accidentally graze his bicep when I do—but I’m so busy mixing my batter, I don’t even care if he thinks I did it on purpose.

And when I check the temperature of my oil in the stock pot, turn around, and walk right into him, I only inhale deeply because he’s been stealing all the oxygen in my kitchen. It’s not because he smells like a hint of dried-down sweat from his run, a little bit of leftover rich-guy cologne, and fabric softener. Because his mom probably washed that shirt for Damien. Grady doesn’t say anything when I look up at him. He just stares down at me, handsomely and wealthily. He stares down at my forehead, my ear lobe, my neck, my mouth. His jaw is clenched and his nostrils are flaring.

There’s a flutter in my belly and tightness between my legs, but I drag the back of my hand against the tip of my nose. “Do I have flour all over my face or something?”

He blinks once, as if he didn’t realize he was staring, and shakes his head. “No.” And then he takes a step backand raises the bowl of diced apples he’s holding in one hand.

My throat is constricted, so if he thinks it’s rude of me to not thank him when I take the bowl from him, well, that’s just too bad. I fold the apples into my batter.

“I couldn’t help but notice the container of dark chocolate chips on the shelf,” he says as I drop a quarter cup of batter into the hot oil. I can tell he’s smirking. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind about dark chocolate.”

I lower my voice. “Dark chocolate is exactly as flavorless and terrible as it always has been, but I’m running a business now, and I am trying to attract wealthy asshole tourists. So I do a salted dark chocolate brownie on the weekends.”

“That sounds delicious. Noticed you have plenty of Nutella too.”

And just like that, my eyes are watering and my nose is all tingly. I’m remembering that night at the beach and the thing that happened later in his car. But I don’t have time for watery eyes or a tingly nose or feelings of any kind.

I brush past him to grab a slotted spoon. “Why are you here, Grady?” I ask again.

At the same time, he asks, “Why are you trying to push the pavlova if everyone wants chocolate chip cookies? I’m sure the pavlova are excellent, as are the cookies and everything else you bake—but if nobody is coming in here to order profiteroles or pavlova, then why don’t you just make and sell more cookies? It seems like you’retrying to introduce elevated products to a client base that isn’t looking for that.”

“You aren’t actually criticizing me in my own kitchen, are you?”

“It was just a question. And an observation. And an explanation of my observation.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I’m busy baking things for customers who came here to rub up against a billionaire, so if you’re going to be here, at least go back out front where they can see you.”

We both look out through the window to the store and see that everyone, including Vera, is watching us.

He gives them a little wave. “I think they can see me just fine.”

I whisk my glaze as I wait for the fritter in the oil to turn golden brown. “Okay, but seriously. Why have you been here? For so long?”

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “You know…”

---