Page 43 of The Billionaire Is Back

“So, you got a loan?”

“I got a lump-sum small-business loan from the bank. Jake and Vera and my parents and I remodeled as much as we could to keep costs down. The large appliances are the same ones that Buddy and Ruthie used.”

“And the other equipment?”

“I sold what they had and got new mixers. Anything for the counter, I bought new.”

He sucks melted marshmallow and chocolate from his thumb and then asks, “Why’d you get a seven-quart mixer?”

I shrug. “I make small batches and it’s just me doing the baking, so…” I can tell he’s struggling to refrain from saying something, so I wrap things up. “And I did what I could to make it look like a destination bakery. You know. Instagram-worthy. To attract tourists and people like me, who grew up seeing pretty pictures on the internet and watching the Food Network. Traded half of the original menu for French pastries that I taught myself to make, putting my own spin on things. And you know. The rest is history.” I squish my s’more together and shove as much of it into my mouth as possible so I don’t have to talk about money.

Grady nods, waits for me to finish chewing. “That’s all wonderful, Claire.”

His eyes are glassy by firelight. My name on his lips is a tiny song. That was the least judgmental he’s ever sounded. It feels good.

I swallow and take a deep breath. “But?” I want him to get the rest of that sentence over with.

He doesn’t throw me a cocky grin, he just looks so thoughtful and serious. “But I’m wondering if you wanted to make it your own or if you wanted to make it what you thought other people were looking for.”

Well, shit.

“Because,” he continues, “what you’re doing isn’t exactly in support of that. Is it? The renovations you’ve made to the storefront are beautiful. Your pastries and muffins, obviously, are incredible, on top of being photogenic. But what Beacon Harbor traffics in and what Main Street sells and what it sounded like you wanted to sell is nostalgia. Do you want your bakery to look and feel shiny and new, like an Instagram post, or do you want it to look like a Polaroid? Because tourists will pay top dollar for that. That’s why they drive out here from Boston and Providence and Connecticut. And you know it’s what the locals want…right?”

The damn smoke from the fire is making my eyes watery, but it’s like I can finally see clearly for the first time in years.

Dammit.

He’s right. And I’m not even mad about it or annoyed. I’m grateful. He finallysaid the thing that no one in my life would say. “Yeah. You have a plan, I suppose?”

He rubs his hands together and nods. “We can talk about the numbers later, but I think you need to think of your business as elastic. You have your everyday baking for the locals. Your grumpy hardware-store employees and your families who are on their way home from the beach. That’s your bread and butter, no pun intended. And I know there are weekend tourists for most of the year, but you need to take the profit you’ll make from the day-to-day business and use it to expand for the summer tourist season and special events.”

“Like the cake for the end-of-summer Shellibration,” I say.

“Exactly.”

“Thank you for that, by the way. I’m sorry I didn’t thank you before.”

He shrugs. “It seemed weirdly important to you.”

“It is important to me. In a not-weird way.” I polish off the rest of my s’more. I don’t know what it is about this one in particular that makes it so perfect and delicious. Maybe it’s Grady’s fire. Maybe it’s the pink-and-purple clouds in the west. Maybe it’s that it’s been so damn long since I’ve made s’mores… “Why has it been so long since I’ve made s’mores?” I ask myself out loud. I know the answer, of course. Because it’s been so long since I’ve been around a fire pit. But I could make them in the oven. “I can make s’mores the centerpiece of my new campaign,” I state, as if I’m pitching it at a board meeting.

“Exactly!” he says excitedly.

“I can make chocolate chip–s’more cookie bars!”

“Yes. Amazing.”

“All kinds of variations. I could make them with peanut butter. Pretzels. Butterscotch. And it would be so easy—just in a sheet pan.” I am actually getting turned on thinking about this.

“I love it,” he says, and I can tell he means it. “I mean, you can still make your profiteroles—just call them cream puffs.”

God dammit, he does have a point.

Is it my imagination, or is he sitting a little bit closer to me now than he was ten minutes ago?

“I guess I should be grateful you won the lobster-race bet. What would you have done if you’d lost?” I give a little shrug. “Just not help me?”

“I wasn’t going to lose,” he says matter-of-factly.

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