Page 71 of The Billionaire Is Back

“About that, yeah.” He helps himself to a second slice. “We’ll have a couple of days to work it off after the gala.” He smirks at me as he takes a bite, somehow managing to avoid coming off as salacious while speaking in a tone that implies I will be hittingmy head against that leather wall cushion at some point.

“Oh God, I shouldn’t eat too much,” I say, pouting. “I won’t be able to fit into either of the dresses I got for tonight.”

“You’ll be fine,” he assures me. Then he checks the time and tells me I have to go get dressed in ten minutes because Ted’s picking me up in half an hour. He refuses to tell me where Ted is taking me, but he does throw on a T-shirt and sweatpants to escort me down to the sidewalk after I’ve changed.

“I’ll meet you back here before we head to the gala,” he says as he opens the door to the back seat of the town car. “Enjoy your day.”

“You really aren’t telling me where I’m going? Am I dressed okay?” I’m wearing another version of what I wore yesterday—jeans and a blouse.

“You’re perfect. And no, I’m not telling you, but you’re going to love it.” He curls his index finger under my chin and tilts it up, planting a quick goodbye kiss on my lips.

I forget that I didn’t want him to kiss me while we were here. Then I remember that we’re in public and that we’re pretending to be a real couple. So, I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down for a thank-you kiss. I thank him for the coffee with my lips. I thank him for the breakfast pizza with my tongue. And then I tug at his lower lip, gently, with my teeth, to punish him for being so damned shirtless earlier.

“See you tonight, boyfriend!” I say, loud enough so half the block can hear.

We did some good business this morning.

I’m stillall dreamy and grinning like an idiot when Ted pulls up in front of a location that looks like a warehouse. It’s painted black and there are no signs telling me where we are, but this is one of those neighborhoods with an industrial vibe. The kind you always see inLaw & Ordercrime scenes. Standing in front of a big metal door is a large man in a suit who’s wearing dark sunglasses, a headset, and a don’t-fuck-with-me frown. Ted opens the car door for me and pulls me out, promising that this is indeed the correct address. He gives my name to the scary guy, and I’m ushered inside before I even have a chance to introduce myself.

I’m led down brightly lit hallways, past even more security people and people who are dressed in black, also with headsets, who are dashing about while staring at iPads and clipboards. Finally, we arrive at a black soundstage that’s flooded with blinding lights. I can make out camera equipment and chairs along the perimeter.

It’s a TV studio.

What am I doing here?

Then I see the rows of brightly painted counters. Prep stations with sinks, stove tops, and ovens.

Gasp.

This is the set ofThe Grand English Baking Show, American Edition.

I cover my mouth to muffle a squeal even before Inotice the stout, snow-white-haired man approaching me. He is strong like a proper pint of Guinness, and his piercing blue eyes bore into me, daring me to impress him. It is Peter Broadway, and I may or may not have professionally peed my pants a tiny bit.

“Mornin’,” he says with a perfunctory nod. His hands are in the pockets of his jeans and he moves slowly, but he still manages to give the impression that he’s in a hurry and doesn’t have time for this.

“I have your calendar,” I squeak, finally managing to meet his Siberian-husky gaze.

“Right. Let’s get to work, shall we?”

I refrain from telling him how much I love his accent and how often I used to imitate it just to drive Vera nuts. “Work?” I follow him over to one of the prep stations.

“I’m a very busy man, Miss Sweeney. Which is why your boyfriend had to pay me so much money to teach you this master class.”

“Master class…” I echo. And I have to give Grady credit. I am more terrified of baking for Peter fucking Broadway than I am of the fact that Peter fucking Broadway referring to Grady as my boyfriend feels so right and so good. I calmly roll up my sleeves. “A master class in what, exactly?”

“Depends. What do you need the most help with?”

Turning a profit. Delegating. Succumbing to my brother’s billionaire best friend.“Oh, gosh, let’s see. Well, I’m always trying to perfect my buttercream. It’s so hard to get the texture just right and the flavor not too sweet but sweet enough. Making sure it doesn’t melt in the heat while not hardening in open air.”

Peter looks very uninterested in teaching me the secret to mastering buttercream.

“Italian buttercream, especially…” I add.

His eyebrow quirks a tiny bit with mild interest.

“Also, I’d love to perfect my cake-stacking technique.”

Peter is bored again.

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