Page 72 of The Billionaire Is Back

“But I’d really just love to make a perfect croissant.”

And that lights him up. “Now you’re talking.”

I clap my hands and jump up and down.

“But we don’t have time. The dough needs to rest and rise for at least eight hours. What else you got?”

“Victoria sponge cake,” I say without missing a beat. “With whipped cream in the middle. I’ve never been able to get my sponge cakes spongy enough.”

“Yes. Good. An easy bake that’s easy to mess up. It’s all in the way you cream the butter and sugar together at the start.”

I just want to listen to him saybuttahover and over. This day is tied with yesterday for the best day ever. And the day that ended with Grady fingering me in his car. And the next morning when he came to my parents’ house. And hopefully tomorrow.

Peter rests his hands against the edge of the counter. “We’ll need a good raspberry jam for the filling. Softened butter.” He stares at me.

I stare back at him, waiting for him to snap his fingers so the baking elves or production assistants will appear with all the ingredients.

“Well, go on,” he urges.

“I didn’t bring anything with me.”

“Check the fridge.”

I do that. I check the nearby fridge. It is so well stocked, I nearly pee my pants again. “Oh, it’s in here!” I gleefully assemble all my equipment, tools, and ingredients, preheat the oven, rushing around as if I’m a contestant. But I’m not. I just don’t want Peter Broadway to get mad at me. Or maybe I do?

He instructs me as I beat the softened butter, margarine, and sugar in a bowl with a hand-held electric whisk and tells me the exact moment that I should start adding the eggs. He incorporates the flour for me, hand mixing it with a spatula. I always get creative and lose myself in my bakes, but his confidence and expertise is inspiring.

By the time I’m spreading the jam and whipped cream on top of my golden, bouncy cake base, I feel ready to host my own show. We enjoy a slice of the finished cake with a cuppa tea, and he tells me he still has a couple of hours for me. He’d like me to bake something for him. “What’s your best?”

“It’s simple,” I say.

“Simple is good. But simple is harder. Every element must be perfect.”

“It’s a s’more,” I tell him, and I can’t say it without smiling because s’mores remind me of Grady.

An appreciative grin spreads across his face. “Make it.”

I make it. I make graham crackers from scratch and have to get over the disappointment of not being able to make my marshmallow from scratch because I’d need at least four hours for it to set. But I do explain to him, in great detail, how I’d be making them for him if I had thetime. My graham crackers come out with the perfect amount of crunch.

I have to ask him to send someone out for a bar of Hershey’s chocolate, but I have zero remorse about it. At least they have a butane torch that I can use to toast my store-bought marshmallows, but I caramelize those buggers to perfection. My finished product is aesthetically pleasing, but I can just tell from looking at it that it’s delicious. I know my s’mores.

I watch Peter Broadway bite into it as if in slow motion. I hear the crunch of the cracker. I marvel as the marshmallow and chocolate melt into each other without oozing over the edge in a mess of goo. I hold my breath as he chews and swallows.

“The textures and flavors are all different, but they complement each other perfectly,” he says. He finishes the whole thing, wipes his fingers on a napkin, and then extends his hand.

To me.

It is the highest compliment anyone can receive from Peter Broadway—a handshake after he’s tasted your bake.

And I get one.

I get a Peter Broadway handshake.

Because I’m good enough.

I returnto Grady’s penthouse on cloud nine.

I usually do fifty times as much work on any given day at the bakery, but this was sointense, I’m going to need a nap before putting on a slightly discounted designer evening gown for the gala event. The dress code is formal, and we must wear clothes that are green and/or black. I’m skeptical that I can pull off green, but since this executive’s charity is for houseplants, I’m determined to wear a green dress. The apartment is empty when I take the elevator all the way up to the second floor, ready to collapse onto the guest bed.

---