Page 82 of The Billionaire Is Back

Grady hasa mini fridge in his master bathroom. That is why he is able to bring us crystal tumblers filled with ice water without leaving me alone in his bed for more than a minute. We gulp down the cold water. He takes the glass from me and places it on the bedside table. Then he joins me under the sheets.

He props up his elbow on a pillow, rests his head against his fist, and stares at me intently. I mirror him, but with one hand, I stroke up the side of his thigh and find his magnificent penis again. I watch his nostrils flare, his jaw tense. I watch his beautiful, dark eyelashes flutter, and then I see him take in a breath, and everything relaxes. Everything except his penis. And his testicles.

“Let’s do this,” he says. “Let me make this your every day.”

“Can this be my every night too?”

He grins. There’s some kind of sadness lurking in his eyes, but he’s grinning. “You in my bed every night, Claire. Let’s make this work.”

“You are such a good salesman I’m not even going to make a joke about?—”

“Just say yes, Claire.”

“Yes.” I laugh. “Yes. Let’s make this work.” He has grown so hard in my hand already. “I believe we can make anything work now. I really do.”

“Me too, baby.” He leans in closer so I can kiss him.

I have no concept of time anymore. “What time does our flight leave? It’s tomorrow, right?”

“Flight? We aren’t flying back. That’s not good enough when my girl needs more of a break.”

My girl.I’m Grady’s girl. I am quite sure that I could take him in my arms and fly us both home right now. “Oh yeah? You think a private jet isn’t good enough for me?”

“Nah. I have a much better idea.”

Chapter 21

Pat Her Cake, Pat Her Cake, Baker’s Man

Grady

I wakeup suspended between dream and reality. I can’t quite remember the dream, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no way it was better than the reality of my life.

I have Claire.

We’re together. For real. Or we were together, at least. I feel around next to me on the bed. Opening my eyes, I discover that she’s no longer here.

Earlier, we enjoyed a five-course meal on this yacht that belongs to one of my friends. I’m renting it from him, paying for everything, including the crew. We’re taking three luxurious days to get back to Beacon Harbor on a fully staffed, fully stocked pleasure vessel that was designed for elegant, off-the-chain parties. But the only non-crew passengers for this voyage are Claire and me. I’m going to get so much shit from Jake when he sees howextravagant this boat is.

But he can’t complain that I’m not treating his sister right. I sit up, realizing I’m still wearing my dress pants, white oxford dress shirt, and tie. Claire and I had decided to get fancy for our last big vacation dinner. She couldn’t stop chatting with the chef and our servers. She may never get used to being the one getting served, and I will always find that charming. But she’s getting better at enjoying herself. It was her idea for us to lean into our food comas and take a little nap. I liked how decadent that sounded. Now I’m wondering if she ever really fell asleep. She’s been so open and warm and relaxed since our last night in New York. But it seems as though the closer we get to Beacon Harbor, the more tense she’s getting.

“Claire?”

No answer. She isn’t anywhere to be found in the owner’s suite. Where is she?

My anger cuts through the fog of sleep. Why am I pissed? Because while I can’t remember my dream, I know it was about Claire and I know it was a good one. Because I’ve woken up with a raging hard on that I want to share with my girl. And she should be here, right next to me, languid and moaning when I press myself against her.

Instead she’s gone.

This is a 263-foot mega yacht. It’s late, and I don’t want to ask the crew to locate my missing girlfriend, so now I have multiple luxury rooms and decks to search while subduing my nap wood—the bar, the screening room, the beach club, the indoor pool, the outdoor pool, the jacuzzi, the gym…

I scrape a hand over my face. Wait a minute. I don’t need to search the ship. I know exactly where she is.

I make my way down to the galley on the aft deck and find her exactly where I thought I would. The spacious, completely stainless steel commercial-design kitchen is basically coated with flour and sugar and butter. There are bowls and mixing spoons and all manner of baking accouterments out everywhere. It’s like walking into a mad baking scientist’s lair.

“Claire. What are you doing?”

She doesn’t look over at me, but she does pause for a moment before going back to frantically mixing and measuring. “You’re a billionaire CEO of a major company, about to be in charge of a company twice the size of the one you were running. I have absolute faith that you’ll be able to figure out what it is I’m doing.”

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