The Way to a Billionaire's Heart - Part 1

“Pft, she’s not even vanilla. She’s the carton it came in. Or rum raisin. Who likes that?”

"Then you’re doing him a favor. Go home and shower, get cute. Give yourself enough time so you don’t have to walk too fast and get all sweaty. It’s perfect timing. You fill his head with how great you are and then you and me hit Aruba for a week, make him long for you."

Kiera knows guys. She claims to be too busy to be serious, but I think she just really likes dating and flirting and hooking up. And I, as I’ve mentioned, do not. Setting out to charm a man felt about as natural as flying. But I did what she said, just in case his plans changed and he came in for dinner.

And Walker never turned up.

I was still feeling hopeful when I took a meal up to Mrs. Alexander. She gave me the side-eye when I handed her the martini glass.

“What the hell is this crap?” she asked, peering at the emerald green liquid.

“It’s a wheatgrass cocktail.”

“You’d better be using that word correctly.”

I laughed really hard, that old lady cracked me up. “Yes, Mrs. Alexander, I am. I promise. It has wheatgrass, just like your son ordered, but I added some Cachaca, vodka, and lime juice. It’s after five, after all.”

She smiled broadly. “Atta girl.” She took a sip and looked up, “Not bad! That Brazilian-and-grass combo reminds me of my first gardener.” She shook her head wistfully. “Tastes just like him.”

I blushed like the prude I secretly fear I am and pretended I didn’t hear, busying myself with the tray of food. Once I had introduced it all to her, I said, “I’m sorry I didn’t bring up your lunch myself. I didn’t want to interrupt you when you had guests.”

She waved her hand in the air. “If you waited for that girl to shut her mouth, I’d starve to death, so I’m glad you sent it up.”

I kept an airy tone, oh, I’m just making small talk, ma’am. “Does she come by often?”

“More than I’d like.” Almost muttering to herself, she added, “what he sees in her I can’t imagine.”

Back in the kitchen, I decided to just pack up and get out. By the time I had cleaned up, it was late enough that it was clear Walker wasn’t coming. I wasn’t sure I’d even want to see him. I’d worn uncomfortable shoes for him and pinned up my hair in a twist more flattering than my usual work style. But my “I’m going to get him!” high from earlier was fading. What chance did I have against a golden goddess like Celia? And really? If he could love a woman like that, why would I even want him?

Chapter Four

There was no sign of Walker at lunch the next day, either, and by the time I came in to make dinner, I felt like myself again. This is just a job, do it and get on with the next one. Maybe I’d call him about the consulting job, maybe not. I could think about it in Aruba. Tomorrow night. I’d told Mrs. Alexander I’d come make her one last avocado smoothie tomorrow morning, but then I was off to the airport. A week in the Caribbean would wash away all the uncertainty and weirdness of these past few days.

I took the tray upstairs and was whistling as I came back into the kitchen to find Walker leaning against the counter, offering me a glass of red wine.

And all my cool resolve just dissolved. Like the connective tissue in my knees. What was it about him that his very presence made it hard to stand up, to breathe normally, to remember who I am?

“Did I make it in time for dinner again?” he asked, smiling that easy smile. His voice made my stomach get all fluttery, in addition to all the other symptoms. He was like a really strong virus.

“Sure,” I said, “I’ll make you a plate.” Figure it out, girl–what do you want here? Flirt back and get your heart broken? Play it cool and maybe blow the chance at a business deal? Surely I could just play at flirting, it doesn’t have to mean anything, right? Right?

I gave him the plate and took the wine glass. You know, I can’t tell much difference between a $15 bottle of wine and a $30 bottle. But I can tell when it’s a good wine. This was a good wine.

“This salad is amazing,” said Walker between bites. “What’s that unusual flavor?”

“Sorrel. I have a connection in West Virginia that does wild harvesting. In spring, she gets me morels–she has secret spots.”

I sat down across from him with my own plate. “The wine is very good, thank you.”

“It’s one of my favorites. I know some people wouldn’t drink red with fish, but I say good wine and good food always go together.”

I lifted my glass, “I’ll drink to that.” I watched him for a moment, he was chewing with his eyes closed, savoring the taste. Seriously, that’s like crack to a chef. When he opened his eyes, I darted my eyes to my plate, I didn’t want to be caught staring. When I looked up, he was watching me. It was getting hard to eat when my stomach was so full of butterflies.

Talking, though, I can always do that.

“So, did you mom never cook when you were a kid, even before you got rich?”

“Oh, we’ve always been rich,” he said with a crooked smile. “My mother’s father came from Italy a wealthy man. He’d had a falling out with his brother–they were just beginning to industrialize baking there and the Rossi brothers couldn’t agree on how to run things. So Salvatore packed up his brand new bride and moved to America to open his own factory. He was pretty successful right away, but when he launched Tiny Tina–” Walker gestured toward the stairs. “–named after my own mother, his little girl, Christina, that’s when he got really rich.”

When I realized that the rosy cheeked little girl on the snack cake box was the foul-mouthed old woman upstairs, I nearly choked. My wine went down the wrong way and I started sputtering. I tried to wave him away while I coughed, but Walker jumped up to get me some water and stroked my back while I drank it. It was a strangely intimate gesture, but I was too busy figuring out how to breathe again to really respond. When I was back to just clearing my throat a little, he still stood there beside my chair, his hand on my back. I felt like all of my focus was on that hand-shaped patch of skin, like there should be visible light radiating out from his fingertips. Get it together. Control. I shifted my weight a little and he sat back down. There was an empty spot on my back.

“That’s your mom on the Tiny Tina box?”

Walker laughed. “Yeah, it was a long time ago. She’s always hated that picture. Hated being associated with the brand. Hated being called ‘Snack Cake’ at boarding school.” He took another drink of the wine and shrugged. “But she never hated the money it brought in. And when she married my dad, she didn’t object to his taking the reins from her father.”

“Is your dad still living?”

He shook his head and a lock of dark brown hair fell across his forehead. I suddenly felt like I could see what he’d looked like as a little boy. “No, he died about five years ago. Cancer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. How about you? Parents still living?”

“My mom is. I honestly have no idea about my dad. He cut out when my little brother was two. I think my mom might know where he is, but I never wanted to insult her by seeming to care.” I drained my wine glass and set it down.

Walker poured more into it, saying, “Stay and have more wine with me. I’ll have my car take you home tonight and bring you back in the morning.”

The wine I’d already had and his sparkling eyes made it hard to resist. I lifted the glass and took a sip. “It’d be a shame to let it go to waste. But you never answered my question from earlier–did your mom ever cook at all?”

“Mm, you’re dogged, I like it. No, she never did. We always had housekeepers that cooked. Now she just eats out. One of the housekeepers used to make pudding from scratch and would let me eat it while it was still warm…” His voice trailed off and his eyes looked far away for a moment. “Never liked it any other way, but oh, man, I can almost taste it.”

“Let’s make some.”

“What? Now? Do you have the ingredients?

Do you have a recipe?”

He was so genuinely pleased by the idea that it made me laugh. “Yes, Walker, pudding is easy. I’m pretty sure you don’t get out of cooking school without mastering simple custards. And I have the ingredients here from the other food I was making. Come on. I’ll teach you.”

This is the part in the rom-com where there’s a musical montage of the couple laughing and cooking together. I gave him the whisk and he was too fast, getting milk droplets all over the stove. He tried to convince me he knew how to juggle and ended up cleaning egg off the floor. When we stood side by side at the stove, I could feel the heat between our shoulders, like two magnets trying to pull together.

“Want me to stir for a while?” he asked.

“No, I want there to be enough left in the pan to eat.”

“Good point,” he said, taking a drink.

“Wait a minute, was this your plan all along? Appear utterly incompetent so I do all the work and then you just eat the pudding?”

“Do I seem like a man who pretends to be bad at things? I assure you, I am taking this all in and by the time you get back from Aruba, I’ll be able to make you pudding so good you’ll cry.”

“Oh, will you be having me back to cook for your mom some more?” I asked with a smile.

He leaned in just a bit, fixed me with that look of his. “I was hoping to cook for you in my own kitchen.”

Courage from the wine let me say, “Will Celia be there too?”

He stepped back again, his expression looked like I’d slapped him. “Oh,” he said. “Wow.”

“Yeah. She came by yesterday. Looking for Pookie.”