Page 6 of Marked By the Billionaire
“You bake a lot?”
“No. That’s probably why they don’t turn out right.” I laugh thinking back at how terrible the last batch of donuts I tried turned out. They were soggy and somehow burnt all at once. “I, ugh, my mom had all these fudge recipes, and I always fantasized about opening a little fudge shop in Rugged Mountain. Donut making, though, that’s not my thing.”
Pine trees blur as we drive up in elevation. It’s late, and the shadows stretch and deepen, turning the green needles into dusky silhouettes.
“You saidhad. What happened to the recipes?”
“Oh,” I take a swig of cider straight from the jug, “I still have the recipes, but my mom passed. Car accident. I was fifteen.”
“Oh.” His tone is low, as though his reaction is coming from a place of sincerity.
“She made this one fudge,” I say softly, “with cayenne and dark chocolate. No one ever liked it but me.” I smile, half to myself. “She said it was fiery, like I was.”
I glance at him, and for once, he doesn’t look grumpy. He looks human, maybe even shaken.
“I’m sorry,” he says finally, voice rough like gravel under boots.
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago. I just… I have a few nice memories of her, and I try to keep them alive.” I draw in a deep breath. “Anyway! I’m, ugh, I’d love to open a shop one day and sell all her fudge. Name it something kitschy likeThe Fiery Fudge Shop.I can imagine everyone in town coming out to stock up on the new fudge of the week, ya know?”
“I could tell by your negotiating earlier that you’re an entrepreneur.” He nods slowly as the weird spaceship truck drives itself off the main drag.
How do people get used to this?
“Not really. I just want to do something to make other people happy, and I figure Mom’s treats always did that. But, until this deal, that was just a dream. I was going to finish school, look for a job in marketing, and let life happen. What about you? Are you close to your parents?”
“Fuck no.” The truck turns down a dark, narrow road with trees towering on both sides. “You know, if you’re interested in my bio, you can read it online.”
Something like whiplash hits me hard and heavy, and I snap a look of disgust toward this sorely mistaken man. “I’m sorry?”
Most people know when a woman says,‘I’m sorry,’you’ve said something stupid. She’s giving you a chance to rectify it. This man doesn’t have a clue, and keeps going.
“My bio,” he pulls out his phone, scrolls to something, and hands it toward me, “you can read it online.”
“Yeah,” a laugh sticks in my throat, “I don’t want to read it online. I thought the point of this was to get to know each other in real time.”
“Sure.” He tucks his phone back into his jacket. “I just don’t like wasting effort.”
I chew the inside of my cheek, wondering how I’ll endure two whole days of this. Sure, four million dollars is a lot ofmoney, but so is therapy these days. I don’t want to end up with some bizarre version of PTSD after some weird encounter with an emotionally absent psychopath.
“So where are your parents? I’m not going to read your bio.” I narrow my gaze as I ask, though I stay focused on the hauntingly dark passage through the woods. Maybe this was a mistake. I’m pretty sure refraining from rides in cars with strange men is rule one in the book of how not to be murdered.
His reaction is flat as he says, “They traveled a lot. I’d guess they were home maybe two weeks a year.”
“What?” I finally twist toward him as the clearing opens ahead, easing my nerves a little. “Why didn’t they take you with them?”
He shrugs. “Never asked. It’s just the way things were.”
The way things were.
I let the words settle between us, and for a second, my sick heart has empathy for this guy. I had a rough childhood, but I can’t imagine being left behind for all but two weeks a year.
“It wasn’t all bad,” he continues. “The house manager was my primary caregiver. I’m lucky to have him. Reynolds. You’ll meet him this weekend.”
At least we won’t be alone. Then again, it could be two psychopaths against one. Those don’t seem like great odds.
“I have to ask,” I say turning toward him. “You’re rich. I’m sure loads of women want you. Why fake all this with me? It’s not good for your heart.”
He turns toward me, narrowing his dark brows, a slow smile building on his face as he says, “My heart? My heart froze over a long time ago. And, little lamb, the whole world is playing pretend. Don’t you think?”
