Page 36 of The Runaway Billionaire's Inconvenient Baby
“I could drink this coffee every single day,” I say. “I mean it.”
“That’s what everyone says.” She giggles.
“You have to tell me the secret.”
“And have you run me out of business? Absolutely not.”
Another smell registers with me, and I frown, staring over at the stove. “You’re cooking?”
She shrugs, biting her bottom lip. “It’s not much, just eggs and bacon.”
“You really don’t have to. If I wanted someone to make me breakfast, I’m all-inclusive at the inn.”
Billie laughs at that. “Believe me, you’ll get a much better breakfast here. Mrs. Petering is a kind woman, but breakfast at the inn leaves something to be desired.”
“Still,” I say, “you don’t have to cook for me.”
“I’m cooking for me,” she says, fixing me with a stern look. “But if you want some, there’s enough.”
There’s no further argument I can make to that. I don’t think I’m getting much choice in the being-fed-department.
“Don’t you have to go and open the cafe?” I ask.
She shrugs, glancing back at me over her shoulder. “I have enough people who will help me out and make sure everything’s running okay. Lantigua can open up and run the place just fine. I trust him totally. Plus, you look like you could do with some looking after.”
“Hey, now,” I pout. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“When was the last time anyone cooked you breakfast? Or anything, in fact?”
“I go out to restaurants all the time.”
“I mean at home. Wait, do you even have a home?”
“Technically, yes, but now that all the stalkers know where I live, not anymore.”
“It’s why you want the island,” she says quietly, the memory of my true purpose blowing a cold wind between us.
I don’t feel like getting into an argument about this right now, so I change the subject. “Tell me more about the cafe.”
“What do you want to know?” She flips the bacon, and it sizzles happily in its pan. “Toast?”
“Please.”
“Whole grain bread okay? It’s all I’ve got.”
“Guess it’ll have to be.” I take a sip of my coffee and then say, “Why do you run the place?”
“It used to be my parents. My father left it to me in his will.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, because that’s what you’re meant to say when someone has a dead family member. It sounds like a topic I’m definitely going to screw up, so I steer away from it. “You must enjoy it.”
“I do,” she says. “Usually, anyway.”
“Usually?” She turns off the gas and plates up eggs, bacon and toast before slinging a plate down in front of me, one with a faded sailing ship on it. “What’s wrong with the place?”
She laughs bitterly as she takes a seat next to me. “What’s not wrong with it? The coffee machine’s always on the fritz. The kitchen needs a total overhaul. I’m lucky the aesthetic in there is rustic seaside or else it would look totally shabby. It could do with a repaint. A new pastry display. New chairs. Everything.”
“Then why don’t you?” I ask.
