The Billionaire's Gamble (9 page)

Evan rolled his eyes because the man’s voice didn’t ring with certainty. “I haven’t. I made you a promise, and I’m keeping it. If Margie says I hang the moon, it’s because the feeling is mutual. We’ve become…well…friends in our own way. It won’t go any further than that while I’m here.”

Of course, he wasn’t about to tell them that Margie had become the main feature of his daydreams, alongside a cast of inventions working its way through his subconscious—mostly about painting. Oh, and rainbows made out of paint.

“But you like her,” Jane said baldly.

He went for the truth. “What’s not to like? She’s smart, funny, kind, and beautiful. Let me say again, I’m not coming on to her. Okay?” Crap, they made him feel like a high school kid getting called before the principal. Not that
that
had ever happened to him.

“Okay,” Rhett said, nodding in that slow Southern way of his. “We just wanted to make sure.”

His gut burned a moment. “Margie trusts me. Why won’t you?”

“She doesn’t know you, Evan,” Jane said, worrying her lip. “When we made this side bet, neither Rhett nor I envisioned you—”

“Living and working with someone you know?” he finished.

“Exactly,” she said. “It doesn’t sit well, keeping things from her.”

He wasn’t ready for Margie to know about him, wasn’t ready to see if it would change her reaction to him. “We agreed I would live like a normal person here for a month. I’m doing it, and doing it well, I think. Let’s not mess with that. This was your idea…”

“But Margie is going to Paris…” Jane said, casting a glance at Rhett.

“What Jane wants to know is if you’re planning to see her there?”

He’d thought of it about a hundred times, of holding her hand as they walked along the Seine at sunset, of kissing her slowly in his favorite park off Pont Neuf Bridge. “Look, I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it. She did ask me to give her some suggestions about what to do in Paris, not that she’ll have a lot of time with her apprenticeship. Did you know she’ll have to be at the bakery at two a.m.?” The thought still horrified him. “If she wants to hang out, that’s great. As I said, even though we haven’t known each other for long, we’re friends. Now, will you two stop worrying and let me start painting? I have a job to do.” He didn’t feel inclined to share any of his feelings with these two.

Jane released a long breath. “Margie says you’re being meticulous.”

He laughed to ease the tension inside him as much as the tension in the room. “That’s code for slow, but this is her dream, so I’m doing the best job I can.”

Rhett came over and clapped him on the back. “And we appreciate it. We just…wanted to make sure you understood how special she is.”

He did. More than they realized. “I hope I’ve allayed your concerns.”

Jane fidgeted with her hands. “Are you planning to tell her who you are if you see each other in Paris?”

It had been hard to keep quiet about the truth, especially since he kept daydreaming about them being together in his hometown. But part of him enjoyed his current anonymity. Would she change how she reacted toward him when she discovered he was a billionaire? Worse, would he change once he returned back to his life in Paris? He didn’t have the answers.

“Like I said, it hasn’t come up,” he said, walking over to the gallon of paint he’d use on the kitchen. “Now, I really do need to get back to work.”

Rhett and Jane shared a look again.

“All right,” Rhett said. “We’re glad to see you fulfilling your end of the deal. It takes a real man to honor his word, and you did that by coming here.”

“But if you want to wrap up the painting you’re doing for Margie and go home to Paris, that’s okay with us too,” Jane said in a soft tone. “In hindsight, this really was a crazy side bet, and you’ve already lasted two weeks. I didn’t expect you to agree to the deal.”

He couldn’t contain a half smile. “I’m seeing this gamble through to the end,” he said, picking up the paint can. “Jane, you were right when you said I was bored and…searching for a purpose. Things have started to become clearer for me here. That alone has made this trip worthwhile.”

She smiled, and now he saw the kind woman behind the poker face. “I’m glad, Evan. I…came from money. No one knows better than I do that money can’t buy happiness.”

Since he was starting to feel like he was caught in some 1960s sitcom, he simply shook his head and reached down to grab one of the remaining paint trays. “Thanks for stopping by and checking on things. Trust me. Everything is in good hands.”

They still didn’t look completely convinced.

“We’ll let you get back to painting,” Rhett said. “When you finish working for Margie, Abbie and I could use your help painting the nursery. That is, if you don’t have any other jobs lined up.”

“I don’t,” he said, touched the man would extend the offer.

“And Matt and I finally have agreed on paint colors in a few of the rooms in our house now that we’ve moved in together,” Jane added.

“Great.” Maybe if he spent more time painting, he would finally achieve the breakthrough he was on the verge of making. “I’ll let you know when she’s run out of things for me to do.”

They said their goodbyes and walked out the door. He closed it behind them and paused for a moment.

It was weird being checked up on and looked after.

Funny thing was that while part of him was annoyed, another part of him kind of liked it.

***

Margie hated how nervous she was about the cinnamon roll tasting. Jill had given her a half day off so she could bake rolls that would be warm from the oven when her guests arrived. She’d already prepared a pan of rolls that would be served room temperature alongside Grandma Kemstead’s rolls.

Earlier that morning, Margie’s sexy tenant had helped her set out the dishes she wanted to use. Her nerves must have been evident judging from the sweet way Evan had handled her.

Evan was good at handling things, she had discovered. Anything from a paint roller to a lively conversation about science fiction with Martin, who usually couldn’t be coerced into saying two words.

She forced her gaze back to the ingredients she’d arranged on the counter. The microwave dinged, signaling the milk was ready. She used the tip of her finger to test the temperature, and finding it warm, took out the bowl and added the melted butter. Once it was well mixed, she whipped in the egg yolks, which would give the bread its beautiful buttery color. The yeast was proofing nicely nearby, bubbling and frothing in a small bowl.

Grandma Kemstead used industrial mixers at the bakery, but she’d told Margie she used a simple hand mixer at home. While Margie had tried that once, she’d settled on using her bread machine. Easier all around.

One of Grandma Kemstead’s secrets was to let the dough rise twice. Not all bakers bothered with it, but the older woman had made a zealous defense. Margie had tried it both ways and concluded she was right. It
did
make a difference.

After adding the flour, a dash of salt, and the sugar to the bread machine’s Teflon pan, Margie poured the milk mixture and yeast over the dry ingredients. The machine beeped when she activated the dough cycle, then erupted with a few loud swoops as it began to mix. Unfortunately, her bread machine was of the loud variety. She waited to see if she needed to add more flour, and once she was satisfied with the consistency, she closed the lid.

With that done, Margie put together the ingredients that would turn into the gooey caramel sauce. It was a simple mixture of cream, sugar, cinnamon, and corn syrup. Grandma Kemstead said the cinnamon rolls turned out better when she poured the mixture on the risen rolls when the sauce was room temperature.

The pungent and alluring scent of cinnamon hit her nose, and she closed her eyes for a moment. Cinnamon now smelled like success to her. Her success. She dabbed some behind her ears for luck.

Tonight she would find out how close she was to achieving one of her major goals for the bakery. Her guests would each bring something special to the tasting. First, there was Control Group A: the Dare Valley born locals. All of them had been eating the famous Kemstead cinnamon rolls for their entire lives, and Arthur Hale alone had nearly seventy years of experience. Jill would also bring her background in the food and hotel industry in Dare Valley to the table, so to speak, and her husband Brian was an accomplished, traditionally trained chef who could offer a more technical perspective on her pièce de résistance, as the French said.

Then there was Control Group B: Dare Valley newcomers. This group included Chef Terrance Waters from The Grand Mountain Hotel, whom Jill had put her up to asking. She’d also invited his fiancé, Elizabeth Saunders—the teacher of the Latin dance class she loved taking but hadn’t found time for lately. Then there was Evan, the late addition. This way there would be an even number in both groups.

A little breathless from thinking about it, she glanced up when the bread machine finished its first kneading cycle and opened the lid. Sure enough, there was a gorgeous ball tucked into the bottom, anchored by the kneading ring. She touched the yellow dough to confirm it was spongy, closed the lid again, and left the kitchen to prepare the dining room for the tasting. Evan had promised to help her clean up after everyone left, to which she’d easily agreed. Being in his company sometimes felt just as magical as baking that first loaf of bread in the morning.

When the bread machine turned on sixty minutes later and started the second knead cycle, Margie already had the table set. She’d chosen to use small dessert plates in a green and gold pattern she’d found at a consignment shop. Chunky blue candles were fitted into crystal candle holders. The silverware sparkled under the light. The water glasses didn’t have a single errant drop on their exteriors. The room was warm and inviting, and after she finished checking on the bread—rising for the second time—she took a moment to stretch and think through her plan for the evening. She planned to serve room-temperature cinnamon rolls as well as ones straight out of the oven.

Grandma Kemstead had stopped by a few hours ago to drop off the rolls Margie would serve with her own room-temperature batch for the taste test, but she’d declined to stay for the tasting. With her hands on Margie’s shoulders, the older woman said the mantle was now on her. She got a little teary eyed every time she thought about it.

Then she opened a bottle of red wine, inhaling deeply before she poured herself a glass. Out loud, she said, “Here’s to me and all my cinnamony awesomeness for following my dreams.”

“I’ll drink to that,” a familiar voice said, causing her to jump and the wine to slosh around in her glass like ocean water in a powerful storm.

“Evan! You startled me.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Now I’m embarrassed. You heard my toast.”

His mouth tipped up in that killer smile of his. “Cinnamony awesomeness? That has to be the best toast I have ever heard.” He had one hand tucked around his back like he was hiding something, and then he swung around a huge bouquet of flowers and presented them to her with a courtly bow.

“You got me flowers?” she asked, taking the mixed bouquet of pink roses and lime-green hydrangeas from him. No one had gotten her flowers since Howie.

“It’s a big day for you,” he said simply.

She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Thank you. That’s…you’re going to make me cry.” The heat in her cheeks felt like she’d stuck her face in the oven. “Care to join me for a glass of wine?”

“I’d love to. You deserve to be celebrated.”

She set the flowers aside as the flush rose again, but this time, it lodged between her breasts. Suddenly she could imagine him
celebrating
her and how good he would be at it. To veil her gaze, which only wanted to take in the strong lines of his muscular shoulders and chest, she reached into the cabinet for another wine glass and poured him some of the spicy ruby liquid.

When they lifted their glasses in the air, he said, “To Margie’s cinnamony awesomeness and all the success she’s going to have with Hot Cross Buns.”

Hearing his deep voice say the words made her chest tight. In a good way. “Thanks, Evan. I’m really grateful you’re here.”

He nodded, and they drank in silence for a long moment. The bread machine dinged, signaling the conclusion of the second rising. She opened the lid and liked what she saw. There were small bubbles around the top and sides, and the dough bounced when she touched it.

“One of the things I love about bread is how alive it is.”

Evan peered over her shoulder, and she fought a shiver as his subtle scent washed over her. There was pine from his soap with a touch of turpentine from cleaning the rollers and brushes. The fragrance was all man to her nose. Having grown up around wealthy men who wore expensive cologne as a nod to their masculine power, she preferred ones who smelled like they worked for a living. She’d loved the smell of sawdust on Howie, but she had to admit there was something tantalizing about turpentine.

“Of course, it’s alive. I think it’s cool that yeast is a single-celled organism, and yet its cellular organization is similar to ours.”

“I didn’t know that.” She loved all the little unexpected things he knew. Part of her wanted to step back until his arms were around her. She’d bet he knew how to hold a woman close—but with gentleness. “I think it’s cool that with bread, what you want is the carbon dioxide, whereas when you use yeast for wine, you want the alcohol.”