The Billionaire’s Bun In Her Oven - Ellie Rowe Page 0,16

myself the orgasm I never got in my dreams. As the steaming water sluices down my body, I try to let my thoughts run away with them down the drain.

Except, she creeps back into my mind as I’m making breakfast.

Per usual these days, it’s a smoothie with various fruits and vegetables, plus some protein and immunity powders. I don’t have time to cook breakfast these days. Considering that the camera adds ten pounds – it sounds cliché, but I discovered in season one that it’s true – I also can’t afford the fat and calories of something eggy, cheesy and really satisfying.

As I chug the smoothie though, my mind considers the breakfast I’d cook for Cynthia, were she here. It’s been so long since I cooked for another person, let alone a woman I was into. Hell, I barely even cook for myself anymore.

You see, I like to call my food ‘digestible art’. The actual cooking is only half the joy of being a chef. The other is watching someone derive pleasure from your culinary masterpiece. When it’s someone you’re excited about, it’s even more thrilling to cook something for them to enjoy.

I imagine Cynthia sitting on a stool by my kitchen counter, naked except for my shirt, hair still ruffled from our night-time escapade. She would watch me over a giant coffee mug as I melt the butter, crack the eggs, prep the toast and toppings. I imagine the tension of hoping she thinks my food is as good as what she serves in her restaurant.

I continue imagining, plating the epic breakfast sandwich I’d make for her. I picture her taking her first big bite, a little bit of egg yolk running down her chin…

And, suddenly I’m aroused again.

Fifteen minutes later, having come for the second time that morning, I finally have a clear head.

Clearly, I’m not going to get this woman off my mind. Might as well give in to that fact, which means I need to track her down.

Why the hell didn’t I get her phone number last night? When we said goodbye, we were both affecting a casual indifference.

Was it casual for her?

Then why is it not casual for me? I need to see her again. That’s the only thing that’s clear to me.

I suppose I could call the restaurant. It’s doubtful someone will be there in the morning, but presumably, they’ll still check their messages?

I immediately scratch that idea though. I don’t want gossip among her employees. The only thing that gets around a waitstaff faster than cocaine and the clap is gossip.

Thankfully, a better idea quickly occurs to me. I grab my phone and make a call.

Thirteen

Cynthia

My phone is still buzzing as I speed down the highway. I always hate people who text and drive, but my sick curiosity keeps wanting to check the horrible news. I woke up this morning with surprisingly no regrets.

Well, none except for trying to turn my dreams into reality of course.

My night with Stephen was… amazing. I hope he doesn’t think too poorly of me. Not only do I apparently allow rats inside my restaurant, I let people fuck on my bar. Not just any people, I correct myself, me.

I fuck on my own bar.

I sigh and toss my phone into the back seat to avoid temptation. Along with my restaurant, do I even own a bar anymore? While I woke up with zero regrets about fucking Stephen Longvale, with the awakening came a nasty article from the New York Times and a slew of press asking for statements.

I hate to admit it, but, fearing utter ruination, I’m running home with my tail between my legs. As much as I secretly hoped to see Stephen again (for business reasons, of course) it just wasn’t worth failing at another dream. Though I guess Stephen is more like a fantasy. Triple X.

Honestly, replaying all the best parts of last night may be my only solace from the whole opening; certainly from having to stay with my parents again. I groan at the thought. When I called my father this morning to let him know I was coming back, I heard my mother pestering him in the background.

This is not going to be pretty.

I take the exit and try to take comfort in the familiar sights. God, were they right? Do I really belong out here and not living my dreams in New York?

If anyone had told me yesterday I would be asking myself that question, I would have punched them