Sebastian: A Clean Billionaire Romance Read online

  It’ll take most of the day, but it’ll be worth it to see so many happy faces when I give them the cake or dessert of their dreams. That’s what this is all about; making people smile with something that I’ve made with my own hands.

  Still, sometimes I do wonder if it would be easier if I just hired a ton more people, kicked up my heels, and watched as Holly Cakes flourishes. That’s what Bob says every time he calls. Hadn’t I worked hard enough already? Wasn’t I ready to pass on the baton?

  It’s taken eight years to get where I am today. I started when I was sixteen, selling cookies at the local flea market. As the years passed, I opened up an online store, visited local restaurants and peddled my goods, and even traveled to the local nursing homes and grocery stores to try and catch people hankering for a treat.

  I didn’t get a real storefront until two years back. Business was slow but steady for a while and I continued to bust my sticky buns slaving over sugar cookies and homemade pie crusts until The New York Times article came out a few months ago. I hadn’t even known I’d been reviewed until I showed up to open the bakery one morning and found a line halfway down the block. Everyone wanted a taste.

  Holly Cakes has been slammed ever since, but I haven’t hired a single new person.

  This bakery means the world to me and I don’t want to take away what makes it special, and that’s . . . well, that’s me. I don’t want anyone to come into my bakery and wonder just who Holly might be. I want to be the one to greet them, to shake their hand, to get to know them.

  That’s why I'm the one who makes the deliveries and I'm the one who answers the phone. Bob keeps warning me that if I procrastinate, my time in the limelight will be over before I know it. I'm enjoying my fifteen minutes of fame now, but it will soon come to an end. The celebrities will move on to the next cult crush on the block and the masses will follow.

  However, if there’s one thing I listen to more than anything else, it’s my own intuition, and my intuition tells me that I'm going to be just fine because I treat my customers right.

  Right, Mom? I add, glancing toward the ceiling as though I could gaze right through the concrete block to the swirling white clouds above to see her gentle smile peering down.

  Has it really been three whole years since I lost her?

  My heart throbs in my chest, my palm pressing above it to ease the sharp pain. Three whole years and it still hurts as bad as it did that day.

  My assistant leans over, thrusting a tin of fresh baked oatmeal raisin cookies into my hands, successfully yanking me out from my own head.

  “These are ready for the fridge!” she beams.

  I nod absently, glancing at the long line of customers waiting at the register. While a few are here to grab a cookie or muffin a la carte, quite a few of them are eagerly waiting to pick up their finished orders, most of which had been placed weeks ago.

  All of a sudden, the line begins to move, surging and swaying as the people are forcefully parted. A dark-haired figure appears in front of the register, shooting a scowl at the first person in line until they step plaintively aside. The man, dressed in a pressed ebony suit that matches his dark locks, looks vaguely familiar—and not just because he looks like he could’ve stepped right out of a Calvin Klein ad. There’s something about his stern, downturned eyes and hard mouth that jostle something in my memory.

  “I'm sorry sir, but you’ll have to wait in line,” I say with a frown, gesturing toward the people who he’s displaced from the line.

  “I'm Sebastian Titus,” he interrupts, pressing one palm forcefully onto the counter and leaning between myself and the people waiting, “and I need those cupcakes I tried to order over the phone before you hung up on me.”

  Chapter 3

  Sebastian

  The woman’s emerald eyes abruptly narrow on mine, one hand setting firmly on her hip while the other drops a tin of cookies onto the counter before her. She takes a step forward, leaning toward me in a mirror movement of my own authoritative stance.

  “So, that was really you on the phone earlier?” she asks, though it’s clear from her furrowed brow that she already knows the answer.

  I give an exasperated sigh and nod my head a single time. It’s about time she realizes that she was wrong in assuming that I was not who I said I was.

  “Huh . . . My gut is usually right about things like that,” she says. “Sorry, Sebastian. I'm Holly, even though you already know that I suppose.”

  Waving away her apology, I shake my head. “Can I put in my order now?”

  “Absolutely not. You can either wait in line to put your order in like everyone else or give me another call. But like I told you, it won’t be ready today. We have a waiting list,” she replies curtly, throwing her unraveling braid over her shoulder and shooting a sickly-sweet smile at the man behind me. “But what about you, how can I help you today? Are you picking up?”

  The man glances at me, then Holly, then back to me, like he’s afraid of speaking over me. I shoot him a withering look that keeps him firmly in place behind me. By the time I look back at the baker, her smile is gone and an unpleasant glower has taken over instead.

  “You’re a real piece of work, Sebastian Titus, you know that?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “First you call me and demand that I make you cupcakes despite the fact that my waiting list is a mile long. Then you show up and shove all my loyal customers out of the way? You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

  I glower right back at her, pressing both palms into the counter now. If she wants to play ball, I'll play ball. “I do have a lot of nerve. And I've also got a lot of money, so name your price. You want to double the cost of the cupcakes? Triple?”

  I whip out my wallet, thumbing through the hundreds that are gathering dust inside. I use my black credit card almost exclusively now, but always have some cash on me. I keep one eye on her as I count the bills, willing to pay off her damn mortgage for Clara’s cupcakes if I must. My baby sister needs cupcakes, and she’s going to get them.

  “Put the cash away, that’s not going to get you what you want here,” she sputters, blinking dazed eyes at me and shaking her head.

  The rest of her small staff has slowly congregated behind her, staring at me with wide eyes.

  “Please get back to work,” she rebukes gently, frowning at them.

  Her staff returns to their stations, but they’re listening with interest now.

  “If money won’t get me what I want, then what will? It’s my sister’s rehearsal dinner tonight so I’ve got no choice, I can’t leave here without these cupcakes. She needs them to make her wedding perfect and I’m going to get them for her one way or another.”

  The woman sighs. “Then you should’ve called in the order weeks ago.” She bites her lower lip, eyeing me. “You don’t strike me as the type of guy to go through all this trouble for his sister. That’s actually kind of sweet.”

  Sweet? I can be sweet if that’s what it takes to get these damn cupcakes. “Well, I’d do anything for her. She’s my baby sister.”

  The woman softens. I’m winning her over. Her eyes narrow as she scrutinizes me. “If you’re lying . . .”

  “It’s not a lie,” I answer swiftly, dragging out my phone and flicking to a picture of me beside Clara on the day of her bridal shower.

  Holly’s eyes soften again. “Look, Sebastian—”

  “Bash. Everyone calls me Bash.”

  “Well look, Bash. I want to help you and your sister out. I really do, but can’t you see how busy we are? I don’t have time for another order. We close in an hour and these people are all waiting for their own pickups.”

  She can’t be telling me no. It’s impossible, inconceivable even. I can’t remember the last time anyone has rejected me. Not on a business deal, not on a request to spend the evening together, and certainly not when I’m willing to pay them for a service.

  Irritation prickles my skin, leaving a wake of goose bumps. “This is unacceptable,” I say simply, the softness of her eyes hardening again.

  “Bash, I told you that I can’t do this order. If you want those cupcakes made, you’re going to have to come behind this counter and make them yourself.”

  She whirls away from me, wiping her palms on her tight denim shorts and leaving a smear of flour behind as she addresses someone else in line behind me. “You’re Lewis Donald, aren’t you? You ordered the raspberry pie and the lemon scones? I'll get those for you.”

  When he nods she smiles and heads to the back, not even sparing me so much as a single glance. She’s clearly hoping that when she comes back, I'll have vanished into thin air.

  Unfortunately for her, I never take no for an answer.

  She comes back a moment later, stopping a few yards away as she steps out of a walk-in fridge unit to scowl at me. “Why are you still here?” she murmurs while collecting the payment from the waiting man and passing his treats back to him.

  She’s about to find out just how determined I am.

  “Are you . . . are you taking off your jacket?” she lowers her voice to a nervous hiss. “That thing probably costs more than my rent. Bash, what are you doing?”

  I drape the jacket over a nearby stool, warily eyeing the people in line and silently commanding them to steer clear of the luxurious fabric. “You said if I wanted my sister’s cupcakes that I had to come back there and make them myself, so that’s what I'm going to do.”

  She laughs. “Yeah right.”

  But when she sees I’m serious, she calls one of her staff to the register to take over for her. Holly pulls me to the side, eager to get me out of the way of her waiting patrons. “Do you even know how to bake?” she demands.

  In all honesty, I've never baked i
n my life. The closest I ever got to cooking for myself was toast, and there was a high probability that I even ruined that. The second I was making enough money, I hired a private chef, and before that I lived off takeout. I could crush a business competitor out of existence and I could wheel and deal with the devil, but put me in a kitchen and I'm completely useless.

  She sighs when I don’t answer except to grit my jaw stubbornly, her hands again finding her hips. Holly is petite, her hair crimson and her expression ever-determined. She’s the type of woman who has a fire burning in her, one that you can see churning in her eyes. I like that, though right now it’s more infuriating than anything else. Come to think of it, she may feel the same way about me right now.

  The woman simply gazes at me, her stare intense and penetrating, like she’s trying to read me. Is she waiting for me to beg? Does she want me on my knees pleading with her to allow me to make these cupcakes?

  Like hell that would happen, even for Clara. I am not a man who begs, but then again, I am also not a man who volunteers to bake. I can only hope this stalemate ends before it gets even more bizarre.

  “Fine,” she says abruptly, throwing defeated hands in the air. “But only this one time and only because you’re going to pay three times the cost—”

  “Even though I'm the one baking them?” I interject with a frown.

  “Yes. You’re a liability in my kitchen and also, you’re absolutely the rudest man I've ever met. One more complaint and I'll jack the price up even more!” she adds, a smirk now curling the corners of her full lips. “Though . . . if you behave, maybe I'll give you the nice big brother discount.”

  I keep my lips deliberately pressed together, though I can feel my brows knotting hard over my strong nose.

  “Fine,” I grunt, reminding myself that this is all for my sister.

  “Come here, let’s get to work.”

  “You’re helping me?” I ask, surprised.

  I'd been expecting her to just point me to a countertop and let me go at it, if only to watch me fail.

  Holly steps to the side, fishing an apron out of a bottom drawer and holding it out to me. It’s a pink gingham print, matching the ones that the rest of her staff wears. I glance around the shop, frowning when I realize I’m about to match the drapes.

  “Like I said, you’re a liability,” she smirks, thrusting the apron closer to me when I hesitate. “You don’t want to get your clothes all filthy, do you? Don’t you have a rehearsal dinner to get to after this?”

  With a groan, I tie the apron around my waist and take my place beside her. She leans over the counter top, arranging bowls and ingredients before us.

  “Now we’re going to have to keep this simple because we’re on a tight schedule here. What’s your sister’s favorite type of cupcake? And what about the groom?”

  I huff a laugh. “The two of them are like night and day. She likes chocolate, he likes vanilla. She likes big and bold, he likes subtle and sweet. They’re not even having a wedding cake because they couldn’t agree. They’re having an ice cream bar instead.”

  Holly wets her lips, the tip of her tongue thoughtfully tracing the curve of her upper lip. I find myself staring, my throat going tight. Her white blouse clings to the supple curves of her body, the straps of her bright pink bra peeking through. Her shorts are so tiny that they might as well not even be there. Hell, if she were to bend over even an inch, I’d have a perfect view of everything the denim is hiding. Despite being high-strung, the girl is sexy as hell.

  “Are you listening?” she asks abruptly, waving a whisk in front of me.

  I swipe at my eyes, shaking my head to clear the naughty thoughts nipping at the back of my mind. Now was not the time for that. Now was for baking—that’s a thought I never thought I'd have.

  “The bakery’s specialty is lavender cupcakes. Lavender is unique, but delicate. I think the groom will appreciate that. We’ll jazz it up with a tart lemon icing and I think you’ve got a winner for the two of them. Sound good?”

  “Sure,” I murmur, my eyes tracing her body again as she leans over the table, dumping a few ingredients into a bowl.

  She might be infuriatingly bossy, but she has the most beautiful body I've ever seen in my life. When she straightens, she meets my eyes and arches an eyebrow.

  “Well?” she muses, “Get to work.”

  Chapter 4

  Holly

  “You’re actually doing pretty well for your first time,” I admit in surprise, watching him clumsily grip the metal mixing bowl as he whisked the lavender batter.

  In his perfectly tailored slacks, polished shoes now dotted with flour, he looks so out of place here that everyone is staring curiously toward us.

  Hell, maybe this would be an interesting way to make some extra money on the side.

  I could offer personalized baking lessons.

  Maybe this isn’t a total waste of time after all. I still don’t know why I agreed to let the billionaire in my kitchen, though it was probably a combination of his striking looks and his sweet-faced sister. I’m a sucker for a kind big brother. I’d always wished I had one.

  Bash gives a grunt as he mixes, the noise a husky rumble in the back of his throat that makes me shiver. I could’ve gotten him the stand mixer, of course, but what fun would that be?

  “Don’t look so surprised. I’m good at everything I do,” he remarks, inspecting the batter once more before setting the bowl back down. “Otherwise it’s not worth doing.”

  Somehow, I manage not to comment on his lack of modesty. Clearly it’s not one of the billionaire’s strongest traits. It was easy to remember now where I'd seen his face—everywhere.

  He was on billboards, commercials, interviews, magazines. He boasted a top ‘thirty under thirty’ role in the business magazine I had on my kitchen table.

  Though I knew he lived in the city I never expected to meet him in person. His personality, on the other hand, was just what I expected. A handsome, established, wealthy man, he had an air of superiority and a dazzling grin that could melt steel. I, however, will not be melted. Money is no substitute for manners.

  The scent of dried lavender blooms between us. It’s a delicate herb, requiring a gentle hand. A pinch too much and the entire cake will taste like soap. Fortunately for Bash’s little sister, I have this recipe down pat.

  Bash looks at his thumb, scrutinizing the glob of batter clinging to the soft skin. Though I expect him to smear it away in disdain, he pops it between his lips for a quick taste.

  “Where’d you learn this?” he asks, eyebrows lifting just slightly in surprise. “I've never heard of such a thing before. When I think of lavender, I think of my grandmother’s potpourri dish. This tastes amazing though. Clara’s going to love it. Graham will too.”

  “My mom,” I shrug. “She was always experimenting. That’s why we have cherry Coke cookies and strawberry lemonade pie.”

  “She sounds creative,” he answers simply, in a way that tells me that must be quite the compliment coming from a man of Bash’s position.

  I arch an eyebrow, watching him dole out the cupcake liners. I'd chosen ones with a simple lace print that will flatter any tablecloth at the rehearsal dinner. Usually, I select them much more carefully, but these would have to do on short notice. Bash’s dark hair hangs in his eyes as he moves, a smear of batter on his cheek that he doesn’t notice. His eyes are focused and calm, his lower lip captured beneath his white front teeth as he concentrates.

  Say what you will about Bash’s haughty demeanor, the man is sexier than anyone I'd ever met—and I'd had Henry Cavill stroll into my bakery last month for some double chocolate cookies.

  I find myself fascinated by the batter on Bash’s cheek, imagining what it might taste like if I lean in a little closer and lick it off.