The Way to a Billionaire's Heart: Part One: BWWM Interracial Romance (2 page)

BOOK: The Way to a Billionaire's Heart: Part One: BWWM Interracial Romance
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Chapter Two

When I came back five hours later, I’d almost forgotten the odd interaction with Walker Alexander. His mother’s personality had been so big she’d filled my thoughts as I’d tried to come up with more things to wow her. Surely it would be hard to impress a woman who’d been eating at the finest restaurants in the city for so long.

But my thoughts went back to the son when I saw, on the counter, a box with a ribbon on it. My name was written on a card. The weird weak-knees thing returned as I opened the envelope and slipped it out.

Andrea–please use this while you’re here and then take it home with my compliments. You really impressed Mother.

Inside the box was a six quart All-Clad saute pan. I’m sure a $175 pan was no big deal to him, but I’d wanted one of these for years. Still, it felt excessive. I could just use it for three days and then tuck it behind the Baccarat with the blender jars. Right?

I focused on my work and tried to put him out of my mind. When I texted Kiera about it, she’d said “He’s into you. He google-stalked you. Go git dat.” But it just seemed really far-fetched. This was an Old Money house, full of antiques and oil portraits of white folk in fussy clothes. And, like I said, I don’t have time. I have to focus on my career right now. And not on those incredible eyes. Greenish gold, who’s ever had eyes like that?

I was pulling the strands out of a spaghetti squash when Walker came into the kitchen holding a bottle of wine.

“Sauternes!” he said, holding it up as proudly as if he’d stomped on the grapes himself.

I had no idea what he was talking about and just gave my head a shake, smiling in spite of myself.

“Sauternes, the kind of wine that goes in that glass that broke this morning.” His crooked grin assured me that he wasn’t trying to rub my nose in it. “You said you’d never heard of it, so I brought some. It wasn’t easy to find, I don’t think anyone drinks it any more. I never keep it in my cellar.”

It took me a moment to realize he meant his
wine
cellar and not his dirt floor basement.

“It’s best pretty cold, so I’ll put it in the freezer. After you take up Mother’s tray, will you join me for a glass?”

“Um, sure,” I said. “Just the one, though, I drove here,” I hesitated, unsure whether I should really let my next impulse out of my mouth. Pride and, well, plain old attraction won out. “I’ll have extra food, would you like some?”

His grin widened. “I was hoping you’d say that. Mother was raving about your cooking, so I figured showing up around meal time was my best bet.”

“And buttering me up with that saute pan,” I pointed to the stove where it held caramelizing onions.

“I’m so transparent.” He inhaled deeply. “This house has never smelled so good and we had some talented cooks when I was a kid.”

“They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but the way to a chef’s heart is through her ears,” I said, immediately worrying that I’d made it sound like I was trying to get to his heart. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” I added, hoping to clear up any misunderstanding.

But of course, I’d just dug in deeper.

“Everywhere?”
he asked waggling his eyebrows at me.

“You watch yourself, mister,” I said, pointing my fork at him and smiling. Really, deflecting advances with charm is just a part of being a young woman in the service industry.“It’s unseemly to flirt with the help.”

“If I did it anyway,” he said, watching me intently, “would the help flirt back?”

Hoo-boy. I was utterly at a loss. I couldn’t deny I was attracted to him. I mean, I had eyes. This man was
fine
. But, you know, career, stay focused, blah-blah-blah. He was
fine
.

"If the help flirts back, wouldn’t you just worry that they
have
to? Because you sign the checks?" I realized I was standing with my hip cocked and my head tilted so I could look up at him from under my lashes. Shameless.

“Hm. I think it might be worth the uncertainty. I can live with that.”

He had somehow come closer without my seeing him move. He was looking down at me now, close enough that I could easily have run my hand up that tailored cotton shirt to feel the muscles underneath it. Close enough that I could feel the heat from his body.

The oven timer went off, breaking the spell. I cleared my throat, hoping it would clear my head. “Roasted tomatoes,” I said, turning. Walker retreated to the other side of the breakfast bar and sat on a stool.

“Mind if I watch you work your magic?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said, suddenly a frenzy of activity. What kind of magic was
he
working? It was like if he was within five feet of me, I couldn’t remember who I was. I needed a restraining order.

I fixed the plates for Mrs. Alexander and took them upstairs.

“Did I hear Walker come in?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am, he’s downstairs. I promised I’d feed him, too.”

She fixed me with one of her looks again and then seemed to soften a bit. “Good, he could use it, he works too hard.” She looked at the plate. “Any avocado in here?”

“No, ma’am. You’ve got shredded pork on a bed of spaghetti squash with caramelized onions, kale, and roasted potatoes. Side of sauteed apples, new in the market this week.” I smiled, “September is the best month for fresh food!”

She gave me a look that made it clear she did not give a fig about what was fresh when. “Go on back and see to my son,” she said, but she was tucking into her food before I even left the room.

When I came back into the kitchen, Walker had poured some of the rich golden wine into a pair of narrow goblets.

“Ordinarily, it’s more of a dessert wine or paired with appetizers, but since you insist on having only one glass, we can have it with dinner.” He handed me a glass and lifted his. “To new friendships!” His eyes were locked on mine in a way that really infused “friend” with heavier meaning. I dropped my lashes and sipped from the glass.

“Wow, it’s sweet. But nice, I like it. I do think I want it with food, though, it feels like it will go straight to my head if I don’t.”

“I think that that would be okay,” Walker said, giving me this smoldering look. These Alexanders know how to use their eyes.

I pretended not to have heard him and plated some food for us. I’d like to say it was to avoid flirting, but I know that feeding a man can be as effective as unbuttoning the top buttons of your blouse.

“This is amazing. And it’s all local?” Walker asked between bites.

“Mostly. This time of year is great, it’s so easy to eat good food.”

He put down his fork at last and chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “What makes you passionate about your food?” He made it sound so sexy, like I was making bikinis out of whipped cream or something. The truth wasn’t all that sexy, though.

“My mom. She wanted to go to culinary school, but got pregnant with me before she could go. Then she had to work instead. But she always made sure we had good food, as fresh as she could get it on our budget. We were broke, but we ate well. I’d see other people around us with health problems partly caused by their diets. It takes a lot more work to eat healthy on a budget and most people don’t even know how. So I want to make enough money that I can open my own cooking school for poor folk. Go back to Anacostia and help people break out of their ramen noodles and snack cake diets.”

Walker flinched visibly. “Ouch.”

“What?”

He cocked his head to one side, “Don’t you know who I am?”

“Um, I thought so? But clearly ‘Walker Alexander’ should mean more to me.”

He laughed. “I guess you didn’t read that 30 Under 30 Article.”

Oops. I grinned sheepishly. “Just the part about me.”

“Fair enough. I was technically 30 by the time it came out, but they put me in there, too. CEO of Rossi Brands, Inc, Heir to the Tiny Tina Snack Cake fortune? If you’d have come to the gala, you’d have met me.”

I’m afraid a recoiled a bit. Those Tiny Tina Cakes are nasty. Mostly artificial ingredients and priced so low they’re nearly irresistible. Of course, in school, it felt like everyone had them in their lunchboxes except my brother and I. Man, I wanted Mama to buy Oatmeal Fudge Pies so bad, but she said they were poison and for that dollar, we could have two pounds of pinto beans. Not what a kid wants to hear of course, but she was right.

“You don’t approve,” said Walker. I couldn’t bring myself to meet his gaze.

“Uh, no, not really. I think Tiny Tina cakes are, um,”
don’t say poison
, “not part of a healthy diet.” My voice sounded tight. I forced myself to lighten up a little and waved my hand around the room. “Clearly it’s done okay for you though,” I smiled, but I knew it probably looked more like a grimace.

“It has. But I happen to agree with you, mostly. While I think a healthy diet can include…rewards, I would like to find a way to both make our current snack cakes a little less, um, objectionable to some and to launch a healthier snack line.”

I picked up our plates and rinsed them in the sink. “Mmm,” I said, making the same non-committal noise my mother used to make whenever David or I carried on about some teacher treating us unfairly or some notion we had for better dividing our bedroom.

“That’s why I sought you out to cook for Mother, Andrea. I was hoping you could help.”

I turned to look at him, “What do you mean?”

Rising to come stand closer to me–I think he must have known he had a physical effect on my ability to think–he said, “Help me develop the new line. You make healthy and delicious food every day.”

It was hard to keep my thoughts straight with him so near. The desire to jump at a chance to spend more time around him was at war with what I knew to be true. “But there’s no way to make fresh, local food in a factory.”

Walker smiled. “I think you can help us figure out how to come close.”

He was watching me so intently. I wished I’d read that article in the paper so I’d know anything at all about him. “Looks like a movie star” isn’t enough to go on. I sat back down in the kitchen chair to give myself at least a little space. “Why me?” I asked him. “There are lots of chefs with chemistry degrees and chemists who like to cook. Why me?”

Drinking the last of his wine and refilling the glass, he paused. When he looked up at me, there was mischief in his eyes. My mom would have said “I see the devil in you, boy.”

“It’s pretty shallow. I saw your photo and wanted an excuse to meet you. So I researched a bit and could see that you have big dreams. Dreams it will be hard to achieve just by cooking for invalids and busy families.”

“So… you thought I was hot and then figured out what you could offer me to draw me in? Selling yourself a little short, aren’t you?”

He laughed. “Oh I know how to catch women using looks and money. Believe me.” His voice sobered up and he gave me that soul-searching Alexander look. “But there was something about your photo that really grabbed me. And when I started reading about you, it just made it clear that I needed to meet you.” He sat back down, too, and smiled, releasing me from that laser-stare. “But even I know looks are deceiving and the internet is full of lies, so when Mother needed a chef for a few days, I thought it would be a good chance to…”

“Audition me?”

“Yes, perfect!” He was so relaxed, so at ease with the idea that he could just see a thing–in this case a person (and in this case, me)–decide he wants it, and find a way to get it. No doubt at all that it would work. It was definitely a perk of being born rich and powerful.

“Really,” he added, “Mother needs a chef for a full week, but I thought I’d be sure you could get along with her first.”

“That’s flattering, but I can’t. I’m going on a trip with my best friend. We leave on Friday.”

He stopped grinning, but the smile didn’t leave his eyes. “Oh, somewhere fun?”

“Aruba.” I stifled my impulse to add “She’s a lawyer, she’s paying.” I could never have afforded a vacation if Kiera wasn’t funding it, but I didn’t need to tell Walker that. No need to appear utterly destitute and at his mercy.

“Good for you, but too bad for me. I was hoping to perfect my help-flirting technique. You know, get in shape for the Christmas party season.” He grinned that devilish grin. “I do want to talk to you some more about my business idea, though. Could you meet with me when you get back?”

“Sure,” I said. I mean, what could it hurt, right? It has nothing at all to do with making sure I get to see those green eyes again.

Walker lifted the bottle of Sauternes my way. “Are you sure you won’t have another?”

“No, I need to tidy up and go. I have another family to cook for tomorrow morning before I come make your mother’s lunch.”

“Okay, as much as I’d like to detain you, I suppose I should be off as well. I’ll go up and say goodnight to Mother. I have to be on-site tomorrow, so I may not see you until Thursday.”

He seemed genuinely disappointed. And, I had to admit, I was too. It wouldn’t be quite as fun tomorrow, without that schoolgirl anticipation, that wondering if he’s going to turn up.

“Well, good night, Andrea,” Walker grasped my upper arm and leaned in for a kiss on the cheek. It was one of those weird semi-European air-kiss things, but at the last moment, he made sure his lips just brushed my cheek. A jolt of electricity ran through my body. A jagged line of light from that cheek to my toes, lighting up all the dirty parts on the way. Embarrassing.

I didn’t trust myself to really talk, so I just smiled and gave a nod and said, “Night.” I did look up to watch him go, though. That ass was fine.

Chapter Three

Cooking for the Weavers ran long, so I was feeling rushed and cranky by the time I got to Christina Alexander’s townhouse. Parking, as always, was a nightmare, and I ended up carrying bags of groceries two blocks in the hot September sun. I was suddenly glad that there was no chance of Walker being around, I knew I looked frazzled. When it’s humid, there is nothing I can do with my hair but pull it into a ponytail and even then, I ended up with a mane of little fuzzies around my face.

BOOK: The Way to a Billionaire's Heart: Part One: BWWM Interracial Romance
5.16Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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