Chapter 8: The Renegade Billionaire: Chapter 8

I’m standing in front of the mirror in the upstairs bathroom with a towel wrapped around my head and another around my body when a loud knock startles me enough that I stub my toe on the lower cabinet.

Dang, that hurts.

“Madison?”

My heart rate accelerates, but I ignore it. The longer he’s here, the harder it is to do though. Steeling myself, I open the door a crack and peek outside to find Braxton standing in the hallway with his hands in his hair, crap all over his T-shirt that clings to his sculpted muscles like a second skin, and sweatpants that ride dangerously low on his hips.

Come on, Braxton. I’m not going to survive sweatpants season.

Thankfully, I’m an adult and I’m able to keep my focus on his troubled expression that has worry lines forming between his brows.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Ah, Pops and I tried to help.” He fidgets nervously, and my stomach plummets. Pops means well, he always has, but it also always ends in disaster.

I open the door more, and his eyes flash with amber heat before he stares at the ceiling.

“Help with what?” I sniff the air, but I don’t smell fire or hear Pops shouting in agony, so it can’t be too bad.

But when Braxton winces, I feel the blood drain from my head.

“We thought we’d make you breakfast for a change.”

“Braxton, I don’t know if you’re aware, but A, you’re a guest here, and B, my grandmother forbade my grandfather from even making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on his own over fifty years ago.”

This time, his entire body flinches.

Stepping back, I shut the door and hurry into my robe, then meet him in the hallway. He’s only been here a couple of weeks, and already he fits into the fabric of our daily lives.

“What did you do?” I ask, as we practically run down the stairs.

“You might ban me from your kitchen too.”

This has me stopping short and him barreling into my back. His hands drop to my hips to keep me from falling forward, and even though there’s a thick layer of terrycloth between his skin and mine, my body tingles where he squeezes before he steps back and releases me.

“I’m sorry.” He sounds truly defeated. “I was following the recipe, but Pops had a different tactic and, well, it’s best if you just see for yourself.”

Biting my tongue, I push through the kitchen door, for once not hearing the squeaky hinges because what’s before me is something straight out of a prank show.

“What is that?” My hand shakes as I point to the giant blob pushing the oven door open. Yes, a blob. Every square inch of the inside is filled with a bright yellow goo.

“I wanted them fluffy.” Pops frowns and stares at the floor—as petulant as ever.

“The recipe called for a teaspoon of baking powder, but we could only find baking soda,” Braxton explains.

“And.” My tone is sharp as I move past Pops to turn off the oven.

“And now Google is telling me that baking soda mixed with lemon juice might cause a reaction.”

Using my pointer fingers, I press hard circles into my temples and count to ten.

“And I wanted them fluffy.” This time Pops doubles down on his words by crossing his arms.

“What did you do?” Remain calm, Madi. Remain calm.

“I dumped the box in.” Pops kicks at the floor with the toe of his boot. Is this what Grams dealt with for all those years, or is old age making him more stubborn?

“An entire box of baking soda?”

“And lemon juice,” he mutters. “I like lemon.”

I count silently in my head until I’m sure I can control my tone. “Okay, what was it supposed to be?”

Braxton hands me his phone, and I read through the recipe for a lemon breakfast soufflé.

“We thought if we doubled it, we’d have leftovers for tomorrow. But then doubling it didn’t really work out, so we doubled it again.” Braxton is freaking out. His voice pitches higher each time he speaks, and he’s pacing the small space behind me.

Rubbing my temples, I nod. “Okay, new rule. No one is to make a soufflé in this kitchen ever again.”

“Of course. How can I clean this up? It just keeps…growing.” The man’s eyes are practically bugging out of his head as he surveys the scene before us.

“You know what would be really helpful?”

“What? I’ll do anything,” he says in a rush. “I feel terrible. I was trying to help because you’ve been working so late and this…this is the exact opposite of helping.”

“I appreciate that, I do. Pops is…creative. So, if you could take him over to the diner for breakfast, I’ll get this cleaned up and then hopefully I won’t be late getting to the Chugaloo.”

“Sure. Yeah, I can do that.” He’s rubbing his knuckles along his chest, and I almost feel bad for him.

“Thank you. Pops, behave yourself.”

Pops kisses my cheek and walks with a swagger I haven’t seen in a very long time.

Braxton leans close when Pops is out of earshot. “I truly am sorry about this.”

“I know. A little word of caution, though. Pops means well, but trouble follows him around when he’s left to his own devices. It always has. I have no idea how Grams kept him in check for so many years. But please, keep that in mind if he tricks you into any other…excursions, okay?”

Braxton nods aggressively while tugging on the back of his neck. “Yeah, shit. I feel like a complete asshole. I’ll buy you a new stove if we’ve ruined this one.”

“Thank you, Braxton. That’s not necessary.” I hope. I try to keep my tone light, but he must see the despair I attempt to mask because his shoulders slump and regret is written all over his face.

“I’ll, ah, just take Pops to breakfast then. And again, I’m so sorry about”—he waves his hand around the kitchen—“all of this.”

“It’s okay, I appreciate the effort.” And I do. I don’t remember the last time a man tried to do something nice for me. I need to get out more. I match up couples on-air, for crying out loud. My own dating life should not be so disastrous.

He swallows hard, then leaves me alone with the abominable blob crawling down the oven door.

“Whoa, are you all right, Miss Madi?” Trevon asks as I push through the Chugaloo doors over an hour late.

I’m not sure if Braxton and Pops put marshmallows in their concoction, but that’s the consistency I was working with while attempting to clean out the oven this morning. After an hour, I gave up.

“Just a tough morning. It’s all good.” I give him a too-bright smile.

“Tough?” Blissy scoffs. “Betty told me your boys came into the diner this morning looking glum as roadkill.”

Telling her they’re not, well, that Braxton is not “my boy” will get me nowhere, so I ignore it.

“They were trying to be helpful.”

“Was it really overflowing so much it opened the oven door while cooking?” one of our regulars in the coworking space asks.

“It was a mess, but it’s the thought that counts. So, what did I miss here this morning?”

“Just the morning caffeine rush. You don’t have anything on the books until two.” Blissy hands me a much-needed extra-large coffee. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon hit my nose first, and my body finally relaxes. This is my idea of heaven—the perfect coffee and my little business in my quiet little town with all the people I love.

“Thanks, Blissy.”

“You’ve got it, kid. Word is your boys hit up Happi’s Hot House and filled the back of the truck with new plants.”

I press my lips together so I don’t say anything rude. Braxton promised me after dinner that first night that he wouldn’t let Pops keep spending money, and for the last couple of weeks, I think he’s kept a leash on Pops.

“Then they went to the Senior Center and played shuffleboard with some of Pops’ old friends before hitting up the high school.”

“What were they doing at the high school?”

“You got me. No idea with that one, but I heard that Pops was beaming at every stop.”

Guilt makes my palms sweaty. Pops is practically the mayor around here, but I’ve had to work so much lately so we don’t lose the inn that I haven’t been able to take him to all his favorite places. Perhaps Braxton’s stay is a blessing in disguise—if I can just get him to stop allowing Pops to spend money we don’t have.

“Okay.” I sigh. “The meditation group will be in the quiet room this afternoon, so I’m going to set it up for them. Let me know if you need anything.”

Trevon crosses the room and wraps me in a giant hug. He’s a huge teddy bear of a man who treats me and my friends like the big sisters he never had.

“You’re doing good, Miss Madi. Just remember that.”

I pat his back. “Thanks, Trevon. I’m fine, really. It was an unexpected morning, that’s all.”

He doesn’t believe me, but he goes back to his corner where he always does his homework. Happiness has been truly blessed with the best football players around—and they all have such big hearts.

Without another word to anyone, I enter the quiet room and begin moving furniture around for the class coming in later.

Once that’s finished, I check the snack order the football team placed for their mandatory study hall. Fall classes are in full swing, and Coach B. requires his boys to be in here at least ten hours a week during the season doing homework or studying plays.

By the time I sit in the back row of coworking spaces and attempt to plan my next three podcasts, I’m already exhausted—all the late nights are finally catching up with me. However, as soon as I start, I’m immediately lost in my work. I only wish it paid enough to take away my always-present financial anxiety.

Is it too much to ask for a quiet, stable life? Some people dream of exotic vacations and designer clothing, but not me. I just want to finally feel safe and at peace—it’s probably the only thing I’ve ever wanted.

An hour later, the meditation class filters out of the quiet room and gathers around Blissy’s caffeine stand. I scan the space and notice Braxton is sitting a chair away from me.

How long has he been there? There are several workspaces free, and he could’ve sat anywhere, but he chose to sit right here, close to me.

When I give him my full attention, he hands me a paper bag that smells like heaven.

“You didn’t,” I say, taking the bag and greedily inhaling the scent of cinnamon. I groan and lick my lips.

He shrugs. “Pops told me it was your favorite.”

Once the bag is open, I practically stick my entire face inside it. I would sell my kidney for Moravian sugar cakes from the Ravenels’ farm on Hickory Lane.

“Oh my God. I didn’t know they were selling these at the farm stand yet.”

“Ah.” He scratches at his chest, causing a smile to tip the corners of my lips. “Pops can be very convincing.”

“And where is my meddlesome grandfather?”

“Taking a nap. He said I wore him out.” The sheepish expression he flashes melts some of my irritation from earlier.

“I’m sorry if he’s commandeering your time. I’ll speak to him.”

“No,” he blurts, then swallows hard and looks away. “It’s okay, really. We’ve sort of worked out a schedule.”

I groan. “Please don’t feel guilty about saying no to that old man. He can take it.”

Braxton’s laughter has everyone watching us, not that they weren’t before, but now they aren’t even attempting to hide it.

“It’s fine, I promise.”

Just then, Clover and Savvy walk in and sit at my table with matching curiosity gleaming in their eyes. Braxton not only returns his attention to his laptop, but he gets up and moves a few chairs down.

Huh.

“So, tough day?” Savvy asks, drawing my attention away from my mercurial houseguest. Her expression is wily—she already knows every gory detail, probably with some embellishments thrown in too.

“You could say⁠—”

“Miss Madi! Miss Clover! Miss Savvy! Where’s Miss Elle?” Ethan barrels toward us in a way that makes me worry he won’t be able to stop. “This is too much, too, too much.”

“Ah, what’s up, Ethan?” Clover asks while simultaneously backing her chair away.

He holds up a brand-new MacBook Pro in one hand and the box in the other. “Thank you. I—I can’t accept this, but the fact that you would even think to do it—well—it means the world to me.”

The big teddy bear is tearing up, and I have no freaking clue what he’s talking about. The girls and I trade confused glances.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Ethan.” I look from him to Braxton, who’s watching us with a scowl.

Ethan pauses and looks down at the card in his hand. “It’s from the DDDs.”

The three of us share an embarrassed chuckle. “Um, but…”

“I thought the logo looked different than the one on your wine night glasses, but it’s the DDD for sure,” he says happily.

“Can I see the card, Ethan?” Savvy asks, and he hands it right over.

She places it on the table in front of us.

Dear Ethan,

The DDD wishes to congratulate you on all your accomplishments and award you with this gift. Your compassion, work ethic, and community outreach make you our DDD.

Keep up the good work.

Sincerely,

DDD

I spin the card toward me and look at the logo. There’s no mistaking the three Ds, but it’s not our font, and it’s not our signatures. Then something catches my eye, and I notice that the ring around the Ds actually says something. Pulling it closer, I read it out loud, “Discreet Daily Deeds.”

“What the heck is that?” Clover asks, snagging the card away from me.

Farther down the table, Braxton is hard at work, his fingers flying over his keyboard.

Savvy is focused on her phone. “The website says Discreet Daily Deeds is a nonprofit organization doling out daily good deeds. It was founded ten years ago, and the corporate office is in Seattle. How the hell…”

“Sorry, Ethan.” Clover leans in and whispers, “This didn’t come from The Darlings of Disastrous Dating. It came from Discreet Daily Deeds.”

Braxton’s fingers stop their frantic typing and hover over his keyboard.

“I told you it was a dumb idea to give us a club name,” I tell the girls. “We’re too old for that, and it sounds ridiculous out loud.”

“But it was the best idea we’ve ever had after three bottles of wine.” Savvy rolls her shoulders back. “I’m proud of our club.”

I drop my head onto the table in front of me.

“We’re all disasters, Madi. Don’t worry about it. Well, Elle’s not, but we couldn’t exclude her.” Clover will forever see things through Clover-colored glasses.

“Thanks, Clover.” She’s not the matchmaker who can’t find her own match though, so that probably makes me the queen of disasters by default.

“But if it wasn’t the darlings, then who, exactly, is behind the Discreet Daily Deeds?” Savvy asks with her gaze laser-focused on Braxton. Maybe she noticed him conspicuously ignoring us also.

I nudge Savvy with my foot and shake my head. “He’s been with Pops twenty-four seven.”

“Isn’t it a little strange that he was in here helping the kid tape up his computer and then a new one mysteriously appears a few weeks later?” Savvy hisses.

“Perhaps it was just his lucky day,” Braxton says from his chair. “Seems as though he could use some luck, don’t you think?”

“Braxton, did you⁠—”

“I don’t even know his last name.” He shrugs but doesn’t make eye contact with anyone. “But I’m happy for you, Ethan. You seemed to have a good head on your shoulders when I was talking with you. I’ve got some stuff to do. I’ll see you back at the Hideaway later, Madison. Good to see you ladies again.”

Braxton’s chair scrapes against the hardwood floor, gaining the attention of everyone at the Chug. He quickly packs up his stuff and storms out the door without so much as a backward glance.

“He didn’t really answer you,” Savvy points out.

“I… It’s been a real crappy day, Sav. Can we table this for now? I still have to make a grocery run tonight.”

She pats my right hand while Clover does the same to my left.

“We’ve got you, lady.” Clover bumps my shoulder with hers, and some of the day’s tension leaves my shoulders.

“Ditto,” I say.

“Now, exactly how bad was your kitchen this morning?” Savvy waggles her brows, and the last thread holding my sanity together snaps. I laugh. I laugh so hard I cry while my friends join in and heal my soul like the magical little friend fairies they are.