Chapter 7
IVY
Abillionaire.
It figures, the only way I’d ever come close to marrying one is via a fictitious relationship.
Chase Hunter? Of all the people in the world.
His name alone has quite the reputation: handsome, arrogant, womanizing.
When E.L. came out with the Fifty Shades series, tabloid-embellished rumors had it Christian Grey’s character was loosely based on Chase Hunter. Of course, the rumor was quickly squashed by none other than Chase Hunter, Sr, citing that fake rumor was detrimental to the family name.
Our plates are delivered and for a few minutes, all we do is devour it in silence. Truth is, I have no clue what to say to a billionaire. What am I supposed to talk about?
Money?No.Clothes?No. Wall Street?Heck,no.
“You were right about this meal. It’s super-delicious,” I say, deciding food is a universal language.
“Right? I swear, if I could learn to make this on my own, I’d eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
Our eyes lock in agreement before his break free, feasting back onto his gourmet dish.
I dip a piece of fried chicken into some of the cinnamon butter, then shove it in my mouth. “I can totally make this.”
He blinks up at me, chewing on a bite of his brown-sugar-dusted waffle.
“It’s sort of this thing I do—have done, actually, since middle school, at least. See, I, um, find a favorite restaurant meal and basically challenge myself to recreate it.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his gorgeous face. “Are you serious?”
I nod. “In fact, I had a video blog series called Cook Like a Foodie.”
He snort-laughs. “Cook Like a Foodie? My sister would love to watch something like that.”
“Sister?”
He smiles. “Younger. We’ve got twenty years between us. Mom and Dad decided to have another kid when I left home for college.”
“Twenty years? So she’s…”
“Ten”—he swipes his mouth with a cloth napkin—“going on seventeen. Maddie—that’s her name—is way too smart for her own good. Anyway, the girl is terribly obsessed with food. Absolutely loves to cook.”
I put my fork down, amazed I managed to finish the entire plate of food. “I think that’s wonderful, the fact that your parents had another kid and your sister loves to cook.”
A soft smirk, full of pure mischief, tugs at his lips. He whips his phone out of his suit-coat pocket. “What was the name of your blog again? Cook Like a Foodie?”
My eyes narrow. “Why?”
He slides his plate over, sets the phone in front of him on the table, and types in the name of my old blog in the Google search engine. “Because I’m dying to see if this video blog pops up.”
I lean forward, praying it doesn’t—
“Look here. I found it!” He picks up the phone, shows me the screen, and sure enough there I am, braces, pimples, and all.
He taps the arrow to play a video and I just want to die. Why did I open my big-ass mouth anyway? “Hi, guys. I’m Evelyn Bloom and welcome to Cook Like a Foodie. Today I’ll show you how to make Panda House’s famous orange chicken…”
I place my hands over my ears, blocking out my high-pitched fifteen-year-old voice.
