Page 96 of Billionaire Bad Boy Auction

PORTIA

I wiped my hands on my apron for what felt like the hundredth time, surveying the spread in my kitchen with a critical eye. The steaks were marinated and ready for the grill, the potato salad was chilling perfectly in my grandmother’s ceramic bowl, and the corn was fresh from the farmer’s market. It was buttered and seasoned to perfection. Even the dessert, a rustic berry pie, had turned out better than I’d hoped, the golden crust glistening under the kitchen lights.

I was going all out, and I knew it. This was important. Yes, my parents knew him, and yes, we already had a meal together, but this was different. I wanted them to like him as my boyfriend. Not just the businessman that had a questionable reputation. This was the man I wanted to bring to Christmas dinner. And Thanksgiving.

I scooped the flour into a large mixing bowl, the fine powder puffing up in a faint cloud as I leveled it off with the back of a spoon. The recipe was my grandmother’s—something I’d memorized by heart after years of watching her make these biscuits every Sunday morning. Grandma made it look easy. Her hands just kneaded and folded like it was second nature. Mine, however, felt clumsy in comparison. I added a pinch of salt, a dash of sugar, and then reached for the cold butter, cutting it into cubes the way she’d taught me.

The key, she always said, was to keep everything cold. Cold butter, cold buttermilk, and even a chilled bowl if you could manage it. I dropped the cubes into the flour mixture and began working them in with my fingers, pressing and rubbing until the butter broke down into pea-sized crumbs. I smiled, remembering how she’d let me do this part when I was little—her hands guiding mine over the bowl until I got it just right.

I poured in the buttermilk next. The dough came together quickly, shaggy and sticky, just like it was supposed to be. I turned it out onto the floured countertop, my hands dusted white as I gently kneaded it into a soft ball.

Grandma always said the way to keep a man happy was with fresh buttermilk biscuits on the table every night. I wasn’t sure that was true, but she and my grandpa had been married for over fifty years. She had done something right.

And I wanted to show Dean I could cook. Yes, that was a little old-fashioned, but it didn’t hurt to impress him a little here and there. Dean was the kind of man that could have any woman he wanted. Money. Looks. Making the man good biscuits was going to earn me some points.

I put the biscuits on the oven. I wasn’t going to put them in until just before dinner was served. They had to be fresh and hot to get the full effect.

The doorbell rang. Oh shit. I had flour everywhere. My stomach did a little flip. I pulled off my apron and smoothed my sundress. When I opened the door, it was my parents. My mother held up a bottle of wine.

My dad looked at me and laughed before pointing to his nose and rubbing. “I’m guessing you were making biscuits.”

“Oh my gosh.” I laughed. “Busted.”

I led them inside. Dad handed me a six-pack of Dean’s favorite beer. “Thought your young man might appreciate these.”

My cheeks burned at the phrase. “Thank you, Dad. That was very thoughtful.”

“This is a cute place,” Mom said as she looked around. “And a beautiful view of the lake.”

I grabbed a couple of glasses from the cabinet and set them on the counter, then turned to the fridge for the pitcher of iced tea I’d made earlier.

“Here you go,” I said, handing my mom a glass.

“Thinking about staying in the house or are you going to try and find an apartment?” Dad asked.

I shrugged. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

“It might be awkward to have your boyfriend be your landlord,” Mom joked.

“Maybe,” I said. “We haven’t really talked about it.”

Mom walked over to the window, her gaze drifting out toward the lake. “It’s so peaceful here. I can see why you love it.”

I heard his motorcycle coming up the driveway. I wasn’t nervous. Not really. But I wanted this to be perfect. I walked to the door and watched through the screen door as he pulled off his helmet, running a hand through his tousled hair. He’d dressed up—well, for Dean—in dark jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. My mouth went dry.

How in the world did I get lucky enough to get to call him mine?

He grabbed a bouquet of flowers from his bike’s saddlebag and turned toward the house. When he saw me watching, he flashed that slow, devastating smile of his.

“Hey,” he said as he reached the porch, holding out the flowers. “These are for you.”

I took them and smelled the blooms. “You didn’t have to⁠—”

“I wanted to.” His voice was low, just for me.

“I appreciate it,” I said. “They’re beautiful.”

Dad cleared his throat loudly from the kitchen.