Page 80 of Only for the Season

“Too bad.” I slap the empty tins on the table. “It’s not your choice where I live.” I pound my chest. “It’s mine. It’s my choice to save money to pay my parents back. It’s my choice to rent out the loft to earn more income. My. Choice.”

“But I have the money.”

I growl. An honest to goodness growl. “You can’t buy me with your money. I don’t want anything to do with your money.”

“Tell me about it,” he mutters.

He’s being facetious but I decide to let him have it.

“I didn’t have sex with you because you’re a billionaire. In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t have money. It would make things easier. Such as when you decide you can buy my love. I’m not for sale.”

“What do you want?” He bursts out. “This is how things work in my world.”

I rear back. “In your world? You live in the same world as mine. The rules of love and trust, and friendship don’t change because of money.”

He snorts. “Wrong.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m wrong? Explain how I’m wrong.”

“Women want one thing from me. They want my money. Why do you think I don’t do relationships? Because every woman I think is different – every woman I hope won’t be a gold digger – turns out the same way. They want me for my money.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” I grumble.

“This isn’t a joke. This is how women treat me.”

“And you thought I was the same as those gold diggers? You thought I’m some poor baker who would be happy to accept your money after a couple of tumbles in the hay.”

He cringes. “Not exactly.”

“Have I once asked for your money?”

“No.”

“What happened when I refused your help to purchase the moonshine for theMermaid Treasure Hunt?” I don’t give him a chance to answer. “I’ll tell you what happened. I figured out a way to pay for it by myself.” I slap a hand on my chest. “Me. The poor little baker from the Podunk island figured it all out by herself. No big fancy billionaire needed. Thank you very much.”

“I wanted to help.”

“Do you need your ears cleaned out? Is there too much wax in there? Because you are not hearing me. Let me spell it out for you. I, Parker Shaw, owner ofPirate’s Pastriesand resident of Smuggler’s Hideaway, do not need you, Jeremy Holland, billionaire tech developer ofApparoofame, to come and save me. I can save myself.”

He steps closer and reaches for me. I retreat. If he touches me now, there’s no telling what I’ll do to him. Break his fingers. Pour hot, melted butter over his head. Kiss him breathless. There are options galore.

“I’m sorry. I only tried to help.”

I shake my head. “You don’t see it.”

“See what?”

“You did exactly what your parents and all those ‘girlfriends’ wanted you to do.”

“Explain yourself,” he grumbles.

“They want more than your money. They want you to give it to them without having to ask for it. They want you to rain gifts down on them. Spoiler alert. I don’t give a shit about your money.”

I make my way toward the café. I can’t be in the presence of someone who thinks I can be bought any longer.

I stop with my hand on the door. “Let Eli know what bank account I can return the money to. He knows my accountant.”

“Let Eli?”