Page 152 of The Renegade Billionaire

“What happened in here?”

It’s brand new and so much better than I could have imagined, but every available surface is covered in pans, tinfoil-covered items, and mixing bowls. There’s so much stuff I can’t imagine there’s even one kitchen item not in use at the moment.

Savvy stands upright with a guilty expression lining her beautiful face. Her hair is falling out of its braid, and her cheeks are flushed.

As I stare at her, her gaze keeps darting from me to something over my shoulder, and when I turn, I find Grey smirking in our direction over a mug of cider.

“Oh my?—”

“Don’t say it.” Savvy practically jumps over the counter to shush me. “I got stuck cooking with him all day. That’s it.”

“That’s it? Savvy, your leggings are inside out. And your hair is…”

“Fine. Fine. I don’t want to talk about it. Help me get the ham out of the oven.”

“Ham?”

“Yeah, Braxton decided we’d have ham on Christmas Eve and turkey with a crown lamb thing on Christmas. That’s all him though. I’m not cut out for this shit.”

“But why?”

The kitchen is an absolute disaster. It’s as messy as my mind right now.

Christmas music begins to play softly from the ceiling.

“He put in surround sound. Isn’t that cool?” Savvy is obviously desperate to keep the topic of conversation off herself.

It’s just as well—I don’t have room for anything else in my head at the moment.

She wraps me in a crushing hug. “This is for all of us, hon. I don’t know if one person in this house has ever had…” She pulls away and waves around the room. “This. A house full of love. He’s trying to give it to us all.”

“Braxton.”

“Yeah. He’s head over heels for you.”

“He is?” I’m still in a state of shock.

“Yep, so snap out of it and enjoy this gift.” She physically shakes me to get my attention.

“You’re right. Sorry. It’s just…”

“A lot. I get it.”

“Yeah. What didn’t you and Grey get up to in here?”

Her face pales.

“I mean food-wise, you pervert, though I hope whatever else you got up to wasn’t near any food. I love you, but that’s disgusting.”

She laughs uncomfortably but doesn’t confirm or deny anything.

“Savvy,” I hiss.

“We didn’t. I didn’t. The food is safe,” she rambles, then turns toward the oven. As soon as she opens the door, nostalgia wafts around me.

“It’s Maisie’s recipe. Pops found it in a box of kitchen stuff,” she explains. The scent of maple syrup makes my mouth water. “Can you mash the taters? The recipe calls for four sticks of butter. Four. I’m going to gain a hundred pounds before New Year’s.”

“It’s how Pops likes them,” I say, finally getting on board with the night.