Page 33 of The Renegade Billionaire

But I won’t call her Madi—that’s a name for everyone else. Madison feels like a secret just for me, and I want that sensation much more than I should.

8

MADISON

I’m standingin 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.