Falling for the Billionaire Best Man

Chapter 1

1

DORIE

A piercing screech jerked me awake. My adrenaline spiked as my brain, still caught in the dream I was having about fleeing an angry life-sized wedding cake, tried to process who or what was screaming at me. Slowly, reality clicked into place.

I blindly slapped at my nightstand in an attempt to shut off my phone alarm.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

I swore gremlins moved it in the middle of the night. I finally found it and hit snooze before it could disturb Rick, the Siamese cat curled up at the foot of my bed. The very end of his tail flicked in a way that suggested he’d heard the alarm and he wasn’t pleased that his slumber had been interrupted.

Tell me about it. Rick was the longest relationship I’d ever had. Two years, to be exact. He’d been by my side since the moment we first locked eyes at the cat shelter, and I knew then and there that he would fill the void in my life left by a complete and total lack of romance.

That was just the price I had to pay for my lifestyle.

I didn’t have to look at a clock to know what time it was. Four. The literal butt crack of dawn. Technically, it wasn’t even dawn, yet.

The world outside was still cloaked in darkness, but this was my favorite time of day—quiet, peaceful, and entirely mine. I stretched, feeling the familiar ache in my muscles from yesterday’s hot yoga class with Annie. I liked the feeling, which probably made me a sadist or something.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed. Rick lifted his head, giving me a disgruntled look before flopping back down. “Sorry, buddy,” I whispered, scratching behind his ears. “I’ll be back later with treats, I promise.”

Rick had a typical Siamese personality—kind of dickish, if I was being honest. I supposed most cats fit that bill. But I loved him, even if he was an asshole.

I padded to the bathroom, splashed some water on my face, and brushed my teeth. My reflection in the mirror stared back at me, my strawberry blonde hair a wild mess of curls, my freckles standing out against my pale skin. I didn’t bother taming my hair. It would only rebel again the moment I stepped outside. Instead, I pulled it into a loose bun, slipped into my favorite pair of leggings and a cozy sweater, and laced up my walking shoes.

“Be good,” I said to Rick and dropped a kiss on his head.

By four fifteen, I was out the door, my tote bag slung over my shoulder, filled with everything I’d need for the day ahead. The crisp March air hit me as soon as I stepped outside. It was cool but not cold. The faint scent of salt from the ocean was in the air as usual. I barely noticed it anymore except for those first few seconds in the morning.

Cape May was still asleep. The empty streets were lit by the occasional flicker of a streetlight. I loved this walk. The four miles to my bakery were my time to think, to dream, to escape. I’d been walking like this since I was a little girl, back in Maine, when the tension at home became too much to bear. Back then, it was my way of coping and finding a little slice of peace. Now, it was just for me.

I set off at a brisk pace, my mind already racing with ideas for the day. I had a cake to finish for the Henderson wedding, a dozen cupcakes to decorate for Mrs. Watts’s granddaughter’s birthday, and a new batch of cookies to test for the spring menu. My mental to-do list was endless, but I thrived on the chaos. Baking was my therapy. It was the one thing I could control and the one thing that always made sense no matter how crazy the rest of the world around me got.

As I walked, I let my mind wander. I thought about the new cake design I’d been sketching—a three-tiered masterpiece with delicate sugar flowers and a cascading ribbon of fondant. I thought about Toby, my apprentice, and how proud I was of how far he’d come. He’d started as a shy, awkward teenager with no confidence, and now he was shaping up to be a talented baker in his own right. I thought about Mrs. Watts and her granddaughter, who lived in the apartment above the bakery. They were like family to me, and I’d do anything to protect them.

And then, inevitably, my thoughts turned to Carington and Associates. The name alone made my stomach churn. They’d been circling the waterfront strip for months, trying to buy out every business in their path to make room for their hideous luxury condos. They’d already succeeded in pushing out a few of the smaller shops, but I wasn’t going to let them take mine. Not without a fight. I’d worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to let some faceless corporation bulldoze my dreams.

The condos were going to be a monstrosity. No one in town would have a chance of seeing the view. Eventually, my home would be nothing but overpriced Victorian mansions and ugly condos. People like me would be pushed out. We would have to be bussed in to do the work the rich people needed. The help was not to be seen or heard.

I shook my head, pushing the thought aside. This walk was my calm before the storm. I refused to let the dickwads at Carington and Associates ruin it for me.

I crossed the street and cut through the park, my favorite part of the route. The trees were just beginning to bud, their branches silhouetted against the faint glow of the pre-dawn sky. It was peaceful here. I swore it could solve even the hardest problems. The only sound I heard was the crunch of gravel under my tennis shoes. I was so lost in thought that I didn’t notice the man until it was too late.

He came out of nowhere, running at what seemed like an impossible speed. One moment, the path was clear, and the next, he was barreling toward me like a missile. I tried to sidestep him, but he clipped me hard, sending me sprawling into a bush. I let out a yelp, more out of surprise than pain, and struggled to untangle myself from the branches that clawed and snagged at my sweater and leggings.

My first thought was whatever he was running from was going to get me if I didn’t get up. Images of the homicidal cake from the nightmare I’d awoken from this morning flashed in my mind. Maybe I hadn’t woken up at all and I was still in my dream. Dream-ception.

That might explain why the man leaning over me was so devastatingly handsome. Surely only my imagination could conjure up such features.

“Are you okay?” His voice was deep, though it didn’t sound particularly concerned.

He stared down at me with his hands on his hips, his breathing barely labored despite the speed he’d been running. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a lean, athletic build. His dark hair was damp with sweat, and a bead rolled down the bridge of his nose and dripped off the tip to land on my thigh. I blinked down at it. A detail like that couldn’t be a dream. Slowly, I gazed back up at him.

He arched a dark eyebrow. “Miss?”

He was definitely an athlete. But it was his eyes that caught me off guard—piercing, intense, and currently fixed on me with a look that was equal parts annoyance and amusement.

Say something, you dolt, I thought, mentally slapping myself back into the present moment.

“Do you always run through parks like a maniac at four thirty in the morning?” I snapped as he took my hand and pulled me up. His grip was firm, oversized, and warm.

I brushed dirt and leaves off my leggings. Everything felt normal. Not broken. Although my pride was a little bruised.

He raised his eyebrow even more, his lips quirking into a smirk. “Do you always walk through parks without watching where you’re going?”

Who did he think he was?

“You’re the one who ran into me,” I pointed out.

“And you’re the one who didn’t move,” he shot back, his tone infuriatingly calm. “Maybe you should pay more attention to your surroundings. You were on the running path. I was running. You were strolling. There are signs everywhere.”

I opened my mouth to retort, but the words caught in my throat. There was something about the way he looked at me—like he was daring me to argue, like he enjoyed the challenge. It unnerved me, but it also sparked something deep inside, a flicker of defiance.

And irritation. I was personally affronted.

“Maybe you should learn some manners,” I snapped. “A simple ‘I’m sorry’ would’ve sufficed. That’s what most people do when they run over someone.”

His smirk deepened and his arched eyebrow settled back into place, which made me feel like he wasn’t taking me seriously at all.

What a turd. An annoyingly good-looking and abrasive turd.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, though his tone suggested he had no intention of doing so. “Next time, watch where you’re going.”

With that, he turned and jogged away, leaving me there to pick leaves and broken twigs out of my hair. I watched him disappear into the darkness, his figure growing smaller and smaller until he was gone. I didn’t like him. Not one bit. I didn’t know him, and I didn’t care to. He was a little early for the season when all the other wealthy assholes showed up and acted like the world revolved around them.

I shook my head, trying to clear the encounter from my mind, and continued on my way. By the time I reached the bakery, the sun was just beginning to rise, casting a soft golden glow over the water. I fumbled with my keys, my hands still trembling slightly from the literal run-in. I managed to unlock the door.

That was when I noticed it—a piece of paper taped to the glass, fluttering in the breeze.

I tore it off, my stomach sinking as I recognized the logo at the top: Carington and Associates. I didn’t even bother reading the rest. I crumpled it up and tossed it into the trash bin by the door. They could send all the letters they wanted. I wasn’t going anywhere. They were going to have to build around me. I stepped inside, the familiar scent of sugar and vanilla wrapping around me like a warm hug. This was my sanctuary, my safe haven. No one was going to take it from me.

I tied my apron and got to work, losing myself in the rhythm of measuring flour and sugar. The sound of the mixer filled the quiet kitchen. I pulled the dough that had been rising and dropped it on the table to start kneading. Yes, my mixer could do it, but there was something therapeutic about kneading it by hand. It was part of my morning ritual.

With the rolls left to rise, I moved back to the mixer to pull the cookie dough. I was elbow-deep in it when my phone buzzed on the counter. I wiped my hands on a towel and picked it up, smiling when I saw Eliza’s name on the screen.

“Good morning,” I said, trying to sound cheerful despite the lingering irritation from my encounter in the park.

“Dorie!” My sister’s voice was bright and bubbly, as always. “How’s my favorite baker?”

“Busy,” I said, laughing. “You know how it is this time of year.”

“I do,” she said. “And I’m so excited for the wedding! Cullen’s been talking nonstop about the groom’s cake. He’s convinced you’re going to outdo yourself.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said, though the mention of the groom’s cake made my stomach twist. I loved baking for weddings, but this one felt different. Maybe it was because it was Eliza’s wedding, or maybe it was because of the pressure to make everything perfect. Either way, I was determined to make it the best cake I’d ever created.

Duh, that’s where the pressure is coming from. I was my own worst critic. Although my twin sister could be critical at times.

“Oh, and speaking of the cake,” Eliza said, her tone shifting slightly. “K is in town. He’s going to stop by the bakery today to help you with the flavors for Cullen’s cake.”

“K?” I repeated.

“Yeah, you know, Kaisen,” Eliza said, as if it were painfully obvious. “He’s Cullen’s best man, remember? He’s got a very sophisticated palate, and Cullen trusts him to pick something amazing.”

Sophisticated palate? I rolled my eyes so hard I thought she might hear it through the phone. “Fine. Okay. I’ll be here all morning. I’ll make sure everything’s ready for your culinary expert.”

“Perfect,” Eliza said, missing my sarcasm or ignoring it. “I’ve got to run, but I’ll talk to you later, okay? Love you!”

“Love you too,” I said, hanging up the phone with a sigh.

I wasn’t jealous. Not really. I had always figured Eliza would be the first one to get married. She was beautiful and friendly and there were few people who didn’t like her. She was a successful lawyer in New York City and had it all.

We were twins, but the similarities ended at our birthday.

I walked out into the storefront to open for the day. The peace and stillness would be broken soon but customers meant sales, so the more the merrier. I turned on the lights, made sure the few tables were straightened, and unlocked the door.

Then I noticed something that made my blood run cold and then hot. “Son of a bitch,” I muttered.

There was another piece of paper taped to the glass, this one with bold, red ink.

I tore it off, crumpled it up, and tossed it into the trash with the other one. They could harass me all day every day. I wasn’t going anywhere.