The Illegitimate Billionaire

She went immediately on edge. “Is everything okay?”

Following the unexpected death of her husband six months ago, Callie’s optimism had taken a hit. She realized her years with Frederick had made her complacent. She’d forgotten life mostly dished out pain and disappointment. She intended to be braced for it from here on in.

“Nothing too worrisome,” he said, handing Hannah a ten-dollar bill. He smiled again as he spoke to her. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you, Hank,” Hannah said.

He looked at Callie again. “Will you join me?”

“Sure.” She untied her hunter green apron and slipped it over her head.

Beneath, she was wearing a white blouse and a pair of pressed khaki slacks. Her hair was up in a casual twist, and her earrings were small diamond studs that Frederick had given her for her birthday last year. She wore them every day. And as she walked around the end of the display case, she twisted her engagement ring and her wedding band round her finger.

She feared Hank was here with bad news about her deck permit.

He had offered to talk to the board personally to advocate for its quick approval. She’d turned down the offer, but now she wondered if that had been a mistake. Maybe she should have let him help.

Frederick had always advised her to keep the local politicians on their side. You might not love them, he’d said. You might not even like them. But it costs nothing to be congenial, and you never know which way the wind will blow.

If Downright Sweet didn’t get the permit to renovate the deck, they couldn’t replace the support beams, meaning they’d have to close the deck down while they came up with a new plan. It was May, the beginning of tourist season, and she was counting on running at full capacity by the end of June.

They took an empty table next to the window.

“Is this about the permit?” she asked.

“I’m afraid so.”

Callie’s heart sank. “It’s been denied.”

Hank organized his napkin and fork. “Not yet. But Lawrence Dennison is hesitating.”

“Why?”

The bakery, along with all of the buildings in the historic district, was subject to stringent renovation conditions. There were bylaws to protect the character of the area. But Downright Sweet’s plans had taken that into account. The deck would be larger, but it would be in keeping with the existing architecture.

“Lawrence is Lawrence,” Hank said with a shrug. “He remembers the 1950s fondly.”

“I can’t believe he keeps getting re-elected.”

While she spoke, Callie’s mind pinged to potential solutions. She could shrink the size of the deck, maybe do only the structural renovations and keep the cosmetics exactly as they were. But it would be a shame to spend all that money and not improve the functionality. And to do a modified application, she’d have to start the process over again, losing time, and she’d definitely have to close the deck for the entire summer season.

“His pet project is the City Beautification Committee,” Hank said, a meaningful look in his eyes.

Callie squinted, trying to read his expression. “And?”

“And, if somebody was to...say...join that committee and show a particular interest in city beautification, Lawrence might feel kindly toward that person.” Hank took a forkful of the whipped cream and slid it into his mouth.

Callie found the suggestion unsavory. “You want me to bribe Lawrence to get my permit.”

Hank gave an amused smile. “Joining a committee is not a bribe.”

“It might not be money.”

Hank reached out and covered her hand with his.

It was a startlingly familiar gesture. Her first instinct was to pull back. But Frederick’s words echoed in her mind. It costs you nothing to be congenial.

“Do you have something against city beautification?” Hank asked.

“Of course I don’t.” Who could have anything against city beautification? “But I’m busy, the boys, the bakery, taking care of the house.”

When they’d first moved to Charleston, she and Frederick had bought a roomy, restored antebellum house. It was beautiful, but the upkeep was daunting.

The bakery door opened again, and a tall figure caught Callie’s attention. The man glanced around the room, seeming to methodically take in every aspect.

For some reason, he was fleetingly familiar, though she was sure she hadn’t met him before. He looked to be a little over six feet, with thick dark hair, blue eyes and a strong chin. His bearing was confident as he took a step forward.

“It wouldn’t be much work.” Hank’s words forced her attention back to their conversation. “I’m the chair of the committee, and I promise not to assign you anything onerous. We meet once a week. There are six members. Depending on the topic, there’s usually some public interest, so citizens attend, as well. It’s all very civilized and low-key.”

Once a week didn’t sound like much, but it meant skipping story time with the boys that night, getting a babysitter, doubling up on housework on another evening.

“It’s not a bribe,” Hank repeated, giving her hand a light squeeze. “It’ll demonstrate your commitment to the city, your participation in the community and that you care about the culture and flavor of the historic district.”

“I do care about the culture and flavor of the historic district. I live here, and I work here.”

“I know.” He gave her hand a firmer squeeze. “So join the committee. Join in a little. Make Lawrence happy, improve your city and unblock the permit for your deck.”

When he put it that way, other than the babysitting challenge, there seemed little wrong with the plan. It felt opportunistic, but she wouldn’t call it unethical.

Hank leaned in and lowered his tone. “With Frederick gone, I’m sure you want Downright Sweet to be as successful as possible.”

“I do.”

Callie had grown up severely impoverished, never knowing from week to week how her dysfunctional family would afford food, never mind clothes and electricity. Frederick had pulled her out of all that. He’d been a wonderfully sweet man, vital and full of life. The wheelchair had never held him back.

He’d had enough of a nest egg to buy both their house and Downright Sweet here in Charleston. The business had no capital debt, but it was still a struggle to keep operating costs manageable.

A shadow crossed the table, and a deep male voice interrupted. “Excuse me?”

Callie glanced up, startled to see the tall stranger. She looked into his blue eyes and felt a strange pressure build against her chest.

“Are you Callie Clarkson?” he asked. “The bakery owner?”

“Yes.” She slipped her hand from beneath Hank’s, wondering if the man was a lifestyle reporter or maybe a restaurant critic.

He held out his hand to shake hers.

She took it, and felt a surge of comfort and strength. He was gentle. He didn’t squeeze her hand. But his palm was solid, slightly rough, not too warm, not cool, but an identical temperature to her own.