Stalking the Billionaire Celebrity (Sweet Bay Billionaires Book 2)

by Rachel Taylor

  “Is that my Lindsey?” her shaky voice called out from the living room.

  I rounded the corner and smiled at the sight of her, still alive, still smiling. She laid on the sofa, covered in quilts, her head full of black hair propped up on several bed pillows. I assumed the unnaturally dark color came from a box now, but I never had the nerve to ask. Even at almost 80 years old, she never showed any gray roots.

  My mother sat beside her on a footstool, holding her frail, wrinkly hand. She had the same Italian coloring as my grandmother. But they hadn’t passed it on to me. I had the blonde hair and lighter skin of my grandfather and father. The only thing I got from the women in my family was my love of food and cooking, as evidenced by our soft, plump figures.

  “Hi Grandma.” I hurried over and leaned down to greet her. She clasped her hands on the side of my head and kissed my cheeks.

  “I’m going to make some tea.” Mom got up and went to the kitchen, leaving the footstool for me. I sat down on it and took my grandma’s hand. It felt cold and bony. I wanted to ask my mom about Grandma’s health, but I didn’t want to do it in front of her.

  “You smell delicious, dear. Were you cooking something?”

  “I was working at the restaurant.”

  “My restaurant?”

  “No, Grandma. I work at the Sweet Bay Table.” Her short term memory was iffy. She didn’t always remember recent things.

  “Oh, well, you need to add more basil to the marinara sauce, dear. You can pick some from the garden.”

  I chuckled and patted her papery hand. “Okay, I’ll do that.”

  “You make me proud, dear. You’re turning into an excellent chef.”

  “Mom said you were asking for me; she said you had something to tell me.” I tried to nudge her memory in case she’d forgotten.

  “Yes, I wanted to tell you that I’m leaving the restaurant to you. You’re the only one who can run it.”

  “Grandma, you don’t need to worry about that right now. You’re not going anywhere.”

  “Now, don’t try to coddle me. I might be forgetful sometimes, but I know I’m an old woman and my days are numbered. I want to make sure my restaurant is taken care of.”

  My mother came back carrying three tea cups on a tray. The scent of Earl Gray wafted behind her. I glanced at her, unsure how to respond. My grandmother’s restaurant had been closed for over a decade, ever since my grandfather got sick and needed his wife at home to care for him. Neither of their children had the time, skills, or inclination to run it, but Grandma refused to sell it, insisting she’d reopen once Grandpa got better. But he never did. After he died, Grandma’s health declined quickly. The old building had languished, abandoned, ever since.

  My mom nodded at me and set the tea tray down on the coffee table then took one of the cups and sat down in a nearby armchair. “Okay, Momma, we’ll take care of it.”

  Grandma lifted herself up on her elbows and craned her neck around so she could see my mother. “Don’t blow me off, Francesca! I want that restaurant to go to Lindsey. Abby can have the house, and the boys will get your father’s tools and whatever money is left, if the doctors don’t take it all. I spelled it out in my will.”

  She turned her head back towards me. “It’s your dream to be a chef, isn’t it?”

  Fantasies of running my own restaurant danced in my head like little chefs pirouetting, despite the unlikelihood that I could revive the old restaurant. I leaned down and hugged her, careful not to squeeze too hard. “Yes! Thank you, Grandma. That’s very generous.”

  She patted my cheek, her eyes moist and her sagging cheeks soft with a smile. “My Lindsey, so much like me at your age. It was always my dream to own a restaurant, and your grandfather was willing to risk our life savings on it. My blood, sweat, and tears went into that restaurant. I trust you to bring it back to life again. You’re the only one who knows all my recipes.”

  She winked at me, and I couldn’t stop the grin that spread my cheeks. Moments of vibrancy like that almost made me forget how old and sickly she was. But my mother frowned at me, deflating my enthusiasm. I knew she’d have something to say later about the impracticality of the whole thing. Hopefully, we wouldn’t need to worry about it for a long time, though.

  Grandma moved to sit up, so I jumped up to help her. Once she was upright, I handed her a cup of tea. It rattled a little on the saucer at first, but she steadied it.

  She took a sip then look at me over the rim of her cup, her gaze serious. “Now Lindsey, I don’t want you to lose sight of the rest of your dreams because you’re too focused on the restaurant. I still made time to raise a family. You need to pass those recipes on to the next generation.”

  I picked up the remaining tea cup and took a small sip, savoring the sweetness. “I will, Grandma. But you need to stick around long enough to meet them.”

  “You’re 25, dear. How long do I have to wait?”

  I snorted out a laugh, spraying a bit of tea. She’d married and had both her children by that age, so I guess in her mind, I was an old maid. “Hopefully not much longer. I have a serious boyfriend, but he’s been busy starting his career.”

  Steam curled from her cup, and her eyes grew cloudy as a fog of confusion rolled in. “Have I met him?”

  I nodded. “He came to Christmas dinner the last few years. He’s tall with blonde hair. His name is Dylan.”

  “Oh yes, I remember now. I didn’t much like him. I guess that’s why I forgot.” She shrugged and made a little noise then slurped her tea.

  My mother shook her head and gave her a little scowl. “Dylan’s a very nice boy, Mother. You just don’t think anyone’s good enough for your grandchildren.”

  She humphed. “Maybe I’ll have to pick someone out myself.”

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  Rachel Taylor is a bibliophile who has her nose in a book whenever she can. When she’s not reading or writing, she also likes to guest judge on DWTS (from her living room), watch cat videos, and eat too much pizza and chocolate. She lives in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

  www.racheltaylorbooks.com