The Billionaire's Gamble by Ava Miles Page B

together now.”
    He met Margie’s gaze, and both of them fought the urge to laugh.
    “Whee!”
    “Burp!”
    “Whee!”
    “Burp!”
    The Whee-Burp chorus continued. Evan finally gave in to a chuckle since everyone else had started laughing. So, he wasn’t going to be treated to a baby rendition of “Madame Butterfly.” But it was cute.
    And so it went, the adults grinning and laughing, and the girls giving their drooling version of a song Evan expected would never be recorded to fame and glory.
    When it finished, Arthur Hale had a soft smile on his face. “Well, at least their pitch is perfect. Can’t say much about their lyrics though.”
    Jill turned and made a face at him since he was sitting on her right side. “They’re not even two years old, Grandpa. I think they’re doing great.”
    “They are pretty sweet,” Arthur said. “Margie, honey, let’s try your rolls. I almost up and died when I walked into your house because it smelled so good.”
    Margie stood and stooped to kiss his cheek. “No up and dying on my watch. I’ll grab the room-temperature rolls first, which will be compared to the originals, made by Grandma Kemstead herself. The other rolls might still be too hot. That caramel sauce can burn the roof of your mouth when they come straight out of the oven.”
    “I can’t wait to try them,” Chef T said, putting his arm around Elizabeth.
    Margie brought out two plates of cinnamon rolls, and the scent alone was enough to make Evan salivate. When he received his plate with two tasting samples, he took a moment to clear his head before taking the first bite. The caramel sauce coating the pastry hit his tongue like a freight train, but the soft bread cushioned the impact. He moaned as cinnamon and butter danced on his taste buds in pure abandon.
    “The right one has a touch more cinnamon than the left.” Chef T chewed each sample thoughtfully as everyone watched and listened. “But honestly, Margie, both of them are delicious. I don’t think it matters who baked which one. And no one but a highly trained chef could detect the extra cinnamon.”
    “Well, I’m not a highly trained chef,” Arthur said, holding up the remaining bite of one of his tasting samples, “but this one is Kemstead’s.”
    Margie sat at the end of the table and tucked her hands out of sight. “What does everyone else think?” There was a Mona Lisa smile on her face as she asked the question.
    Elizabeth shrugged playfully. “I can’t tell the difference. Honestly, Margie. They’re both incredible.”
    “Brian?” she asked.
    “I feel like the one on the right has a touch more butter, but it’s so slight a difference, I would be hard-pressed to say that it changes the taste for me. I couldn’t guess which one’s which, but my guess would be that the Kemstead’s one has a touch more butter. Either way, they’re fantastic, Margie. I’m so happy you’re continuing the tradition.”
    “Jill?” Margie asked the woman, who was feeding thimble-size bites to the two girls as they bounced up and down in glee.
    “I can’t tell which one’s which,” Jill said with a laugh. “Honestly. I just want more.”
    “What about you, Evan?” she asked softly, so softly that Elizabeth paused in taking another bite of her sample and gave him a pointed glance.
    He didn’t care. At the moment, he only had eyes for one person. “I’m no expert on cinnamon rolls, but I live in a country where people revere bread. You could open up your shop in Paris and sell these, and you’d be the hottest bakery in town.”
    “Hear, hear!” Brian said, rapping on the table. “Margie, after tasting these, I’m convinced you were meant to do this. I can’t wait for you to come back from your apprenticeship in Paris. Hot Cross Buns is going to be awesome, and my restaurant is going to be supplied with the best baguettes and croissants in town.”
    “Me too!” Jill said, pulling Violet back when she lurched for the plate of