Torn A Billionaire Bachelors Cl(8)

“He insulted our family.”

I knew that would get her riled. She stiffens her spine, her expression gone indignant. “What? How? What an insufferable—”

“I overreacted. He didn’t know who I was.” I shrug, trying to act like he didn’t bother me too badly, but he so did. If I think about it too much, I could get angry all over again.

Angry and some other emotion I’d rather not focus on at the moment . . .

“He didn’t know who you were? Who is this imbecile?” My aunt is outraged on my behalf. Gotta love her. “Everyone knows the Molinas!”

“First of all, I’m a Knight—” I start.

“And a Molina,” she adds.

“Right.” I nod. Proud Italians are the worst, as in the most stubborn people of all the land. At least my family is. “And he’s not from the area.”

My entire family tends to forget there’s a whole other world outside of their Napa Valley glass bubble. As I child, I found it very secure. As an adult, I view them as narrow-minded and self-important. Sometimes.

Didn’t you act a little self-important with a certain someone a few nights ago?

I frown. Really didn’t need that reminder.

“Where’s he from?” she huffs.

“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. But I knew he was a stranger. I’ve never seen him before.” I’m lying. Yes, he’s a stranger, as in not local. But I know where he’s from. I can’t tell Gina I did a background check on him though. Then she’d ask why, and I’d have to tell her, and I’m sorry, I don’t have time to answer questions right now.

I need to work. It’s all I do lately. I definitely don’t get out much; the event where I saw Gage had been a social-working thing, so that doesn’t count.

Otherwise, I’m so busy I’m either here at the bakery, helping out my parents, or having long meetings at the bank trying to straighten out our financial mess with an advisor who’s worked for my dad since before I was born.

Then I go home late at night and collapse into bed, only to start all over again the next morning.

Talk about living in a sheltered little bubble. I’m the complete embodiment of it.

“Well. He sounds horrid.” Gina sniffs.

I hold back from rolling my eyes. My mother’s younger sister loves to rush to judgment. It’s one of her finer qualities, my mom always says. Her steadfast loyalty is always appreciated. And we work well together, despite her occasional moodiness and uneven temperament.

Of course, she could probably say the same about me, so . . .

“He wasn’t that bad.” Major understatement. No, Gage Emerson definitely isn’t horrid. Handsome, yes. Sexy, indeed he is. Confident to the point of smug, oh yeah.

I’ve always found confidence in a man attractive. I blame my father. He embodies all of those traits in a most handsome package.

“Do you forgive him?”

Blinking, I turn to find Gina studying me, her gaze shrewd. “What did you say?” I ask.

“What with the flowers and the card he sent you, do you now forgive this man who insulted our family? And why would he go so far and apologize like this? How long did you two talk?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Ten minutes?”

Her lips tighten to the point of almost completely disappearing from her face. How does she do that? “So a man you spoke to for ten minutes and treated you rudely sends you flowers that probably cost hundreds of dollars? I smell a rat.”

“You always do,” I joke with her, trying to lighten the moment, but she won’t have it.

Shaking her head, she rounds the counter and stands on the other side, sticking her face into the bouquet and breathing deep. “This is by far the most beautiful arrangement I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot.” That was the truth, considering Gina used to create beautiful cakes for wedding receptions. We gave that up when I took over. I’d streamlined the business completely, something my aunt was very grateful for. She’d been working herself to the bone.

Now I guess it’s my turn.

“He’s just trying to impress me with his money,” I joke, making her smile. “Probably hoping I’ll fall to my knees and praise him for his lavish gifts.”

“Now that sounds like an interesting scenario,” a man’s voice said from behind her.

Gasping at the sound of the faintly familiar, velvety deep voice, I glance up to find Gage Emerson himself standing in the middle of the bakery, looking disgustingly gorgeous, clad in another one of those perfect suits he owns. The man dresses to perfection. And why didn’t I hear the bell ring over the door? “Oh my God,” I whisper, absolutely mortified. His suggestive tone said he found my words . . . titillating. Great.