Read I Married a Billionaire: Lost and Found (Contemporary Romance) for Free Online

hippie behind the counter, greeted me with a smile.
    "I saved you a copy," he said, holding up last week's Forbes, whose cover teased an article called THE SECRET TO DANIEL THORNE'S SUCCESS . "No charge."
    "Thanks," I said. "But no thanks. For the sake of my sanity, I really need to stop looking at that stuff."
    "Sure, if you wanna be reasonable about it," Louie grumbled. "What do you want now?"
    "I feel like cooking something for dinner that's going to take a few hours," I said. "Comfort food. Something that'll make the whole place smell good."
    "Pot roast? I got some grass-fed beef that just came in from upstate. Fresh as it gets."
    Instantly, I was transported back to Sunday afternoons of my childhood, remembering the herby, savory smells that would waft out of the oven when my mother opened it to check on our special dinner. It was pretty much the only meal she ever put any effort into - lovingly patting the chuck roast down with fresh herbs, laying it on a bed of onions and carrots and potatoes from the farmer's market, all swimming in rich red wine.  
    Yes. Perfect.
    I picked out the biggest chuck roast I could find, beautifully marbled with fat. Cooking it wouldn't be a problem. I knew that Daniel had a ceramic Dutch oven pot that weighed about fifty pounds, because I'd dusted around it a few times when I was bored. He'd had a cleaning service before me, but I insisted he fire them so I had something to do when I didn't have drawing or yoga or one of the other dozen things I'd signed up for to occupy my time. After I'd picked out the herbs and vegetables and paid Louie and petted his tiny Yorkie that sat vigilantly on the counter, watching every transaction with eagle eyes, I ran to the liquor store across the street for a bottle of dry red from the Finger Lakes - one big enough for cooking and for drinking.
    There was someone already at the register when I went up, so I started toying with my phone as I waited, tuning out the conversation since it didn't concern me. But after I'd skimmed a few emails I started to sense it had been an awfully long time, so I perked my ears back up and watched the scene unfolding in front of me.
    "I'm sorry," the young cashier was saying. His lip ring was jiggling nervously, like he was poking at the other side with his tongue. "But I just can't. Corporate policy."
    "Corporate?" The customer threw his hands up in the air. "This place is the size of a closet. What corporate?"
    "We got bought out," the kid said, his voice developing a slight tremor. "Couple months ago. They've started getting really strict, I'm sorry. I just can't."
    "Look." The customer took a long, deep breath. "It's nothing against you. I swear. But come on. You're not going to lose your job over this. I promise. I won't tell anyone. Are they watching you on camera? I'll open my wallet and pretend to show you something. They'll never be able to tell the difference. I'm old enough to be your father. Grandfather, probably."
    "That's not the issue. I'm not allowed to sell to anyone who doesn't have ID. Doesn't matter if you're ninety. You could be a cop. We could lose our license."
    "I'm not a cop," the customer said, raising his voice a little. "I have a dime bag in my pocket right now!"
    The kid raised his eyebrows. "Really?"
    "Yes. Really. You want it?"
    The kid swallowed hard. "The cameras," he said.
    "Right," said the customer. "Jesus Christ."
    I cleared my throat. I really did just have a frog in it, but both them immediately turned to look at me.
    "I'm sorry," said the customer. "Why don't you go ahead of me? I don't want to hold you up anymore. I left my license in my suitcase. Just got back from France, for work, and I wanted a fucking bottle of Hennessy…" he sighed. "I'm sorry. It's just a hell of a thing. Go on, please. I insist."
    "Thanks," I said, awkwardly sidling up to the counter. I pretty much felt bad for everyone involved, but I knew I couldn't offer to buy it for him, or the cashier would have to