Page 9 of Curvy Girl for the Billionaire

"Until I see you," he interjects smoothly, blue eyes locking onto mine.

"Exactly," I say, a shiver running down my spine, though I fight to keep my composure. "Our eyes meet across the room. There's an instant...something. A connection neither of us can ignore."

"Compelling," he says, his gaze tracing the contours of my face as if committing each detail to memory. "And then?"

"Then, you approach me. Confident. Direct." My voice drops a notch, mirroring the intensity in his eyes. "You're not accustomed to waiting for what you want."

"True," he acknowledges, a smile playing on those full lips. "I insist on taking you out. You're reluctant at first, but eventually, you concede."

"Because deep down," I add, the character I'm creating bleeding into my own reality, "I don't want to resist the pull between us."

"Perfect," he pronounces, the word a low growl of approval.

We delve deeper into our fiction, crafting each moment with care, unaware of how closely the lie entwines with a truth unspoken.

Alex's gaze lingers on me, unblinking, as if he's trying to decrypt my every expression. It's unnerving but enthralling—like being studied by a predator that has chosen its prey.

"Tell me something real," he says suddenly, his voice threading through the restaurant's hum like a velvet ribbon.

I falter, caught off-guard. "Real?" I echo, my practical nature grappling with the intimacy of the request.

"Anything," he prompts, leaning closer, the table between us the only barrier.

There's a vulnerability in his blue eyes, a crack in the armor of the billionaire CEO who's accustomed to scripted interactions and calculated moves. I relent, letting him glimpse behind my professional façade.

"When I was little, I wanted to be an astronaut," I confess, the admission feeling both insignificant and monumental under his intense scrutiny.

"Reaching for the stars," he muses. And then he smiles, “Yes, I can see that.”

His words wrap around me, binding, possessive. The air shifts, charged with something.

“What about you?” I ask him.

He stares at me so long I start to wonder if I’ve offended him.

Alex

The question catches me off guard—a simple inquiry, yet it feels like a test.

What can I reveal to her that isn't already public knowledge, something personal that doesn't expose too much vulnerability?

My fingers tap rhythmically against the glass of my wine, the red liquid swirling like the tumultuous thoughts in my mind.

"I used to write," I confess, my voice steadier than I feel. "Poetry, mostly. It was a way to escape the pressures of my family's expectations."

Her eyebrows lift, a hint of surprise coloring her expression. It's satisfying, this small victory of revealing an unexpected facet of myself. "Really? I wouldn't have pegged you for a poet."

I chuckle, the sound more genuine than I intend. "Few do. It was a long time ago." I pause, considering how much more to share. "It was about capturing moments, emotions...things I found hard to express aloud."

Her eyes soften, and she leans in slightly, her curiosity piqued. "Do you still write?" she asks, her voice tinged with a mix of hope and something else—something I don’t dare hope for.

I hesitate, the truth knotted in my throat. "Not for years," I admit, feeling a sharp pang of loss for the part of me that reveled in versed expressions.

But looking into Charlie’s eyes, lines flow through my head unbidden.

I could write volumes about her.

Charlotte nods thoughtfully, her gaze not leaving mine. "It's never too late to pick it up again," she says softly, the encouragement in her voice warming something inside me that had long been cold.

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