Page 18 of Billionaire Romance

9

Weaver

I could barely sleep last night, so after tossing and turning through the early morning hours, I snuck out of my apartment and hit the pool.

I’ve lost count of how many laps I’ve swum. I’ve lost count of how many times my feelings have changed about Chris’s revelation last night. As I do the breaststroke across the pool, my shoulders burn from the exertion, and I play back every conversation we’ve had on chat, trying to figure out if he ever tried to tell me. Did he get off on the con? Was that part of the fun for him, tricking me?

On the way back across the pool, on my back, I notice I’m smiling, grinning like a total dope, because I have a rare feeling of excitement, excitement for someone. Despite all the unknowns, I’m positive I do like Chris, and regardless of how things have transpired over the past few months, I want to see him again.

I could swim for the rest of the morning debating and analyzing in my head, but it won’t get me anywhere. I pull myself out of the pool and quickly dry off.

Back upstairs I peek in on Kate. She’s dead to the world and I don’t think she’ll be making the food and wine expo like she’d planned to. I close the door softly behind me, so I don’t disturb her. She’s going to have a wicked hangover when she wakes up, so I decide to prepare her some huevos rancheros for later. I’m pouring myself a cup of coffee when I hear my phone ping. It’s Sugar Girl, and a message from Chris. It’s weird to have him contacting me through the app, but he doesn’t have my phone number and I don’t have his.

You promised me I could see you today. Now seems like a good time. You free?

He adds the address of his hotel to the message.

Kate surely won’t be awake for another couple of hours, so I don’t feel guilty leaving her. But if I go to see Chris, I’m going for answers. Real answers. I can’t continue in this limbo, filling in the blanks on my own, trying to understand what motivated him, what he wants. It’s tempting to go to his hotel, to order room service and then forget about it, falling into bed together instead. But that would only be postponing the inevitable and continuing down an uncertain path. A hot and sticky and sexy path, my primal brain pipes up.

Before I have a minute to reconsider, I text him back.

Let’s grab breakfast instead. I’ll meet you at Good Enough to Eat. Twenty minutes work for you?

He replies instantly,

I’m already grabbing my coat and heading to the elevator.

I can’t stop the smile that creeps on my face as I read his last message. The idea of him running down the hallway, hopping into a cab, speeding up Broadway to see me makes me feel good. Damn good. And I decide I’ll take my time getting showered and dressed. It will take me five minutes to walk to the restaurant, and I could get there in twenty minutes—easily, but I think I want to make him wait. I’ve been at his beck and call for months now, he’s had total control, and it’ll serve him right to have a taste of his own medicine. So I shower and wash my hair, rinsing the chlorine from my body. I have a bruise on my hip where Chris grabbed me last night, and he left a small mark on my shoulder from sucking there. I wash between my legs gingerly, because it had been a while since I had sex and Chris isn’t a small man. Fuck, he’s not even an average man, he’s pretty big, and my pussy feels sore, thoroughly used after last night.

By the time I’m getting into my jeans and a sweater, I’m kicking myself for recommending a restaurant. All the images from the alley last night are flooding back to me, and there’s a small panic beneath that says, what if he’s leaving New York tonight? What if I don’t have another chance to be with him? I check my phone. It’s ten minutes past the meet time. Fifteen minutes making him wait seems about right to me. But honestly, it’s me who can’t wait any longer.

I may have jogged the last two blocks to the restaurant, but as it comes into sight, I slow down to a leisurely pace, not wanting to seem eager when Chris first sees me. This meeting is about getting answers and I plan to set the agenda.

I see him sitting at a table through the window. He’s sipping a coffee and looking over his phone. At nine o’clock on a Saturday morning he stands out in the restaurant full of customers who look like they just rolled out of bed. He’s wearing what looks like a red cashmere sweater with a collared shirt underneath. He’s freshly shaved, and I imagine touching his cheek, his skin smooth under my fingertips and smelling like cedar. A waitress approaches him and she’s flirty. I know that move, sister, I think. Nothing usually amounts from flirtations with customers, but it is a fun way to pass the time. Speaking of time, what am I doing out here, my nose pressed against the glass? This was my plan, and I came seeking answers, so why am I reluctant to actually ask the questions?

I feel heart palpitations, so naturally my mind starts to worry. What if he doesn’t like me, in person, in the light of day? What if he’s into some really kinky shit and the webcam business was just a trial? What if he’s married? A criminal? An international spy or a member of a drug cartel or worse…boring? All of a sudden, this date seems foolish. A normal woman would have told him to take a hike; she would have some self-respect in the first place and not stripped on camera for strangers. What if he’s the nice guy, and I’m actually the woman he should be avoiding?

“Weaver,” Chris says. I jump a foot in the air and make a sound that’s a cross between an injured cat and a teakettle. “Come on inside, it’s cold out here.”

I look down to see he has my hand in his, and he’s immediately leading me inside the restaurant.

It’s cozy inside, and the small restaurant is filled with the smell of bacon and coffee. It’s a lovely space, with paneled walls of reclaimed wood and enormous plants hanging from the ceiling. I realize in the past twenty-four hours, I’ve been out more than I have in the past few months. I forgot how much I love this place. Chris’s table is against the wall, and we snake through the labyrinth of other tables hand and hand. Most of the tables are occupied by couples, and I wonder if they all think Chris and I are a couple. Heck, I wonder that, too.

“Coffee?” he asks, and before I answer he pours me a cup, from a small pot on the table. “Sorry, I don’t know how you take it,” he says, pushing the cream and sugar over to me.

I pour some cream in my coffee and watch the white blossom spread through the dark liquid. I feel awkward that I haven’t said anything yet, but I’m not exactly sure where to start. I take a sip and it’s delicious; the warmth spreads through my chest and I sit back in my chair and finally look him in the eyes.

“Are you really here on business?” I ask, getting straight to the point.

“Yes, although I came in early because I wanted to see you,” he says.

He’s being honest, I feel that on a gut level, and despite his past secrets, I think he’s going to be willing to answer my questions now.

“But you always knew I was here. I didn’t make a secret of that when we met in Paris. Why now? What changed?” I ask, hoping I know what his answer will be but still afraid for the unexpected.

We’re interrupted by the waitress, who I think looks a little disappointed to see that I’ve joined Chris. I can’t help it, I feel proud.

“So are you guys interested in having breakfast?” she asks, in a voice that I imagine is a little less cheerful than before.

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