Page 10 of Billionaire Romance

“And…?” I prod. “That’s the whole story of Perry the hot bartender?”

“Unfortunately, yeah,” she laughs. “I have no time for dating. Business south of the border is closed until further notice. And I’ve never executed a successful one-night stand. Maybe you can give me some tips.” She winks at me in the most adorable way.

“Tips from me?” I say. “The only action I’ve seen in months is when my doorman accidentally brushed my ass when he was helping me into a cab. And he’s seventy. What makes you think I could be your one-fuck-and-done mentor?”

“Weaver, we all saw you leave my restaurant with Chris. And even though you are every ounce a lady and didn’t give me details, well I know there’s only one thing to do with a man that looks that fine. And it’s not crossword puzzles.”

Oooh, Paris. My “last-hurrah” sexy stranger, Chris. It feels like a lifetime ago, walking down the twinkling Paris street that night with Chris. From the moment he and I left Kate’s restaurant, until the next morning when I slipped out of bed and left him behind, I had a smile plastered on my face. It seemed that night like the universe was giving me a tremendous gift, a wonderful memory that would fuel me for a year of solitude and hard work. It was a gift. A sexy gift of kisses, and nips, and slow touches. A gift I’ve savored ever since, remembering him fucking me in that small Paris studio, my breasts pressed up against the window, the lights along the Seine spread out in front of me like I was in a movie.

“Hello Weaver,” Kate says, chuckling. “I lost you there for a minute. And you’re blushing, by the way, slut. So I guess you remember who I’m talking about.”

“I remember,” I say, dreamily. “But I can’t really give you any tips. That night was just…I don’t know, magical. I mean, what were the chances that this stranger I’d run into in the metro would be at your restaurant and then would be interested in me?”

“Chances of someone being interested in you are high, my dear. Why are you selling yourself short?”

“I’m not. Or at least I don’t mean to. I’m just saying, Chris, Paris, that night, well I couldn’t have planned it if I wanted to. Some things are just serendipity. Right place, right time.” I pause. “Magic,” I say wistfully.

After I came home from Paris, I spent hours daydreaming about Chris, wondering if I’d ever see him again, whether he thought of me too. My thoughts often float back to that evening, to those steamy windows in Paris, to his strong hands that left bruises on my hips that only faded after I’d returned to New York. Although lately the fantasies have grown mistier. There’s the hint of Chris still there, his face, his body, but it was morphing into WildCaptain too, I realize with shock. The things I’ve learned about him, his humor, the give and take we so easily developed, it was folded into my vision of Chris.

I take a long sip of my drink, trying to avoid Kate’s eyes since my own may betray my thoughts. I don’t want to tell her about WildCaptain, and talking about Chris is inexplicably all mixed up with my growing, and confusing, feelings about him.

“Do you have regrets?” Kate asks.

“Regrets?! No, it was one of the best nights of my life,” I say, and I mean it.

“No,” Kate says. “I meant, do you regret that it didn’t lead anywhere? That you had to leave him and Paris behind. Isn’t there a part of you that wonders if it could have led somewhere?”

How can I explain to Kate that I met Chris, this amazing guy, at the exact wrong time? Everything that night was perfect, but for that night. Just one night. There was never any future for us, and it wasn’t just the distance. It was the email I’d received just before I left for Paris. My acceptance onto Sugar Girl and the year I planned to be a cam-girl, chatting naked with clients to earn fast cash. I couldn’t have expected anyone to want to be with a girl like me. Not like that.

“The only regret I’m worried about is that you keep playing shrink and we lose our primo reserved booth at Le Bain.” I throw back the rest of my drink, push Kate’s toward her, urging her to finish her drink.

“Why are we talking about Paris? Paris is so last season, Kate. We’re here, in New York City, together. Again!” I drag her toward the front door, and drag us away from this conversation and hopefully, on our way to making some new memories together.

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