Page 9 of Billionaire Romance

5

Weaver

It’s been so long since I’ve had a night out on the town, that I’ve been staring at my closet for fifteen minutes hoping something—anything—will jump out at me and say, “Wear me, Weaver.” Where are Cinderella’s little dressing birds when a girl really needs them?

I reach in and grab two dresses. Both short and tight. I figure I can’t go wrong with short and tight. I scrounge around on the floor looking for the single pair of heels I own, the ones I bought for Kate’s restaurant opening back in Paris.

I stand in front of the mirror, in my heels and panties, swapping one dress for the other to see which will look better. Silver or black? My gut says black, so I’ll blend in with all the other girls at the club, and then I tell my gut to take a hike because tonight is special, and I want to stand out. The silver dress has a lacey overlay with deep décolletage. It also has the advantage of long sleeves, so I can skip wearing a jacket. I’ll still freeze, but at least I won’t look like a total coatless twit. As I’m putting the black dress back in the closet, I hear a chime from my laptop. It’s a trill little note, and I recognize it immediately as the message notification from Sugar Girl.

I hang my silver dress on the doorknob and dive onto my bed, clicking accept on the message box from WildCaptain.

How’s the house guest? Does she love the carafe?

She’s pretty impressed, I type back. In fact, we’re going to stay in all night and take little sips of water from the carafe. It’s a total crowd pleaser.

You are party animals, he replies. But really, what are your big plans?

I’m actually excited to share them with him. I’ve done a lot of research to make sure Kate and I hit up all the best spots this weekend. I feel like I’m hopelessly unhip, so it’s become like a little research project for me. Back when I was waitressing, I never had enough money to go any place cool; I just went to the local hole-in-the-wall bars around my neighborhood. But tonight, we are going all out. $20 drinks. Live DJ. Appetizers that all have one ingredient too many and one ingredient I’ve never heard of before.

Check this out and tell me what you think. I send him a link to the club I chose, Le Bain, a popular club at The Standard hotel in the meatpacking district.

As I wait for his reply, I shimmy into my silver cocktail dress. It looks amazing. Better than it did when I bought it in college. I guess all that swimming is really paying off. I open my nightstand drawer and start digging around for two earrings that match. Luckily the only pair I find suit my look perfectly. Thin gold hoops with small turquoise beads. I decide to leave my hair down because the only hairstyles I know how to do are messy buns or brushed. So brushed it is.

Ping.

I walk over to my laptop and see WildCaptain’s message:

What are you, a rockstar? Pretty swank, but I know you’ll be the hottest one there.

You’re a charmer tonight. Well I’m glad it passes the WildCaptain test. I imagine you only go to the hippest places on your world travels.

“Weaver? Are you ready yet? You’re already gorgeous, get your ass out here.” I hear Kate’s voice calling from down the hallway.

“Finishing touches. I’ll be right out!” I call back.

Gotta run. Kate’s up and ready to P A R T Y! Chat soon. xoxo

As soon as I hit send, I regret that xoxo. What the fuck was I thinking? I’ve never done that before. I mean, the guy has seen all of me lots and lots of times, an xoxo isn’t exactly amping up the intimacy, but why did I do it? I once hung up the phone with the dentist and said, “I love you.” Is the xoxo just a weird social hiccup like that? This situation with WildCaptain is getting murkier and murkier

“Weaver, these cocktails need to be sipped yesterday!”

“Coming,” I say, leaving my laptop and xs and os behind.

Kate is in the kitchen in a cocktail dress of her own. By the looks of it, it’s from Paris. Dark blue silk, with dramatic lapels. Kate looks sophisticated and refined. Right off the Paris runway.

“Oh la la,” I whistle when I see her. “Très, très chic, mademoiselle.”

“Cut it out,” she laughs, punching me lightly in the arm. “You have to taste this. It’s a specialty cocktail I’ve been serving at L’Arc en Ciel. Let’s call it L’Orgasm. It’s that good.”

She hands me a tall, deep purple drink, garnished with thin slices of apple and lemon. I take a sip. It’s spiced with cinnamon, clove and maybe ginger. It tastes like winter. And it tastes like vodka. A lot of vodka. It is delicious.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” I tell her. And it’s the truth. “L’Orgasm doesn’t disappoint. My panties are wet. You never did well in any of our libation classes. Picking up new skills?”

“Well, it so happens the bartender I hired is a pretty good teacher,” she says, taking a sip. I notice a slight blush on her cheeks.

“Kate?” I say. “Dish.”

“Well, his name is Perry and he is very, very fine. That’s not why I hired him, of course, but it does make it more fun to hang out at the bar when he looks so good.”

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