Page 27 of Billionaire Romance

He opens the rickety security door and says dramatically, “After you, señorita.”

I’m shocked when I walk inside. As generic, and frankly creepy, as the exterior is, the interior is overwhelming. The walls are covered in tapestries, deep reds and purples, of dancers. Beautiful flamenco dancers with flowing hair and dresses whipping around them, some surrounded by musicians in cafés and others woven into abstract backgrounds. The tapestries create a cozy ambiance and buffer the conversations at the tables. Over the low buzz of voices is a soulful guitarist’s chords. He’s playing in a corner, and his lush notes fill every corner of the room. Diners lean over tables that glow in candlelight. There are candles everywhere. In hurricane lamps on shelves around the restaurant and low tealights on each table. It feels like I’ve stepped into one of the tapestries. The air is spicy, like garlic and cloves and saffron, and beyond the guitarist I see into the kitchen, where giant stockpots are steaming, and a chef is fussing over a smoking skillet.

“What is this place?” I ask Chris.

“This is the best and oldest paella restaurant in the city. Prepare to have your mind blown,” he says.

“Señor Beliem,” a voice booms in our direction. An older woman greets Chris. She’s wearing a jacket with ornate read epilates and a bright red carnation in her lapel. “I’m Sofía, Arturo’s grandmother. I was so pleased to learn you’d be visiting us tonight. Follow me, I have our best table reserved for you.”

We follow her to the back corner, away from the guitarist and the kitchen. It’s a secluded table, and while I’m excited to sit down and have some privacy with Chris, I yearn to get up close to the kitchen and inhale the amazing aroma.

“Thank you, Sofía. This is perfect!”

“Then I will leave you. Qué te aproveche la comida!”

“Well,” Chris says, a cocky note in his voice, “what do you think?”

“I’ve seen more authentic,” I deadpan. But I can’t help it, my smile cracks wide open. “It’s remarkable. I’m just overwhelmed by this place. How on earth did you discover it?”

“Sofía’s grandson picked me up at JFK last week. We got to talking and he told me about his grandmother’s restaurant and before I got out of the car, I made him give me the phone number. I knew I wanted to bring you here,” he says.

“You were that confident this was going to happen?” I ask.

“I was,” he says, leaning closer. “Because I knew I’d do anything to get close to you. I wasn’t going to give up.”

A waiter comes by and serves us two large glasses of red wine and places a platter of roasted red peppers, still sizzling and drenched in olive oil. Chris doesn’t hesitate, he raises a glass and looks me so deeply in the eyes I feel myself blushing.

“To you, Weaver,” he toasts. “Thanks for taking a chance on me.”

I raise my glass and meet his, warmth spreads through my chest and tummy as I drink. The wine is delicious and I’m happy, truly happy, that I did give Chris a chance. I pick up one of the red peppers with my fingers and take a bite. Olive oil soaks my lips and the bitter but fruity flavors explode across my tongue. I moan in appreciation, and Chris leans in to kiss my greasy lips. He holds his forehead against mine for an instant and says, “You couldn’t expect that I wouldn’t want a taste.”

When our paella is served, we are all business. The rice is cooked to perfection, so rich with flavor and streaked with red strands of saffron. Chris and I playfully dual with our forks to claim the juiciest bits of meat, laughing at each other’s appetites and our shared enthusiasm for this unique meal. It’s fun and light and a relief to know that we have fun together. Sexual chemistry doesn’t always translate into friendship, but by the end of the meal, when there’s just a few grains or rice and a couple of lima beans left in the pan, it’s clear we enjoy each other. When Chris motions to Sofía for the check and stands, disappointment floods through me.

“I don’t want to leave,” I say honestly.

“We aren’t leaving just yet,” he says. “Not before a dance.”

I look around confused, because I don’t see a dance floor. But that’s not stopping Chris, who takes my hand and urges me to my feet. “There’s plenty of room right here. In fact, I think the guitarist would be insulted if the most beautiful woman in the restaurant left before she danced.”

The guitarist is playing a slow and jazzy number. The notes are bright and robust, and Chris pulls me close to him, our bodies flush against each other. He starts swaying, one hand on the small of my back and the other on my neck. I hook my arms around his neck, enjoying the feel of his skin against my wrists, the weight of his body pressing against mine. We slow dance, surrounded by the rich atmosphere, and I feel like we’re completely disconnected from the outside world. Chris rests his cheek against mine and whispers, “This feels perfect,” and I nod in agreement,

The song picks up, and Chris rocks his hips. I follow his lead, dropping an arm to my side and swaying to the faster rhythm. He’s right, there’s plenty of room to dance by the table, and the guitarist and Sofía look on approvingly. We rock together, faster as the song’s beat builds, and we both start to lose ourselves in the moment, smiling at each other and laughing. As the guitarist ends the song with a flourish, Chris surprises me by dramatically dipping me, bending me at the waist and then pulling me back up. He meets my lips with a scorching kiss that I don’t want to end. I can’t help myself and I slip my tongue over his lower lip, tasting red wine and spices and feeling his hands tighten around me, pulling me even closer.

“Ready to get out of here?” he asks.

“Yes.”

When the cabbie asked us where to, I spoke up immediately. “The Plaza hotel, please,” I said.

Chris was facing forward, but I saw his mouth quirk up.

“You approve,” I asked, leaning into his side and sliding my hand up his thigh. We sit like that for the entire ride, the sexual tension thick between us, as I stroke his leg and he traces circles over the sheer tights on my knee. By the time the cab pulls up to the hotel, Chris is ready with a fifty for the driver and swiftly pulls me from the car and leads me up the hotel’s front steps.

The doorman greets us and opens the large glass door to the lobby. Chris holds my hand, a conspiratorial smile on his lips, and leads me toward the elevator bank.

“Bro,” a voice shouts, stopping us in our tracks. We turn to see where the voice is coming from, and I see a man standing in the entrance to the hotel bar. His suit is disheveled, and his tie is crooked. He sways a bit as he walks toward us, and I immediately identify this asshat as Chris’s brother, the one he was complaining about the other night.

“Ryan,” Chris says, through gritted teeth, “what are you doing here?”

---