The Way to a Billionaire's Heart: Part One: BWWM Interracial Romance (3 page)

I’d just started to cool off in the a/c, but I still felt damp and wilted when I heard the front door open. I kept slicing salmon and praying it wasn’t Walker.

“Helloooo, Pookie! Miss me?”

I was mid-chop, so I didn’t turn around right away. I heard the same voice, now just behind me, say, “Oh, it’s just Rosa.”

I placed my knife on the cutting board and wiped my hands on my towel as I turned around to see a tall blonde woman and a petite redhead. The annoyance on the blonde woman’s face changed to surprise bordering on horror when she saw my face.

“Oh!” she said, her perfectly manicured hand flying up to her suspiciously plump lips, “I thought you were someone else!”

“Rosa, I’m guessing,” I replied with a professional smile. Oh, I knew her. And she knew me. I’d catered a “book club” meeting for this nasty piece of work. I use the quotes because I doubt any of those women so much as bought the book they claimed to be discussing. I’d heard them all claiming to have gotten it on their Kindles. Uh-huh. Never heard a word about plot or character development coming out of the great room–lots of words about spas and personal trainers and the burden that is finding a good gardener that will accept pay under the table–but no words about the actual book.

Anyway. She’d hired several months ago, asking for a selection of passed apps–you know, things in puff pastry or on toothpicks. I had been afraid that she’d be a micromanaging sort, that she’d want to tell me exactly what brands to use, exactly which cut of meat from exactly which butcher, but she’d been really hands-off. She just told me how many guests, a list of food intolerances (likely both real and imagined), and left me to it. At the time I felt bad, thinking I’d judged her wrong. Just because she had one percent body fat and tennis clothes that cost more than my whole wardrobe combined, that didn’t make her bad, right? Well something did. When I started walking among her guests with my tray she said, “I knew I’d be exhausted today after my workout, so I got a girl to help me serve.”

And I thought "
Girl?
Are you kidding me?" And then, when one of the guests popped one of the creme fraiche-topped blini into her mouth (and of course only after going on and on about how she “shouldn’t, really”) and said, "Oh, Celia, these are
sinful
, is there anything you can’t do?" that bitch just smiled and said, “I’m so glad you like them, it was my first time making them.”

Like a liar.

But I’m a professional and I kept my mouth shut. I put my business cards out in the kitchen, in case one of them wandered in, looking for more wine. Celia, however, just scooped them up when she thought I wasn’t looking and slipped them into her pocket.

Like a thief.

So to see her standing there, off-balance because she can’t tell the Honduran housecleaner from the black caterer (hey, a black ponytail’s a black ponytail, right?)…well, it was a little delicious. I hoped that she also was feeling a little guilty about me knowing she was a thieving liar, but I doubt my opinion mattered that much to her.

Her companion was looking blankly from one of us to the other so I just extended my hand to my old customer, saying, “Andrea Wilson, I believe we’ve met.”

As she took my hand in hers, with that weak, limp grip (girl, you lift weights all day, can’t you even shake hands?), I hoped I still had salmon-smell on my fingers.

“Oh, yes, of course! How nice to see you again.” She placed a hand at her chest. “Celia Bradford.”

I couldn’t resist just a little barb. “Oh, I remember,” I said with a smile. Let her wonder.

“Has Mr. Alexander been in?” she asked, before I could shake hands with her friend.

“No, are you expecting him here?” “Mr. Alexander” had better not be coming in…

“I was hoping to steal him for lunch. I’ll just pop up to say hello to Mother Alexander and if he’s still not here, I may go check at the office. Nice seeing you!” she said, breezing out of the kitchen without a look back. The anonymous friend trailed her, weakly lifting a hand to wave at me as she went, no expression on her face–as if she were afraid any movement of the mouth would give her wrinkles.

Mother Alexander
? What did that mean? She’d called “pookie” when she came in. If Walker is Pookie and his mom is Mother Alexander, then this Celia…well obviously she was his girlfriend. Maybe more, given the “Mother” thing.

My face was flushed as I went over the previous night in my head. Clearly I’d misread some signals, right? Or was he just a dog? He has his rich blonde girlfriend and he flirts with the help. God knows he wouldn’t be the first. I guess at least he was honest about it.

I kept working on the lunch, waiting for the sounds of the women leaving. I did
not
want to go up there while they were there. Rosa came in to refill her water bottle.

“Hey Rosa, are those two women still up there with Mrs. Alexander?”

She rolled her eyes just a little. “Yes, they think Mr. Walker will be back, but his mother says no. At least not before dinner time.”

“So, um, the blonde one, Celia? Is she Mr. Walker’s girlfriend?” May as well stop speculating, right?

Rosa took a swig of water and shrugged. “Right now? I think so. Maybe? She come and go.” She stepped in closer and lowered her voice, her eyes darting to the doorway. “He’s too good for her. But he don’t have time to date. Where’s a rich businessman going to find a good wife? He works all the time and she just spends money.” She made a dismissive gesture.

Ugh. My stomach was clenched up tight. “Rosa, I know this is asking a lot, but I, um, have a history with Celia and I’d rather not go up there. Could you take Mrs. Alexander her lunch?” I tried for a winning smile. “I’ll make you a plate, too.”

She smiled and gave me the side-eye, “I don’t want an avocado smoothie.”

“Honeyed salmon on fresh greens with goat cheese fritters.”

“Sold.” She picked up the tray and marched out.

I fixed her a plate and tidied up so I could leave. I had a dozen calls I needed to make before I came back here to make dinner, but my head was just swirling. And I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.

I texted Kiera and she agreed to skip a meeting and meet me for coffee. That’s a best friend.

“I don’t know,” she said, sipping on her iced cappuccino. I’d told her everything, from “would the help flirt back” to “Pookie.” I’d hoped talking about it would make it all clear to me and then I’d know what to do, but not this time. I needed advice.

“Okay, but does it sound like he was actually interested or just doing that careless flirting thing that hot guys do?”

"I wasn’t there, Dre, so I can’t really know. But from what you’re
saying
it sounds like yeah, he’s into you. I mean, the google-stalking and the business proposal sound real enough. And god knows if he was just interested in business, this town is thick with MBAs that take gourmet classes."

“I know, right? That’s what I told him. But he was all ‘There was something about you’ or something. So I’m not reading into it? I’m telling you, there’s like weird electricity between us.”

“I’ve never known you to think a guy is into you when he isn’t. I mean, it’s usually the opposite, right? I’m saying, ‘Girl, that guy is checking you out!’ and you’re sure he just has gas or can’t quite read the menu-board.”

I laughed; she was right. I know I’m cute, but so are a lot of women, so it’s hard to stand in a bar full of people that look like Calvin Klein models and assume a guy is looking at you. Now where grew up, where Mama lives? They don’t go for subtle. There it’s “Hey girl, why don’t you come over here?” and far cruder offers followed by “Stuck up bitch.” I mean, I’m sure there are nice guys–they just aren’t hanging out on the steps of my mom’s building.

“But if he has a girlfriend, I don’t want to be flirting with him. She’s a monster, but I’m not going to steal away someone’s man.”

Kiera rolled her eyes at me. “Honey, you cannot steal a man like a pack of gum. If you make the offer and he goes along with it, that’s his choice. You’re pretty, but you are not magic.” She waggled her eyebrows at me. “Maybe he’s tired of all that vanilla.”

“Pft, she’s not even vanilla. She’s the carton it came in. Or rum raisin. Who likes that?”

"Then you’re doing him a favor. Go home and shower, get cute. Give yourself enough time so you don’t have to walk too fast and get all sweaty. It’s perfect timing. You fill his head with how great you are and then you and me hit Aruba for a week, make him
long
for you."

Kiera knows guys. She claims to be too busy to be serious, but I think she just really likes dating and flirting and hooking up. And I, as I’ve mentioned, do not. Setting out to charm a man felt about as natural as flying. But I did what she said, just in case his plans changed and he came in for dinner.

And Walker never turned up.

I was still feeling hopeful when I took a meal up to Mrs. Alexander. She gave me the side-eye when I handed her the martini glass.

“What the hell is this crap?” she asked, peering at the emerald green liquid.

“It’s a wheatgrass cocktail.”

“You’d better be using that word correctly.”

I laughed really hard, that old lady cracked me up. “Yes, Mrs. Alexander, I am. I promise. It has wheatgrass, just like your son ordered, but I added some Cachaca, vodka, and lime juice. It’s after five, after all.”

She smiled broadly. “Atta girl.” She took a sip and looked up, “Not bad! That Brazilian-and-grass combo reminds me of my first gardener.” She shook her head wistfully. “Tastes just like him.”

I blushed like the prude I secretly fear I am and pretended I didn’t hear, busying myself with the tray of food. Once I had introduced it all to her, I said, “I’m sorry I didn’t bring up your lunch myself. I didn’t want to interrupt you when you had guests.”

She waved her hand in the air. “If you waited for that girl to shut her mouth, I’d starve to death, so I’m glad you sent it up.”

I kept an airy tone,
oh, I’m just making small talk, ma’am
. “Does she come by often?”

“More than I’d like.” Almost muttering to herself, she added, “what he sees in her I can’t imagine.”

Back in the kitchen, I decided to just pack up and get out. By the time I had cleaned up, it was late enough that it was clear Walker wasn’t coming. I wasn’t sure I’d even want to see him. I’d worn uncomfortable shoes for him and pinned up my hair in a twist more flattering than my usual work style. But my “I’m going to get him!” high from earlier was fading. What chance did I have against a golden goddess like Celia? And really? If he could love a woman like that, why would I even want him?

Chapter Four

There was no sign of Walker at lunch the next day, either, and by the time I came in to make dinner, I felt like myself again. This is just a job, do it and get on with the next one. Maybe I’d call him about the consulting job, maybe not. I could think about it in Aruba. Tomorrow night. I’d told Mrs. Alexander I’d come make her one last avocado smoothie tomorrow morning, but then I was off to the airport. A week in the Caribbean would wash away all the uncertainty and weirdness of these past few days.

I took the tray upstairs and was whistling as I came back into the kitchen to find Walker leaning against the counter, offering me a glass of red wine.

And all my cool resolve just dissolved. Like the connective tissue in my knees. What was it about him that his very presence made it hard to stand up, to breathe normally, to remember who I am?

“Did I make it in time for dinner again?” he asked, smiling that easy smile. His voice made my stomach get all fluttery, in addition to all the other symptoms. He was like a really strong virus.

“Sure,” I said, “I’ll make you a plate.” Figure it out, girl–what do you want here? Flirt back and get your heart broken? Play it cool and maybe blow the chance at a business deal? Surely I could just play at flirting, it doesn’t have to mean anything, right? Right?

I gave him the plate and took the wine glass. You know, I can’t tell much difference between a $15 bottle of wine and a $30 bottle. But I can tell when it’s a good wine. This was a good wine.

“This salad is amazing,” said Walker between bites. “What’s that unusual flavor?”

“Sorrel. I have a connection in West Virginia that does wild harvesting. In spring, she gets me morels–she has secret spots.”

I sat down across from him with my own plate. “The wine is very good, thank you.”

“It’s one of my favorites. I know some people wouldn’t drink red with fish, but I say good wine and good food always go together.”

I lifted my glass, “I’ll drink to that.” I watched him for a moment, he was chewing with his eyes closed, savoring the taste. Seriously, that’s like crack to a chef. When he opened his eyes, I darted my eyes to my plate, I didn’t want to be caught staring. When I looked up, he was watching me. It was getting hard to eat when my stomach was so full of butterflies.

Talking, though, I can always do that.

“So, did you mom never cook when you were a kid, even before you got rich?”

“Oh, we’ve always been rich,” he said with a crooked smile. “My mother’s father came from Italy a wealthy man. He’d had a falling out with his brother–they were just beginning to industrialize baking there and the Rossi brothers couldn’t agree on how to run things. So Salvatore packed up his brand new bride and moved to America to open his own factory. He was pretty successful right away, but when he launched Tiny Tina–” Walker gestured toward the stairs. “–named after my own mother, his little girl, Christina, that’s when he got really rich.”

When I realized that the rosy cheeked little girl on the snack cake box was the foul-mouthed old woman upstairs, I nearly choked. My wine went down the wrong way and I started sputtering. I tried to wave him away while I coughed, but Walker jumped up to get me some water and stroked my back while I drank it. It was a strangely intimate gesture, but I was too busy figuring out how to breathe again to really respond. When I was back to just clearing my throat a little, he still stood there beside my chair, his hand on my back. I felt like all of my focus was on that hand-shaped patch of skin, like there should be visible light radiating out from his fingertips. Get it together. Control. I shifted my weight a little and he sat back down. There was an empty spot on my back.