by J. J. Bella
“Wonderful. Really great to know where my daughter’s going to be, even if I can’t see her. Thanks.” His words were icy, unguarded, now. He couldn’t hold himself back.
“You should have thought about that before you went along with what’s-her-name while we were still married,” she boomed, nailing another rusty nail into the coffin of their relationship. It was long-buried, but she continued to bring this conversation to the surface, pointing at the mold and railing it against him.
“So you’re going to do this, huh?” Paul asked, incredulous. “Because you know I could just as easily bring up the truth, without all the fiction you’ve formed in your pretty little head, Elena. You know as well as I do that I didn’t pick up with Gretchen until after I’d moved out. And that I caught you with your personal trainer when Lea was sleeping in the next room!”
“That’s preposterous. You saw nothing,” Elena blurted.
“I saw your breasts, moments before you pushed them back in your sports bra. I mean, after all these years, Elena, how can you still refute the truth? That you were cheating on me far before I was ever cheating on you. If you could even call what I was doing cheating, since we were properly separated at that point.”
Elena began to sniffle into the phone, showing some semblance of actress skills, which she’d used in exactly three commercials since Paul had known her. Two of them had been for window cleaner.
“Jesus, and now this. When I know, almost for a fact, that you’re sleeping around with Jack,” Paul continued, tossing from his mattress and standing, feet wide apart on the hardwood floor, his toes digging deep. “Listen. Don’t call me again unless you want to discuss me seeing my daughter again. Need I remind you that she’s half mine?”
“I’m not sleeping with Jack—“ Elena protested.
But Paul had already hung up the phone, smashing it against his mattress and watching it bounce against the soft, cloud-like comforter. His blood hammered against his eardrums. Slipping his long, thick fingers through his jet-black hair, he began to mumble in French. “Merde. Elle est une personne terrible…”
Tossing himself into the shower, he began to prepare for his meeting later, at the New York Le Montagne headquarters in Manhattan, far from his gorgeous nook in Williamsburg. He dressed in an immaculate suit, slipping gel across his hair and assessing himself in the mirror, trying not to think back to that fateful day: when he’d discovered his lovely wife, in the arms of another man.
Not since that day had he allowed himself to feel anything like love.
Tossing from the high-rise apartment, he blinked into the bright light of this day in early May, and then darted down the road, passing start-up assholes in horn-rimmed glasses, speaking enthusiastically about their five-year plans and their musician girlfriends. In that moment, he realized he needed a cup of coffee more than he ever had in his life.
3
The lunch rush was winding down. Brittany found herself carrying several coffee mugs, tilting in all different directions. They clattered together ominously, making her cling to them tightly, anxious they would blast to the ground. Sarah snuck up behind her, making a roaring noise, trying to frighten her.
“Don’t you even dare,” Brittany said, her eyes flashing. “If Ian catches me breaking another mug around here, I’ll be fired.”
“You’re right. What if some of the shards get into his perfect, artisanal beans?” Sarah joked, collecting half of the pile from Brittany’s quivering hands.
Ian had sped off to make a delivery, leaving the girls alone at Blue Line—sharp-tongued and ready to talk shit about their most inconvenient coffee shop gig. As Sarah began to scrub at the coffee stains, Brittany whipped around to begin refilling the window with baked goods—muffins, scones, all things she hadn’t allowed herself in the months since she’d begun working there. “I gained five pounds when I first started,” Sarah had told her, her voice low and anxious. “Just be careful. Many baristas have fallen off the wagon of their best-laid diet plans.” To this, Brittany had laughed wildly.
“I just want to finish up these dishes so we can get back to the important work of ogling those assholes in that magazine,” Sarah called to her, chuckling. “Forget design school. Do you think we could major in rich businessmen?”
“Ha,” Brittany laughed. “I don’t know how I’ll pay my bills with that.”
As she arranged the muffins: raisin, then craisin, then chocolate chip, she heard the jangling of the bell at the door. With a sigh, she turned toward it, ready to take on another group of wide-eyed, hungry customers, coming to whoosh her into another rush.
But when she glanced up, she found herself gazing into the gorgeous, penetrating eyes of the most handsome man she’d ever seen in her life. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark eyebrows that seemed to have a life of their own. His features were sharp, vaguely European, and his suit was immaculate, showing the grandness of his wealth. Stuttering, Brittany greeted him.
“He—hello,” she said to him, tossing toward the register. “Welcome to Blue Line.”
She continued to gaze into his eyes, sensing an electric spark gravitate up and down her spine. He was a good deal older than her, perhaps 30, and seemed to evoke an air of grandeur and know-how. Noticing her anxiousness, a smile stretched across his face.
“Hi there,” he said, his voice deep, gravelly. “Looks like the place just emptied out.” He gestured back, toward the side tables, still filled with leftover plates and forks and crumpled napkins.
“We had quite a rush,” Brittany whispered, knowing she sounded foolish.
“Good. I have you all to myself,” he said.
Brittany felt her heart begin to beat rapidly, rabbit-like, against her ribcage.
“I’d love a latte,” he continued. “If you can spare the time.”
“Of—of course,” Brittany stuttered again, almost leaping toward the espresso machine and beginning to brew the beans. Continually, she glanced up at him, as he sorted his bills in his massive, leather wallet. His nails were smooth, clean, connected to the firmest, largest hands she’d seen in her life—hands that could control you, when they wrapped around your waist.
As the black liquid began to course into the cup, she realized, with a jolt, that this was the man from the magazine. Paul Le Montange. The billionaire, with family connections in Paris. With a shudder, her eyes traced back toward the counter, where the magazine was still spread open—on his photo.
Fuck.
Almost on cue, Paul followed her eyes directly toward the magazine, realizing that his face was staring back. Chortling slightly, a bit arrogantly, yet not unkindly, he lifted the magazine from the counter and gestured to his face.
“Not one of my best photo shoots,” he said, his eyes glittering.
Brittany nearly dropped the cup. With her lips pressed together, she tried to collect her thoughts, to calm her racing mind. Finishing with a flourish, she passed the latte across the counter toward him, making direct, deep eye contact once more. She couldn’t resist it.
“Um. My co-worker. She had it open… Wanted to keep in the know about New York happenings. You know.”
In that moment, Sarah darted back toward the far refrigerator, leaving the two of them alone. The air around them grew tense, rippling with Brittany’s anxiety. Why hadn’t she followed the rules? Left the magazine alone? “Think of the artisanal beans,” Ian had told her, over and over. But her lonely heart had gravitated someplace else.
“So you didn’t notice you were speaking to the man in the magazine?” he asked, still maintaining that crooked smile.
“I mean, you must understand,” Brittany said, trying to regain traction. “I’m a centered, coffee-driven woman. I can’t mess around with things as silly as a magazine article.”
“Right. So even though this was one of the top-selling magazines in the past five years, you didn’t really care to look into it,” Paul said, teasing her.
Brittany crossed her arms across her chest, ca
using the small, pert breasts beneath to bulge up. Was he flirting with her, or did it just always seem that he was flirting, given how handsome he was?
“Best-selling, huh? You must be really proud,” she teased back, tossing her light blonde hair behind her ears. “I suppose I can give it a read later, unless you want to give me a rundown of what’s in it?”
“Oh, just the basics,” Paul shrugged. “That I’m one of the richest men in New York. That I look damn fine in a suit. That I tip my baristas incredibly well, even if they make a lackluster latte.”
Brittany’s jaw dropped. “You haven’t even tried it yet!”
With a flourish, Paul lifted the latte to his perfect, large lips and sucked at the top, closing his eyes. The move was vaguely sexual, making Brittany feel a lurching desire in her gut. After a long, dramatic pause, he answered.
“I misspoke,” he said, his eyes saying a million things at once. “In essence, this is the best latte the world over. From Paris to Timbuktu to Florida to Tokyo.”
“Even Florida?” Brittany asked, her heart swelling.
“The Sunshine State itself,” he said back. Bringing his watch upward, he glanced at the time and then tilted his head toward the door.
Could he really leave, like all the others? The only one Brittany wanted to stick around? Just to see what kind of witty banter they could drudge up, between them?
“I have a meeting in Manhattan,” he said then, giving a slight shrug. “I hope I haven’t taken too much time from your clearly busy day.” With a flourish, he lifted a five-dollar bill from his pocket and snuck it into the tip jar, giving Brittany a wink. “I hope you’ll have a fine afternoon, my favorite barista.”
Turning quickly, he rushed from Blue Line and joined the sidewalk-strutters, heading toward the corner, where a private, black car was waiting for him. Brittany remained, poised at the register, sensing that he was dripping from her life for good—like water between her fingers.
Sarah snuck up behind her, then, snickering into her ear. She wrapped a slim arm around Brittany’s shoulder, holding her tight. “Don’t think I’ve seen a man look at you with such love since an hour ago.”
“Ha,” Brittany laughed, tossing herself from Sarah’s arms and continuing with the muffins, her heart still beating, showing her fright. “He looks at everyone that way.”
“I don’t think so,” Sarah said, adding her hand to her waist and giving her a sassy expression. “Sure, he’s a billionaire playboy. But he was giving you love eyes.”
“Whatever, Sarah,” Brittany said, her cheeks reddening. “I don’t have time for an affair with someone who probably wouldn’t remember my name afterwards. I have bills to pay. And I have a career to make. Love is for later.”
“Mmm, sure,” Sarah laughed, turning back to the dishes.
The girls didn’t speak for almost a half-hour, with Brittany’s brain running a mile per minute—lost in the fantasy of what her life could be. If only. .
4
Paul’s chauffeur, a man named Jose from Mexico, drove too quickly through the streets of Brooklyn, bolting toward Manhattan. The radio sputtered with ‘80s tunes, and he turned his shoulders with the chaos of the music, swirling his head right and left to hunt for pedestrians, potentially crossing.
Lost in thought, Paul sipped his latte, scolding himself for having any adoration for that gorgeous barista at Blue Line. She was surely one of the countless, young-20-something hipsters of Brooklyn: that short, blonde bob, those wide-set brown eyes, those trendy clothes. But something about her—had it been the easy banter between them?—had cast her as different than the rest, in his eyes.
Flashing his eyes, he tried to recall the gorgeous woman who’d scrambled out of bed with him that morning. Breasts? Eyes? Cinched waist? He could hardly remember. She’d been merely an apparition, an amalgamation of all the other women he’d slept with since the divorce had gone through with Elena.
“You have a meeting with your father today, sir?” Jose asked him, his dark eyes entering the rearview mirror and looking back.
“Not quite sure,” Paul said. “Don’t think Dad’s in town right now. My secretary just said the board wants to see me. But I haven’t a clue why. Haven’t met with the board in months.”
Paul hadn’t thought the software company, of which his father was CEO, had much use for him these days. Namely, one of the members of the board was Jack Pritchard, the very man who’d apparently cozied up to his ex-wife in the previous months—and who was, assuredly, spending far more time with his daughter than he was. This made his blood boil.
“I hear on my last drive that your father is thinking of retiring?” Jose called back.
“Sure. He’s been talking about that for years. But I don’t think I’ll be the one up for the gig. Do you, Jose?” Paul laughed, knowing that Jose understood the ins and outs of Paul’s life. He’d driven one too many women back from his penthouse not to notice a pattern.
“Oh, Paul, you’re too hard on yourself,” Jose said, easing the black car through the sunny streets. Out the front window, Paul caught sight of the massive building in the Financial District: where the offices of the software company had stretched a series of offices, on the 55th floor.
Tossing a 50 back to Jose, for his trouble, Paul lurched into the sunlight, grabbed his briefcase, and then entered the glass doors on the ground floor. Making a beeline toward the elevator, he pressed the circular button, rolling his eyes as a gorgeous, bright-eyed woman stepped in just before the door closed. She assessed him, drawing her eyes from his shoes to his shoulders, then said:
“Hello there, Paul. Don’t think I’ve seen you in the office in a while. Maybe a year?”
“Samantha,” Paul boomed.
“Your father and mother are in town, I heard?”
Paul shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t heard from them in weeks and had ben under the impression that they were still at their French chateau, south of Montpellier, on the sea. “Good weather for it,” had been his mother’s last text message. At which time, he’d allowed himself the luxury of not speaking to them for a while and diving headlong into his selfish, luxurious life.
“Suppose so,” Paul returned.
“Big meeting ahead. You nervous?” she asked.
“Suppose not,” Paul said, not giving her an inch.
Samantha was in cahoots with Jack Pritchard, and thus didn’t care for Paul very much. They were both on the board for the software company, leading Paul to believe that he’d never be CEO, once his father stepped down. It didn’t seem logical, with so much working against him.
Did he even want the gig, anyway?
The elevator doors parted, leaving Paul to follow Samantha’s clattering heels toward the conference room. Through the doors, Paul was shocked to find several of the higher-ups—his father’s friends and confidants at the company, Jack Pritchard, and his father and mother, all stationed at chairs that shifted left and right with their weight. Paul lifted a hand in hello and then swept forward, giving his mother a kiss on the cheek and shaking his father’s hand.
“Please, Paul. Sit down,” his father, Max Le Montagne, said, gesturing.
Paul did as he was told, sitting at the far side of the table and giving an ominous, dark expression to Jack, whose face seemed scrunched in, tight.
Otto, Max’s long-time friend and business associate, who often ran these sorts of meetings, began to speak. His wrinkles lined his cheeks and chin, making it appear as though someone had yanked his skin downward every day for the past 50 years.
“Paul, we have some rather unfortunate information for you here today,” he began.
Paul kept his cool, drawing his arms across his chest. “Please, proceed.” Perhaps they were telling him that his inheritance was reduced? That he needed to begin working at the company again?
“Your father, as you know, has had some health complications over the years. But unfortunately, the recent diagnosis isn’t one he can come out of. I’m sure he’
ll tell you more of the details regarding this at a later time,” Otto continued.
Paul swept his hands to the tabletop, his eyes directing toward his father. “Dad?” he began. “What—“
Max lifted his finger to his nose, tapping it once. “Still have years to live, Paul,” he said. “Let’s get back to the meeting, shall we?”
With Paul’s heart still hammering in his chest, he focused on Otto. “All right. Apologies for my outburst.”
“Absolutely understandable,” Otto continued. “Now. In the wake of this news, the board has met and made a decision. You, Paul Le Montagne, will take over as CEO of Le Montagne Software, giving your father adequate time to rest and enjoy his life.”
Paul looked aghast. Jack shifted in his seat, matching Paul’s expression. It was clear that he’d assumed, with his rank on the board, that he’d be considered for the position of CEO—rather than Paul. Paul had assumed this, as well, and had already considered the prospect of working with the man who was sleeping with his ex-wife: how to handle him, how to ruin him, how to translate just what he thought of him, without breaking the law.
“But there’s a catch,” Otto continued.
“Suppose there always is,” Paul boomed.
“As far as your lifestyle goes, Paul, your father could be a great deal happier. We’d like you to take some responsibility for your life. We’d like you to move past your bachelor ways and eventually marry once more.”
Paul felt himself scoff. “So you want me to just head out on Broadway Avenue and fall in love with the first girl I see?” he asked, glancing at his father. His outburst had clearly upset his mother, who held her cheeks in her hands. Her bright pink lipstick left marks on her fingers.
“Of course not,” Otto continued, clearly the voice of reason. His words were calculated, slow. He lifted a small box from his breast pocket, placed it on the table, and then shoved it toward Paul.