The Way to a Billionaire's Heart: Part Two: BWWM Interracial Romance

by Mia Caldwell

  I tried to distract myself with plans for the new line, but of course that just made me wish I had her input. In the end, rather than get in the way of people trying to do their jobs, I took the saute pan and went back to my condo.

  Losing track of her on a Friday was making it especially hard to track Andrea down. I texted Steph every couple of hours, no matter how she assured me she’d let me know as soon as she found something. Hotels were extra busy and not returning her calls.

  Generous to my core, at ten p.m., I told Steph she could take a break until Saturday. As soon as I rose, I started pestering her again. I’m sure she was ready to quit by noon, but I am awfully charming.

  I’d just headed out for a jog when Zach called me.

  "Mr. Alexander, I’m not having any luck moving your Monday dinner with Kerrington & Klaus. Well, I can move it, but the day is the same."

  “What are you talking about Zach?”

  “I told them that you needed to be in Aruba on Monday and they said that was terrific because Mr. Klaus will be there for a poker tournament. They suggest that you join him there.”

  I sighed. I don’t have to scrape and bow to a lot of people, but I needed Kerrington & Klaus on board. “Fine, set it up. Send me the deets.”

  Before I even got back from my run, I had the email telling me which casino in Oranjestad, 6:30 pm. He had contacted the pilot of the company plane, I was set to fly out from Reagan National at noon. Efficient.

  It was Sunday evening before I had an answer from Steph.

  “I found them! Holy crap, you’d think Aruba was running the Witness Protection Program.”

  “I guess that’s good, in general, if not for me. Where are they?”

  “They’re booked into a suite at the Palm Court. Palm Beach area. Do you know it?”

  “Yeah, a good half hour from the city, more from the airport.” I sighed.

  “Here’s the thing,” said Steph. “In the end, I just hired a PI, I figured it was more efficient than calling every hotel on the island three times a day.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “I’ve got him keeping tabs on them, so you can find her when you get there. Can I give him your number or would you rather he contact me and I’ll contact you?”

  “No, no, just give it to him. Thanks, Steph, you’re the best. I’m not going to go down until tomorrow afternoon. Zach booked the plane for noon. Say, I’m meeting Klaus tomorrow at a poker tournament at the the Dolphin Casino. Can you find out about it and let me know what to expect?”

  By the time I turned in that night, I knew I needed to wear a tux, it was a high-stakes game financially, but not an especially important one to serious players. I had the car lined up to take me from the airport to the casino and then on to wherever Andrea was when I got free. It’s good to have an assistant. I recommend it.

  Just as I was about to leave on Monday, I grabbed the pan. Who knows, maybe it’ll be like Cinderella’s shoe. I imagined myself holding it out to her, saying “You forgot this.” Romantic comedies will mess you up.

  What I’d forgotten, when I grabbed it in a romantic gesture, was that it meant I’d be at a high-stakes poker tournament in a tux, holding a shiny pan. As it turns out, though, doing weird shit at a poker match can psych out your opponents and I walked away with more cash than was reasonable, considering what a lousy player I usually am.

  Mr. Klaus was a gracious loser, and impressed with my chutzpah. Our meeting went well, he was willing to support our new efforts to his stakeholders. And best of all, the meeting was short. By eight o’clock, I was texting with the PI, getting a location to catch Andrea.

  She’s having dinner at the Palm Pier. With a man, local chef, known douchebag. Their res is for 8:30. His text made me feel a bit sick in the pit of my stomach. Sure, she’d left D.C. with the impression that I was getting married, it’s to be expected that she’d move on. I’d just hoped it wouldn’t be so soon. But maybe they were talking shop. Chef stuff.

  The Palm Pier was on the other side of Oranjestad. Even an aggressive driver would take nearly an hour to get there in the traffic the tournament had generated. I wanted to interrupt this date before it started, if I could.

  I went out to where my driver was waiting. “I need to get to The Palm Pier in thirty minutes. Can you do it?”

  He looked at his phone for the time and shook his head. “Sorry boss, even if I lay on my horn it’ll take at least 45. Only way around this mess is helicopter or boat.”

  Boat. Of course. “Do you know anyone on this side of the city with a boat I can use?”

  “No sir, I can make some calls, though.”

  “No time. Thanks. You can go.” I sprinted to the back of the casino where yachts were moored, awaiting their owners. All too big, too unwieldy to pull up to the pier. I jogged down the wooden path along the shore until I came to a young guy polishing his fishing boat. It wasn’t fancy, under 20 feet, just a couple of seats and a motor. But it would do.

  “Say, what did you pay for this boat?”

  The guy looked me over, standing there in a tuxedo, holding a cooking pan. Clearly rich, probably crazy. “Ten thousand.”

  A lie. If he’d paid more than five, he’d been ripped off. But what did I care. “I’ll give you twenty, cash, right now.”

  He grinned. “Sold. You know how to drive it?”

  “Of course.” I unrolled the cash from the poker game. His eyes were enormous as I handed it over. “Thanks. You drive a hard bargain.”

  I took the key, climbed aboard, and started the motor. Once well off shore, I gunned it. Time to go get my girl.

  Andrea

  I was awake well before Kiera the next day. I knew she was in the room because I’d seen her shoes and bag. But I suspected the lanky local was in there with her, so I just crept out silently after having a lousy cup of coffee from the in-room maker.

  As I headed out for my morning float in the ocean, the sun felt good on my skin. I’ve never been a sun-worshipper, but here, I just wanted to stretch out in it, let it soak in. Or maybe I was just really hungover. Well, no maybe about it. My head was pounding, but the sun felt good and as I waded in, the water felt cleansing.

  I was in the water almost a full minute before I started thinking about Walker. Dammit. I had the vague sense of a promise broken. I tried to push him out by recalling the details of my time with Dylan. Replace dark hair with light, green eyes with grey. Tailored suit with rayon Hawaiian print shirt. Italian leather with flip flops…It wasn’t working. And that was just on the superficial level.

  I was clearing my head by trying to think of what I would cook if I were a chef here when I saw Kiera coming down the beach. I waved my arms so she’d see where I was.

  I paddled in toward shore to meet her.

  “Hey there, have a good night?”

  “Shhh…ow, my head.” Kiera winced as she waded out.

  “I hear you. Three Advil and a gallon of water later and my head is still pounding. What was in those drinks?”

  “Kevin says it’s the shitty local rum.”

  “Kevin? Local guy? Did you let him speak English or are you fluent in Papiamento now?”

  “I let him speak English this morning.” She gave me her bad girl grin. “Just before I sent him on his way. He wanted to stay with us today, said he’d be a tour guide.” She made a “psht” noise and shook her head. "I told him I don’t want a boyfriend or a tour guide."

  “I’m not sure I’m up for touring anyway.” I wasn’t sure I’d ever leave the water. It felt so good to be floating there in the sun.

  “Nooo. This is a hanging around the beach day. I intend to give this hangover until noon and then I’m going to the pool bar.”

  “I think it’s a sober day for me. Maybe I’ll lay on one of those chairs with a sunshade and read. If my head stops hammering.”

  “Wait!” Kiera’s head popped up off her tube and she took of her sunglasses. "How was your night? Last I saw, you left with that man with the
porn body and the shirt that didn’t close."

  “Dylan. We’re having dinner tonight.”

  "But what about last night? Did you bring him back to the room?"

  “Nah, I left not long after I went outside.” I sighed. “I wanted to hook up with him. I really did. But I kept thinking about Walker and I just felt…sad.”

  We floated in silence for a few moments. Then Kiera said, “Okay. Forgetting about him isn’t working. So try to just accept it. Tell yourself, ‘I met this man, I thought something was going to come of it, but it didn’t. And that’s okay. I’m sad, and that’s okay.’ Like, see your sadness and accept it. And let it go.”

  “Kiera, have you been listening to NPR again?”

  She laughed and splashed me. “As a matter of fact, that is from some mindfulness meditation bullshit I heard about. Here, I’ll put it how our mothers would: Let go and let God. Walker is out of your hands, out of your life. You don’t have to forget about him, you can remember those few days fondly if you want, but you can’t cling to them as a thing you can bring back.” She paused and paddled then added, “It’s like a dead puppy.”

  “What?!”

  “Like a dead puppy–it was cute and nice and fun, but it wasn’t around very long and all the crying in the world won’t bring it back to life. Go get a new dog.”

  “Holy crap, Kiera, I am so glad you didn’t become a therapist.” And yet…that actually made sense. Walker was my dead puppy. And I just needed to go back to the pound.

  We lounged about all day, reading and talking and laughing until the sun began to hang low in the sky. Snorkeling and hiking are fun, but wasting a whole day with your best friend is really what vacation is about.

  “I should go get a shower and get ready to meet Dylan,” I said about six.

  “Atta girl, get you a new puppy. But just to borrow. The best way to have a puppy. If you own it, you have to clean up its messes.”

  “I think you’ve pushed that metaphor as far as you should.”

  Kiera took a sip of her pina colada. “Just remember, a dog’ll follow anyone that’ll rub his belly ’til his leg shakes.”

  “Ooookay. It’s time to get you back up to the room before you get into trouble. Come with me, help me get my outfit together. ”

  After I showered, I found Kiera pawing through her closet again. “I still think you should wear the white dress. Just try it on! C’mon, please!”

  “Fine. Give it.” I took the dress into my room. Once I had it on, though, I had to admit, I looked ready to turn up.

  “Daaaamn, girl,” said Kiera when I came out to show her. “You are bringing the Anaconda realness tonight. If Dylan doesn’t work out, you should have your pick. May as well keep that dress, I can never wear it again after seeing how good you look. Shit.”

  I laughed. “I know that’s mostly the pina coladas talking, but thanks.” I looked like I was barely wrapped up in white medical tape, but in a good way. The sun had darkened my skin so that the contrast with the white was strong. A neckline that, on Kiera, showed a sexy cleavage, had hoisted my breasts up like scoops of chocolate ice cream in a white ceramic bowl. And yeah, my ass looked ready for a Big Sean video. If I were able to shake it like that, which I was not. I can dance, but I’ve never mastered the art of the ass dance. It doesn’t come up a lot in my line of work.

  But hey, it looked like I knew how to use it and that gave me a serious confidence boost. I put on my big silver hoops and some strappy sandals and headed out.

  Dylan was waiting for me in the lobby. His eyes bugged a little, like a cartoon character’s, when he saw me come in. He was wearing a different Hawaiian shirt, this time buttoned from mid-sternum, with cargo shorts and flip flops, like last night. Must be nice to get dressed as a guy.

  “Wow, Drea, you look amazing. You should wear this every day.”

  “Thanks,” I said, smiling, “but it’s not very practical. And I don’t think my clients would take to it.”

  “You need different clients, then.” He slipped his arm around my waist and steered me toward the door. The smell of booze was mixed with the tobacco and I was disappointed that he’d already been drinking. I was hoping for a lower key evening, at least to start.

  “So where are we going for dinner?”

  “The Palm Pier. My favorite place where I’m not cooking. It’s on a pier over the water, great seafood. We can walk, it’s not far.”

  The night was perfect. The air was warm and the humid breeze felt like a caress on my more-than-usual exposed skin. I was ready to flirt and have fun and move on. I was pretty sure of it. I wondered what Walker would think to see me in this get up instead of the sensible gear he’d always seen me in. It’s fine. Think about him and let it go. You don’t know what he’d think because you barely knew him. But you know what this man that is with you thinks, because…and pay attention here…he is WITH you.

  I took Dylan’s hand as we walked along the wooden path. No electricity between us, but that was okay. I hadn’t had it before meeting Walker, either. Electricity’s of little use to me if it’s in someone else’s house, right? Besides, I had more in common with Dylan. He made good food, too, didn’t wear expensive clothes…and probably some other stuff.

  The hostess that seated us clearly did not like Dylan. And she was not trying to win any points with me, either. She looked me up and down and gave me a look that said “figures.” She tried to seat us near an inside wall, but Dylan insisted on a table near the water. The sides of the restaurant were open, letting in the breeze and the sounds of the water lapping at the pier.

  “Can we get two rum and cokes?” he asked her without asking me if I wanted one. I don’t even like them, but I figured I’d just let it go. I don’t have to drink it.

  She brought them quickly, but practically threw them at us before walking away wordlessly.

  “What was that?” I asked when she walked away. “She’d have seated us in the restroom if she could and then dumped these on our heads.”

  “She’s a bitch,” Dylan said, opening his menu. “A stuck-up bitch.”

  I let it drop. That sounded like a story I didn’t want to hear. The restaurant world is small even in a big city, so I figured that on an island, everyone knew everyone else’s business. I opened my menu, too.

  From where I was sitting, I could see the hostess stand and I could see the girl that had seated us giving the waitress an earful, looking over at our table now and again as she talked. When she came over, the waitress was kind of stone-faced.

  “Know what you want?” she asked flatly.

  Dylan seemed oblivious to her attitude and he smiled at her, saying, “Yeah, I’ll have the swordfish and she’ll have the snapper.”

  “Wait,” I said, startled, “I wanted the grouper with the mango salsa.” I looked at the waitress, who nodded and crossed out what she’d already written.

  “Nah, babe,” said Dylan, taking my menu, “You want the snapper, trust me, I’m a chef!” He smiled that disarming smile, but I wasn’t, well, totally disarmed.

  The waitress was just looking at me with her eyebrows up and pen poised.

  “Fine,” I said, “Snapper.” She gave me a complicated look and crossed out and re-wrote my order. I like snapper, too, and Dylan had eaten here before. Not a battle I wanted to fight right now. Still, the warning light that had begun to glow with the “she’s a stuck-up bitch” comment was getting a little brighter.

  Or, to go with our old metaphor, that puppy might have growled at me.

  “So,” I said, eager to change the subject, “Where are you from? You weren’t born here, were you?”

  “Nah,” Dylan said, “I was born in Atlanta. Then I lived in Miami, but now my ex-wife is living in that house.”

  “Oh, you were married? Do you have kids?”

  Dylan drained his drink and set down the glass. “Well, that’s kind of where the ‘ex’ part comes from. I never wanted kids and she did. So when she got knocked up, I hit the road.
I’d been pretty clear and she tricked me.”

  “Oh,” I said. I had no idea what to do with that. As the child of a father who’d “hit the road,” he didn’t really have my sympathy. And that warning light was glowing bright. Looks like I’m going to be leaving this dog in the pound.

  The restaurant was filling up, clearly this was a late-night dining spot and it was getting louder by the minute.

  “Um, what kind of music do you like?” I half-shouted, hoping to steer this sinking ship into the shallow waters. To bring in yet another metaphor.

  “I’m not picky,” said Dylan, picking up what I had thought was my drink, but which I was happy to let him have. “I like Nickelback, Li’l Wayne, Jimmy Buffett.”

  “Wow, that’s all over the map,” I said, not saying the map of shitty music.

  Dylan was glaring at the hostess and I don’t think he even heard me. I decided to just drink my water, eat my food when it came, and get out as soon as I could.

  The waitress brought our food saying, "Enjoy your snapper" to me as she set down what really looked like the grouper with mango that I’d wanted.

  “Thank you,” I said, smiling at her. She cut her eyes at Dylan and raised her eyebrows. I wasn’t sure exactly what she was trying to say, but I nodded in what I hoped was an “I got you, sister” way.

  She probably didn’t need to be so subtle, because Dylan tucked into his fish like a starving man. I took a bite of mine. Overcooked. Canned mango. Cilantro overpowering everything else.

  Eh, why drag it out. I went to the restroom and didn’t sit back down when I returned to the table.

  “Look,” I said, “I think I’m going to just go. Thanks for dinner, but I don’t think this is working and you’re pretty clearly distracted.”

  Dylan looked up at me, mid-chew, his grey eyes dark. “Did that bitch say something to you?”

  “Who? The hostess? No. I just feel like I should go is all.”

  He stood up, his move sudden and kind of menacing. I stepped to my side of the table to pick up my wrap from the back of my chair and Dylan closed on me.

  “She’s a lying bitch,” he hissed, clearly drunk, swaying a bit.