by J. J. Bella
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, causing 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. .
Chapter Four
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.
Paul lifted the box, curiosity taking the place of any anger or fear for his father. Opening it, he saw a ring glinting back at him: an old family heirloom he recognized, that had been owned and worn by his great-great-grandmother—a rich Frenchwoman who’d married a Duke from England.
“You are to give this ring to the woman you choose to marry,” Otto continued. “And if you do not succeed in finding a woman, you will not only lose your position as CEO, but you will not receive your inheritance. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” Paul said, his nostrils flaring.
It was not unlike the board to do extreme things like this. His father was dramatic, European by all counts, and considered his life as a movie—one that involved toying with as many characters as he could.
“Above all, Paul,” his father began, his voice weaker than Paul remembered. “You need to create a stable environment for your daughter. So you can get her back. Family is the most important thing. And it seems you’ve forgotten that.”
Turning his eyes toward Jack, Paul glared at him—sensing that Jack had delivered information regarding his daughter’s life to the members of the board, making it seem as though Paul wasn’t demanding, nearly every single day, that his daughter come live with him.
If Elena would allow it, he would stop dating in a second.
Ripping up from his seat, Paul clipped the ring box closed, turning toward the door. “All right,” he said, his words snarky. “I’m off to find my own Cinderella. Because true love happens just like that. Right, Jack?”
Jack didn’t respond. Blood left both his parents’ faces, making them look ghoulish. Without another word, Paul turned from the boardroom, hopped into the elevator, and made up his mind, then and there, to get drunk.
Chapter Five
It was the last hour of work. So close to finish. That’s when it all fell apart: when Brittany’s cell phone began to blare. Realizing she hadn’t turned it off, she panicked, lurching toward it in the midst of pouring a coffee and dribbling black liquid across her apron.
“Shit,” she whispered.
Glancing at the phone, she noted that her design school was the one on the other line. Giving a firm wave toward Sarah, she mouthed: “This can’t wait!” and then raced into the back room, which was miraculously void of Ian. He hadn’t yet returned from his delivery run.
“Hello?” Brittany said, her voice high-pitched. “This is Brittany.”
“Brittany, hello,” the woman began. She sounded synthetic, like the voice on an answering machine. “This is Deborah from the scholarship office. I need to tell you, we’ve noticed a discrepancy in your scholarship, and we need you to come directly to the office to get it worked out.”
“A discrepancy?” Brittany asked, slipping her fingers across the coffee stains. “That’s impossible. I gave you all the documents a few weeks ago. For the new semester?”
“Yes, the one that begins Monday. That’s the semester we don’t have funds for at this time,” the woman responded, smacking her lips slightly at the end of her sentence.
“Well, I’m telling you—I mean, could you please check again?” Brittany asked, becoming breathless. Sarah turned toward her from the register, bringing her eyebrows low over her eyes.
“If you could just do us the service of coming to our offices as soon as you can,” the woman continued. “Mr. Jennings, one of our scholarship managers, has a bit of time this afternoon, set aside for you. If you want to take it?”
“I’ll be there in 25 minutes,” Brittany boomed, feeling adrenaline course through her veins. “I’m sure it’s just a minor mistake.”
“Happens all the time,” the woman agreed, snapping the phone on her receiver.
As she explained her predicament to Sarah, she felt hot beads of sweat begin to course down her forehead. Sarah pointed toward the door, giving her head a quick twitch, and demanded: “Why haven’t you left yet? Go get that shit worked out, girl. I can sling coffee for your last hour alone. Seriously.”
After lending her best friend a final, gut-wrenching hug, she bolted from the door, finding traction on the sidewalk and running headlong toward the subway. After taking the steps two at a time, she met with the last seconds of the closing subway doors.
Darting within, she narrowly missed crushing her arms in the gap—a moment of zeal and luck that would surely follow her into the scholarship offices.
“That was close,” a burdened-looking, 40-something woman whispered to her, giving her a wink.
“Tell me about it,” Brittany sighed.
The scholarship offices were on the far side of campus, tucked away in a stone building with stain glass windows—giving it a church-like appearance. At the front step, Brittany whipped her apron from her waist and stabbed it into her side bag, hoping she didn’t look as if she’d been sweltering in a café for the better part of the day. Giving a last glance into the small square of window on the door, she entered the building and gave her name to the bright-toothed, grey-haired woman at the front desk. The same one, incidentally, who’d called her.
“Good thing you came in right away,” the woman said, ringing Mr. Jennings with a firm press of a button. “He’s just had his lunch and should be ready to see you.”
The room reeked of sour cream and onion chips, making Brittany’s stomach squirm. Sitting across from Mr. Jennings, she watched as he dove through the various papers she’d signed, giving her the occasional ominous glance, and then burping half-heartedly into his hand.
Wonder what he had for lunch? Brittany said to herself, keeping her eye roll to herself.
“It’s just dried up, kid,” Mr. Jennings said then, his voice scratchy.
“But I sent in the paperwork. The state-funded scholarship?” Brittany began, remembering, with a stab of fear, that she hadn’t bothered to read all the fine print. Had she taken a misstep?
“That’s just not for people of your age. You have to be younger. And you just had a birthday a few weeks ago?” he said, glancing at the paperwork. “That’s right. And the other scholarships didn’t come through this year, because you’re in your second year. Just for first-year design students, unfortunately.”
“So you’re telling me that all of the scholarships I had last year are completely gone?” Brittany asked, aghast. She tossed forward, her large brown eyes wide and drying out. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”