She is Mine: Prequel to The Billionaire's CamGirl

by Penny Wylder

  “Chris, good to hear your voice too, brother,” Martin says sarcastically. It makes me smile. If I have to be here in France and subject myself to my grandfather’s latest manufactured crisis, at least I’ll get to catch up with Martin.

  “I’m about to hop on the train north now. Tell the old man I’m on my way, okay?” I say.

  “Sure thing, Chris,” he replies. “Listen, I’m sorry you had to cancel your plans this weekend. But you know grandfather, there’s just no predicting what he’d do if we didn’t come. Remember the great will rewriting of 2014? The estate attorney made a fortune when Ryan blew off Christmas dinner.”

  “Hey, you’re just the messenger, Martin. I know that. I was just hoping to let off a little steam this weekend rather than be holed up with you in Lille.”

  “Well, the old man leaves for Hong Kong tomorrow afternoon, so you’ll be free to leave Lille then. I know it’s not a chalet in St. Moritz, but Millie’s friend is having some sort of party tomorrow night in Paris. I’ll text you the details. Maybe it’ll be fun.”

  “Married with three kids fun, or fun-fun, Martin?” I joke. I love him for trying, I do.

  I hear my train’s departure announced over the loudspeaker and say goodbye to my brother. I pick up the pace and make it to the platform just in time. It isn’t a long ride up north to my grandfather’s estate, but it’s plenty of time to close my eyes and go back to Bali and Weaver. I’m a gentleman, of course. I can’t let even imaginary-Weaver put on her own tanning oil.

  3

  Weaver

  The taxi drops me off in front of the address Kate texted me. I wasn’t going to risk taking the metro wearing my three-inch heals tonight. I’ve gone all out for Kate’s big night. I decided to wear bright yellow. It will have special meaning to Kate. I bought this jumpsuit with a surplice neckline in New York, the fabric crossing over at my chest into a plunging neckline. It makes me feel sexy and playful. The perfect combination for tonight.

  I take in Kate’s restaurant from the outside. It’s hard to believe it’s really hers. The restaurant sits on a small market street in the heart of Paris. The street is cobblestoned and lined with balconies overflowing with bright red geraniums. Warm yellow light pours out from the large windows of the restaurant. Above the door is an old Hollywood marquee style sign with multicolored chasing lights. The restaurant is called L’Arc-en-Ciel, rainbow in French. I smile, remembering warmly the times in college when Kate and I would whisper at night about the pot of gold waiting for us at the end of our rainbows. College wasn’t a breeze for either of us, but with each other’s support, we worked hard so we could be on our way to fulfilling our dreams. That’s why I’ve chosen the bright yellow jumpsuit tonight, to remind Kate of all those years and that she’s finally arrived at her pot of gold. The irony of dressing up as a pot of gold for her success while success eludes me, stings. For a minute, I want to turn around and go back to my studio and sulk, feeling so beaten down compared to Kate. But no! My time will come, the universe will deliver, and as soon as I get home I’ll be on my way, barreling down my own road to success. I have a long, bumpy road ahead of me, but I’m not going to look at Kate’s success as a rebuke to my own life. It should be an inspiration. In a year, maybe she’ll be toasting my accomplishments.

  With a genuine smile on my face and excited butterflies in my tummy, I open the door to L’Arc-en-Ciel and stride inside. The interior is beautiful. It isn’t a traditional French bistro but has some of those elements. The booths are sleek and modern, but the walls are covered in antiqued mirrors and a few mounted bore and deer heads. The latter are likely Marie-Lore’s influence. Waiters circulate with trays of champagne and delicious looking appetizers. I quickly help myself to a drink while I scan the room looking for Kate. It doesn’t take long to find her, and soon she meets my eyes and is practically sprinting across the restaurant to me.

  “Weaver! I can’t believe it’s you,” she says, hugging me so hard I almost drop my champagne. “I knew I could count on you, but this is extra!”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. And I can’t believe all of this. Kate! This is incredible!” I say, gesturing to everything around us, practically spilling my champagne again.

  “It’s been an intense few weeks, but we had to strike while the iron was hot. This location is a dream and Marie-Lore insisted we wouldn’t get an opportunity to lease a space like this again. So tonight’s our soft-opening, getting the staff acquainted with the kitchen, seeing which dishes are the most popular, and then in two weeks we open to the public. That’s when the real madness begins. I’m ready for it, though. It’s everything I’ve dreamed of.”

  She looks transcendent and so satisfied. Exhausted too, but I keep that to myself. I always believed in Kate, and any envy or hesitation I had outside evaporates.

  “But what about you Weaver? I’ve been so busy with the move and the restaurant opening we’ve barely spoken in the last year. I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’ve been up to.” She looks at me expectantly.

  It shouldn’t, but Kate’s question takes me by surprise. I anticipated this night would be all about her, but of course my best friend wants to know about me, too. I grab a canapé off a passing tray to stall for a few seconds, wracking my brain for something to say that won’t be a lie but won’t exactly be the whole truth.

  “Mmmm. This is amazing. So tasty,” I say, enthusiastically nodding my head and trying to disguise my think-of-something-to-say face with a my-taste-buds-are-exalting face. (It isn’t too hard; my taste buds are doing a happy dance. Kate is a damn good chef.)

  “Similar to you,” I begin. “After a year of waitressing I’ve gone into business for myself.”

  Kate is smiling at me. I’m smiling back. Her eyes search mine. Shoot. I guess she was expecting more details.

  “It’ll be getting off the ground in the next few months. It’s a new…” I’m saying when Marie-Lore sweeps over to us and to my rescue.

  “Weav-aire,” she says in her adorable accent. “It's so wonderful to see you. I’m sorry but I must steal Kate from you. A petit emergency in the kitchen.”

  “Of course,” I say, relief washing over me. Kate and I are close but I’m not exactly comfortable telling her about my new venture. At least not in the middle of this restaurant.

  “Merci. But we will have time together tomorrow, right?” she asks.

  “Absolutely,” I say. “Go be fabulous restaurateurs. I’ll catch up with you again.”

  The three of us are leaving Paris the next morning to spend a few days in Southern France. Kate insisted I couldn’t come all the way to France without devoting a few days to travel and one-on-one time with her. She and Marie are taking the time to recharge after the soft-opening and before the excitement of their public opening. Kate told me she didn’t anticipate a single day off in the year after they opened.

  The mood in L’Arc-en-Ciel is perfect, and I feel myself start to relax. I help myself to another glass of champagne and load up a plate with a selection of the most exquisite looking appetizers. I find a seat in the corner at the front of the restaurant, right next to the windows so I can enjoy the view of the Parisian street, now glittering in the streetlights from a light rain falling. This is so Parisian I can hardly stand it.

  A small bell over the door keeps ringing at intervals, as more and more guests, mostly friends and family, come inside. I’m happy I’ll be getting some time alone with Kate tomorrow because it’s clear we won’t have much time to catch up tonight. She’s like a whirling dervish of small plates, glasses, and French as she says her hellos and keeps the waiters organized. That’s okay, I’m as content as I’ve ever been. The past thirty-six hours in Paris have been a dream. I’ve spent hours in cafés people watching, visited a couple of museums, ate fresh baguettes more times than I care to admit, and walked for miles. I’m not sure when I’ll have another opportunity to travel. I maxxed out the last of my credit cards on airfare, and the next year I’ve promised my
self I’ll stay on a tight budget, earn as much as I can and pay down my debts. I’m going to make the most of this time in Paris. All the hustle and bustle and stress of the trip have faded into the background, except for one thing. Chris. Handsome, friendly, fucking sexy Metro Chris. He’s stayed on my mind; I’d be lying if I say I haven’t been looking for him on the Metro, hoping to run into him again. I know the odds of that are against me, but it’s a sexy little daydream I’ve been harboring.

  In fact, I’m imagining him standing in front of me in Kate’s restaurant, smiling down at me, saying my name.

  “Weaver. It’s Chris. Do you remember me?” he would say.

  Wait. This isn’t in my imagination. Let’s hit rewind.

  “Weaver. It’s Chris. Do you remember me?” he says.

  It’s him. It is definitely him. Same gorgeous smile, his thick dark hair stylishly swept back over his forehead. He’s dressed differently, more formal in an expensive looking suit, but there is no hiding the perfect body beneath.

  “Of course I remember you,” I say, quickly gathering my wits. “You didn’t strike me as the type of guy who’d stalk a lady for a twenty, yet here you are.”

  A waiter passes by and offers Chris a glass. He takes it, and slides into the booth across from me.

  “Of all the gin joints,” he starts to say with a laugh before he takes a sip from his glass.

  “It’s quite a coincidence, I’ll give you that,” I reply. “What are you doing here?”

  “Marie-Lore is a friend of my sister-in-law’s, so my brother passed on the details for tonight since I was in town. What about you?”

  “Kate, Marie’s partner, is my best friend, actually. The entire reason I’m here in Paris. She and I went to college together. She in the culinary school and me in hotel management. I wouldn’t have missed this,” I explain. And then feeling the bubbly and feeling a little bold, I add, “And I’m glad I didn’t miss you before I left.”

  “Well that makes two of us,” he says. And well, I just about melt. This is going down.

  Bottomless glasses of champagne, basking in the glow of a friend’s success, and the attention of a very hot, very flirty, very available man make an exceptional night. The added ambiance of Kate’s restaurant and the rainy Paris street outside add to the fantasy I’m living out tonight. At some point in the evening, Chris moved into my booth, and we are seated just inches apart. I can smell his cologne and feel the warmth coming off his body. We’ve kept it light, talking about what I’ve been up to in Paris, places we’ve both visited back in New York, the usual small talk. But everything has the hint of flirtation, a strong chemistry just below the surface.

  It’s getting late and the waiters have started cleaning up. Kate and Marie-Lore are saying goodbye to guests at the door, and the evening definitely feels like it’s winding down. But I’m not winding down, if anything, I’m revved up, and I’m not ready to say goodnight to Chris. Not just yet.

  The past year has been an avalanche of stress and disappointment. This trip to Paris is supposed to start a new chapter for me, the turning point in my life before I head back to New York and put my nose to the grindstone. I deserve to have the best time I can possibly have, and it’s clear to me that Chris could make this night even better. I’ve never been in the habit of one-night-stands, but I know a good thing when it’s in front of me. It’s been a while since I’ve been fucked, and well, if I can sleep with Chris, for just one night, it could hold me over for a long while. I’m going to do it. For myself.

  “Well that was a massive success,” Chris says standing up to hug Marie-Lore. I look around and we’re the last guests at L’Arc-en-Ciel. Kate slides into the seat across from me, kicking off her shoes and laughing.

  “It was amazing, but I am so glad it’s over,” she says. “Weaver, can I give you a ride back to your place? We should probably all get home. I’m going to pick you up really early so we can hit the road in the morning.”

  “I’m not too far from here. You go, I can find my way on my own. And anyway, who knows when I’ll be in Paris again. I want to soak it in.”

  “No. Chris, you’ll walk Weaver back, won’t you?” Marie-Lore interrupts. “She’s just off Place des Vosges, you know where that is, non?”

  “Happy to,” he agrees. He reaches out his hand to me and I take it, standing and turning to Kate for a quick kiss before I’m out the door with Chris.

  The rain has stopped but there is a chill in the air. I rub my hands briskly up and down my arms. Without hesitation, Chris takes off his suit jacket and places it over my shoulders.

  “How chivalrous,” I say, “but I think you have things backwards. It was me who owed you that favor. Did you forget?”

  We are walking shoulder to shoulder, and I keep my eyes forward, not feeling completely comfortable in my boldness. I’m pretty sure we’re on the same page, but part of me can’t be certain that this insanely attractive man is into me.

  I follow Chris as he turns a corner, leading us down an alley. He stops walking and turns to me. He hooks a finger under my chin, lifting my face toward his. “I promise you, Weaver, that favor is the only thing I’ve been thinking about all night,” he says. “And when we get to your place, it’s not twenty euro I’m expecting.”

  My lips part at his words, and all of a sudden, I’m finding it hard to stand. It’s completely magical, and I can’t believe my luck that I fell down the stairs at the perfect moment to lead to this.

  “Qu'est ce qu'on a ici?”

  Chris and I look around, trying to find the voice coming from the shadows. Stepping out from behind a dumpster is a young guy, and in his hand I see a knife, the moonlight glinting on its edge. Chris moves me behind his body, shielding me.

  “Fuck off, man, and leave us alone,” he says. “You really don’t want to fuck with me.”

  “Money. Give me your money. And montre, your watch,” the kid says, though his confidence seems to have been shaken.

  I’m ready to give this guy anything he wants, but Chris is made of steel.

  “Come get it, little boy,” he says, mocking him.

  The kid is getting agitated, waving his knife but not coming any closer, muttering to himself in French that I can’t understand.

  “Let’s just give him what he wants,” I whisper to Chris, really preferring the excitement that awaits us at my place to the adrenaline rush of fear in this alleyway.

  But we don’t have time to debate; the kid has made a decision and is taking long steps toward us. I feel Chris’s hand firmly grab mine, and I’m not sure what will happen next. Suddenly, from down the alley, comes loud barks, and they’re getting closer. The kid turns around just as a dog reaches him.

  “Assis!” The command is bellowed from a young man farther behind, followed by forceful words in French that I can’t follow. After a few minutes of back and forth, the mugger takes off, shouting at us and our unlikely savior.

  “Thanks, man” Chris says, walking toward our hero in the shadows. “I don’t know how I can repay you, but…”

  “Pour ma belle bienfaitrice,” he says stepping into the light cast from the streetlight.

  I walk out in front of Chris who’s been keeping a protective hand on me. “It’s you,” I say, starting to laugh, recognizing the accordion player from Gare du Nord, “and you.” I bend down to give the old dog a scratch behind his ears.

  “Ici, Gus,” he yells, and the dog goes sprinting down the alleyway, following his master around the corner and out of sight.

  I stand up, smiling and panting with relief. I turn to Chris who looks stunned and completely perplexed.

  There really isn’t anything to say to each other, the entire situation is so completely surreal. We stop there, panting from the excitement and the sudden relief. Chris takes three steps and closes the distance between us, grabbing the back of my head and pulling me in for a kiss. He isn’t gentle or asking for permission, he’s claiming me right then and there, and his hands travel from m
y face, underneath the suit jacket still draped on my shoulders, grabbing onto my ass and pulling my hips against his.

  “Fuck,” he groans in my ear, “I can barely wait the three blocks to get you alone. We probably shouldn’t press our luck in this alley, though.”

  His mouth collides onto me again, pulling me into a deep kiss, his tongue exploring eagerly in my mouth, his fingers digging into me, showing his desperation and excitement. I can feel his cock pressing into my stomach, growing harder as we kiss and grope each other in the darkness. My senses are heightened from the scare from before, and his taste, his scent, the feeling of his lips on mine are experienced so acutely I feel like I could come without a single touch.

  He draws back, this time he has a look of composure and restraint on his face. “Let’s go. I want to spend the night with you, Weaver.” It isn’t exactly a question or asking for permission, but he’s giving me an opportunity to put the brakes on this before it goes further. Despite my wet panties and the word “Yes” escaping my lips before I have time to think about it, I appreciate the gesture.

  Feeling confident in my decision, I take his hand, and we walk the remaining few blocks to my studio.

  I rented the studio for its location, not its luxury. It’s small; a single room with a lofted bed and a small sofa and coffee table beneath. There’s a dresser against the opposite wall, and a small bathroom with a toilet and sink. When I wanted to take a shower in the morning, I had to take my toiletry kit down the hall to a shared bathroom. The size doesn’t bother me at all since I’ve been sightseeing all day. Next to the lofted bed are three dormer windows, giving me an unimpeded view of the Seine and Notre Dame Cathedral in the distance. It’s clean, scenic, and the perfect size for me.

  Walking up the six flights of stairs to my studio, I suddenly feel self-conscious about this apartment. Chris hasn’t said or done anything to give me the impression he’s a snob, but a single look at him and anyone can tell that this guy has money. And lots of it. My feelings about the rental are tangled up with my current housing problem in New York, and my dire financial problems as well. I know that. As we get closer to the seventh floor, I’m able to calm my nerves. New York is over 3,000 miles away. My problems are there, not here, in Paris. And if tonight has taught me anything at all, it’s that the universe provides for you, that karma is real. I gave that busker all the cash I had, and in return, he saved me from getting mugged and maybe even stabbed.