One Weekend with the Billionaire

The Balcony

Julia

Braxton Merriweather is standing in front of me--and he knew my name. I can hardly believe my ears. I blink at him a few times, wondering why it is he knows who I am, why it is he’s come to speak to me.

I know that Jeff was angry when I arrived. That wasn’t his fault, though. That was my fault. I was out of sorts, and he had every right to be cross with me. Still, people who didn’t understand the situation might think that was Jeff’s fault, that he was being too hard on me.

I want to ask Mr. Merriweather how he knows who I am, but I am too shy to pose the question. Instead, I just stand there, staring at him, trying to process the situation. He is absolutely the best looking man I’ve ever seen in real life and probably even more handsome than most of the guys I’ve seen on TV or the movies. He is also rich beyond comprehension.

Before I can say anything in response, Braxton asks, “Have you eaten any dinner yet?”

I wrinkle my forehead at the question. It seems like such a strange thing to ask. “Uhm, no,” I stammer, wondering why he’s asking.

“I didn’t think so,” he says. “You missed the dinner.”

I continue to look at him, puzzled. “There was a….” I stop talking. Obviously, there had been a dinner, or he wouldn’t be mentioning it now.

“Yes, and I hate to think of any of my guests going hungry.” Braxton looks toward the interior of the building, though we can’t really see through the frosted glass. “There are hors d'oeuvres being passed around, but that simply won’t do.” Mr. Merriweather offers me his arm. “Come along, and I’ll get you something proper to eat.”

I stare at his arm for a moment, not wanting to be rude but also not wanting to be a bother. Or make Jeff even more angry since he’s already told me to stay out here. “Oh, no, that’s okay,” I assure him. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Julia. You have to eat.” His arm is still crooked, extended to me.

I look at his arm again and then back at his eyes. They are a bright blue that twinkles in the dim light, almost as if they are glowing, though not in an alien way. “Really….”

“It won’t do to have anyone at my party go without dinner.”

The way he says it, I can’t possibly turn him down. It’s like an order of some sort almost, though not in a rude way.

I find myself looping my arm through his, despite the fact that I know Jeff will come undone if he finds out that I’ve gone back inside, especially with his boss. He will shout at me and tell me I am a bother to everyone. He might be right, but at the moment, I don’t feel like a bother, not to Mr. Merriweather, anyway. I feel like an invited guest whom he wants to ensure is having a nice time. It’s been so long since anyone has made me feel this way, made me feel important, I am not sure how to handle any of it.

The feel of his arm on mine, even through his jacket, is electrifying. I want to wrap my other arm around his, too, and hold him close, but that would be ridiculous. Just because the handsome billionaire also happens to be thoughtful and kind, that doesn’t give me the right to latch on to him like a small child clinging to a parent in an unfamiliar situation.

I glance around once we enter the building, but I don’t see Jeff anywhere. I figure he is back with his friends. Mr. Merriweather gets plenty of attention as we walk through the party. People want his attention. He is polite, but doesn’t stop walking until we reach the other side of the large room. Then, he pushes through a door I didn’t realize is even a door, and then we are in another room, and the sounds behind us fade away. I take a deep breath as I realize this is a suit--a large sitting area in front of us, and on the other side of the room, a huge four-poster bed.

We are not alone, though. There is a woman there, dressed in a nice champagne colored gown. She has a friendly smile on her face.

“Cindy, I have just discovered that Mrs. Thompson was not able to join us for dinner. Will you see that she’s brought the finest steak we have available as soon as possible? Freshly prepared, of course.”

“Yes, Mr. Merriweather,” she says with a twinkle in her eyes.

Then, he turns to me. “You do like steak, don’t you?”

I nod. “Thank you.”

Cindy has left the room, and we are alone. “Please, have a seat,” he says, gesturing toward the couch. I do, but he does not join me. I am nervous under his heavy stare. My shawl slips down a little, and I pull it back up. It’s not cold in here, not at all, but I remember what Jeff said about how obscene my dress is. I didn’t realize that you could see so much cleavage. I find myself looking down. I still don’t understand why my husband is so upset about this dress. When I look back up, Mr. Merriweather’s eyes are also on my chest. He looks away as soon as he sees that I am looking at him. I almost smile; unlike when some men ogle a woman’s breasts, he seems to have just been following my eyes. But even if he was not, and he was actually checking me out, I don’t mind for some reason. It doesn’t matter, after all. I am a married woman, and he is the most eligible bachelor in our city, maybe the whole country.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks me.

I can’t imagine this billionaire who is used to having other people wait on him hand and foot getting me anything, but I am thirsty and could definitely use some alcohol to help me relax. “Sure…” I say.

He crosses to a wet bar and comes back a moment later with a nice red wine. “This should pair nicely with your dinner.”

I take the glass, and our fingers brush against each other slightly, sending shivers down my spine. I almost spill the glass. “Thank you,” I manage.

Braxton Merriweather smiles at me, and I feel like my insides are catching fire.