Dance with the Billionaire (24 page)

When I first get to the bar, I almost don’t recognize him. For once, he’s not wearing a suit. Or even chinos. He’s dressed in a red and black plaid shirt, beat up blue jeans and Converse sneakers. It’s not that he even looks uncomfortable, just different. But the thing that
does
make him look uncomfortable? Right now I am totally owning him at pool.

“How are you so damn
good
at this?” he says with a hint of disbelief.

“You know what they say?” I reply. “Sign of a misspent youth ...”

“I thought you spent all of your time dancing.”

“Not
all
of it,” I explain, as I position my cue, ready to sink the black. “The pool hall was opposite the dance studio. Besides, dance is a notoriously difficult place to meet straight men. I learnt quickly that the best way to get a boy to notice me was to beat him at pool.”

I slide back the cue, then hammer it into the white, sending the eight-ball slamming into the corner pocket, winning my second game in a row.

“Well, it’s working,” he laughs. “I can’t take my damn eyes off you.”

After I’ve totally wiped the floor with him, winning three games to zero, we take a seat in a quiet little corner booth and chat over beer and hotdogs. I feel myself unwinding. Because for once this feels totally ... normal.

“What about you?” I say. “How did you misspend your youth?

“To be honest? There wasn’t much of that,” he replies, taking a swig of his beer. “Being the eldest of the Campbells carries a lot of responsibility. I worked hard at boarding school, and at Dartmouth. I didn’t even go to that many parties.”

“What about that graduation photo?” I say. “I thought you were stoned ...”

“And you know what?” he says. “That was the last time. The next week, I was interning in the family firm while all my friends were spending their summers chatting up girls in Rome or on yachts in Cannes ... My family are important to me, and I never want to let them down.”

As he talks, I realize that a lot of the things I thought made him cold – his dedication to work and to business – I thought was just about making money. But in fact, it’s not about money. It’s one of his good qualities. It’s about a dedication to his family. And it makes me think about my own.

“Remember I told you about my deadbeat dad?” I say.

He nods, leaning in towards me, his face becoming warm and compassionate.

“Well, I went to see him a couple of weeks ago. He’ll never be the greatest dad in the world, but we talked. And I guess I’ve forgiven him for a lot of things. Maybe we’ll even have a normal relationship in the future ... Or as close to normal as my fucked-up family can get ...”

“I’ll drink to that,” Dylan says, raising his beer bottle.

I clink bottles with him, and as our eyes catch, we both take another hit of the ice-cold beer, and I feel a tingle of excitement run up my spine.

§

That night I decide to invite him up for coffee.

“No promises,” I warn. “Just coffee ... We’ll see how the rest goes.”

He follows me up to the third floor and waits patiently while I fish out my key from my bag.

“Here we are ...” I say, opening the door and pushing it open to let him through. “It’s a little smaller than my last place ...”

“You can say that again,” he laughs, as he looks around the cramped room, piled high with all the boxes I’ve
still
not got around to unpacking. “Take a seat,” I tell him, indicating the shabby old couch, “and I’ll fix us that coffee.”

As I set it to brew, I can’t hide the excitement that’s building inside me, at the thought that maybe, just maybe, this could work out between us after all. I feel as giddy as a dumb teenager as I carry our steaming mugs back over to the couch, handing Dylan his then taking the seat next to him, painfully aware of how little space there is between us, his eyes trained on me, that now-familiar heat coming off him again.

He takes a sip of his coffee. “That’s actually pretty good!” he says.

“Don’t sound so shocked,” I laugh. “I spent a year as a barista before moving on to serve cocktails to guys in fancy suits, you know ...”

Then I turn to him, my heart beginning to pound as I put down my mug on the little table in front of us, then take his from his hands and place it next to mine.

I love the way he’s holding back, letting me take the lead for once, and slowly and softly I lean in to him, bringing my face close to his, pressing my lips against his, tasting the deep richness of the coffee as we kiss. His hands move into my hair and once again I can feel myself melting, my whole body yearning for him, that sweet ache building between my legs as our kiss becomes more urgent and passionate. But like a gentleman, his hands stay where they are, just holding my head, as time seems to stop around us, like we’re the only people in the whole world right now.

And you know what it reminds me of?

Those long, endless makeout sessions from my teenage years – full of pent up desire and holding back. It’s delicious and frustrating, and I want it to go on forever ... 

But soon I feel his hand moving to my thigh, and I feel my body giving in to him, my legs parting as his touch travels closer to the part of me that wants him the most. God. I want so badly to tear open his shirt, pull open his jeans, straddle him right here on this couch, fucking his goddamn brains out.

But instead, I break the kiss, pulling a little away from him.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I took things too far, didn’t I?”

“It’s okay,” I say, rearranging my skirt around my thighs, my heart still beating so hard, my whole body flushed with yearning. “I want this too, Dylan, I really do. But I still think things are moving a little fast ...”

“I understand,” he says gently. And I really think he does. “But I want to see you again. And
soon
. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” I smile back, picking up my coffee mug and taking a sip. 

We spend another hour or so sitting on the sofa, chatting and laughing, and when I see him out to the front door, he doesn’t push for a kiss, even though I can tell he wants to so, so badly. But the way he’s holding back, remaining so considerate of my feelings, means he gets one without even trying.

I give him a long lingering kiss goodnight, full of the promise of what’s to come if we can somehow make this work.

And later, as I’m getting ready for bed, taking off my makeup and brushing my teeth, it dawns on me that all this dating is probably just as unfamiliar to me as it must be to Dylan. Because although I’ve fooled around and hooked up with guys and yes, beaten them at pool, in that whole time I’ve never let anyone get so close before, in case they became a threat to my prized virginity. I had friends, and I had hook-ups, and it’s strange that in all my twenty-one years I’ve never practiced that curious mix of friendship and sexual attraction that adds up to a real relationship. But now I think I’m looking forward to finding out just what that holds in store ...

Unknown Number:
I need your help. Meet me at The Standard hotel. 7pm.

Juliet:
Sorry, who is this??

Unknown Number:
Isabella.

§

A text like this, and from
Isabella
no less, is the last thing I ever expected to receive. Although I should have learnt by now not to be surprised by anything that girl does. I thought she despised me. Or at the very least, she had no interest in who I was or what I did at all.

I stare at my cell in disbelief. I’m tempted to tell her to go jump. Or just to ignore her completely. But then I remember Dylan’s words about how much his family means to him, and I decide to be the bigger person here. Besides, I’m just too damn curious. What kind of ‘help’ could she possibly want from me?

I check the time. It’s almost six now.

Okay
, I think grabbing my coat and my bag.
Give me your worst, Isabella ...

§

“Now don’t you dare laugh,” she says, hands on hips, “or tell a soul. Or I will
ruin
you.”

We’re up in Isabella’s suite at The Standard, and it’s not exactly the most promising start to our little meeting. But I’m here, so I guess things are gonna be on her terms.

“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me,” I say. “I promise I won’t tell a soul.”

Oh God, I think. What if she’s on drugs, or she’s in trouble, and I have to tell Dylan and break her trust.

Please let it not be anything criminal
, I beg inwardly.

“Okay,” she says. “I
know
everyone thinks that I’m spoiled and useless and that I’ve got no passion or drive and that I don’t know what I want to do with my life ...”

I start to comfort her. “Hey, no, Isabella, I’m sure that’s not what people think ...”

“Save your breath,” she interrupts. “I know it’s true. Anyway, they’re wrong. There
is
something I want to do. It’s the only thing I’ve ever really cared about. It’s really important to me, okay? So you have to tell me the truth, Juliet. You have to tell me whether my audition piece for RADA is good enough ...”

“Your
audition piece
?” I blurt out, confused.

“My acting! My monologue! Ugh!” she sighs.

“Wow,” I say. “That’s amazing, I had no idea.”

“Nobody does,” she replies, like I’ve said the dumbest thing in the world. “And I know my parents wouldn’t approve. Between Dylan the golden boy of the family and Spencer, dedicating his life to saving the world, I’m expected to do something equally important. They’ll never back me. Any time I’ve even
tried
to mention it, they’ve shot me down. If I could get into RADA, though, then they’d change their minds. It’s the best acting school in the world, you know.”

I nod. Of course I know.

“If I got in,” she continues, “they’d
have
to believe I was talented enough. But I don’t want to fly all the way to England just to fuck it up, see? So you have to tell me if I’m not good enough. You’re the only person who understands what it’s like. After all, you got a scholarship to Eldridge, right?”

“Kind of,” I mumble. But I know that now’s not really the time to set things straight about my ‘scholarship’ and besides, she’s not listening anyway. She’s already begun pacing up and down the suite, sipping from her Vitamin Water, preparing herself to begin.

“Okay,” she says, and I brace myself.

I mean, does this world really need
another
heiress who thinks they’re a great talent? I can hardly tell her she’s awful, can I? I know that whatever she does, I’m just gonna have to be positive. So as she prepares to begin, I prepare my very best fake
hey that was great
face.

And then she launches into her monologue. It’s Titania from
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
. I grit my teeth. But to my amazement, she’s instantly transformed. She’s sensuous and teasing and playful and magical. She moves with poise and grace and precision. And I never thought I’d say this about Isabella, but ... wow ... she’s actually pretty
subtle
too.

By the time she’s finished, I don’t need to be practicing my
that was totally amazing!
face. Because I’m wearing it for real.

“So?” she says impatiently, once she’s finished, looking down at me expectantly, suddenly just spoiled, bratty Isabella again. “What did you think?”

“Isabella!” I gasp. “That was incredible! If you perform it just like that at the audition, you’ll blow them away. I had no idea you were so talented. Really ... I mean, wow. Just ... wow.”

“I know, right?” she says, picking up her phone and resuming her habitual furious texting. I sit there for a moment longer on the edge of the bed while she continues to ignore me, as if she wasn’t the one who’d summoned me here so urgently. I guess now that I’ve calmed her down and told her she’s great, she doesn’t need me anymore.

“I’ll let myself out,” I say, getting up to leave, fully expecting her not to even notice my departure.

But then she looks up from whatever message she’s composing. “Thank you, Juliet,” she says with a genuine smile, and I can’t help but smile back.

“It’s Julia,” I correct, gently.

And she actually blushes and looks embarrassed; something I never thought I’d see.

“Julia,” she repeats. “Right. Sorry. Got it ...”

§

As I leave The Standard, I decide to go for a little walk. It’s a lovely evening and I’m enjoying the cool air against my skin. But just then I feel my phone buzzing in my bag. I pull it out and check the display: Dylan.

“Hey!” he says, the moment I answer. “How are you doing?”

“Good,” I reply, totally desperate to blurt out my news about Isabella, but knowing that I can’t betray her trust. So instead, I force myself to keep quiet.

“I’ve got an idea,” he says. “I was gonna send a car, tell you to pack a bag, make it a surprise ... But then I thought about how things have been going between us, and I figured it would be good if I actually
asked
you if you wanted to go first ...”

“Go where?” I say, confused.

“Go away with me for the weekend,” he says, and I can hear the big excited grin in his voice.

“Wow,” I say. “Okay, where?”

“Rome,” he says. “It’s beautiful this time of year, I just know you’ll love it.”

I pause. He’s right of course; I’ve
always
wanted to go to Europe. And Rome, the city of love? The food, the wine, the architecture, the music ... It would be absolutely incredible. So it’s such a shame that I have to say no.

“Well,” I say, my heart sinking as I have to break the news to him, “it’s a good thing you
did
check.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t go. I’ve never left the country, Dylan. I don’t have a passport.”

There’s a long pause, and I stay stock still on the sidewalk, waiting for his reply, the crowd streaming around me.

Then, to my relief, he laughs. “We’d better get that sorted as soon as possible,” he says. “In the meantime, if you’re still interested in coming away, I’ll work something out. You
are
still interested, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am!” I reply.

“In that case, I’ll pick you up at six pm on Friday. Sound okay?”

“It sounds perfect,” I say, excited again. “Can you let me know what I should pack?”

“Hey, don’t rush me,” he laughs. “I’m still figuring this out ...”

And after we’ve said goodbye and hung up, I think that it seems like for once we’re
both
making a pretty good job of figuring things out, this second time around.