The Billionaire & the Princess

by Katherine E Hunt

“Okay, if that’s what you kids are calling it these days.”

  I have changed, for the better. There’d been a time in my life when spending my inheritance and having a good time was more important than settling down, getting a job, like Ted here. But with age has come wisdom, or so I like to think. No more running away, I fully intend to make a go of my house flipping business, work in media, to get my parents off my back and maybe invest in my love life more too.

  Okay, I’d maybe fucked some woman in an airplane bathroom yesterday. Shit happens when you travel with Leo. It doesn’t mean if the right person comes along I won’t be ready for a more permanent situation. I’m settling down, opening myself up to new possibilities

  And none of this, absolutely none of this, involves Caitlyn.

  We need to set boundaries if my business plan is going to work and I am ready and willing to be the man to do it. Shouldn’t be hard to do anyway, there’s no way any woman would be interested in me after seeing me high and naked on that plane.

  Chapter Five

  Caitlyn

  A cup of tea in my hand, stuff unpacked, I sit back on my very comfortable couch in my luxury loft apartment and mull over the news that my airplane hook-up and my new boss are one and the same person.

  Any fantasies I’m planning to have–whilst alone with my shower head–are not to involve the naked cowboy from the plane.

  That’s going to be a tough one. The trace of his lips on my body, his fingers sliding down onto my pussy, just the memory of it makes me quiver. And that kiss, the way he whisked me up into his arms like Johnny did to Baby.

  I put down my mug and call Jen to see if she wants to hang out. I can’t possibly sit around here all day fantasizing about my boss’ aptitude for fingering.

  Luckily she’s still up for a visit of Sag Harbor, so I shower and do something with my hair. I’m not one for heavy make-up, on my days off but I suspect that this town has more than its fair share of beautiful people and I don’t want Jen to be embarrassed to be in my presence.

  I have to stop wishing that the first time I’d met sober Hank Baresi I’d not been half-dressed, with old crone hair. It weighs on me. Looking a bit more polished would have been preferential, but the choice hadn’t really been mine. Who comes into someone’s home and climbs under their sink without at least knocking?

  My mind keeps replaying the fact that I’d stared at his abs and he’d seen me stare at his abs. Back in England, there’s a strict hierarchy, you know your place. Here, however things are different, I had been so looking forward to finally being judged for my talent as a writer, for the years of hard work I’d poured into my education and for simply being me but it’s only been twenty-four hours and I’ve got a terrible sinking feeling that I’m already mucking everything up.

  The incident this morning, and the one on the plane, both of them could set back my dreams of being a successful journalist. Opportunities like this don’t come along every day and I need to grasp this one by the horns and never let go. Any intentions towards Hank could seriously jeopardize that. I’m not willing to take that chance.

  Jen picks me up outside in a sporty little two-seater that looks like it should be driven by a middle-aged man with a small penis. “Hope you don’t mind company for lunch, I forgot that I was meeting up with friends. One of my besties, Claire, is due any day now, and we wanted to have some girl time before she gives birth.” I’m still jet-lagged and I hardly even know Jen. It’s hard not to be nervous. I need to start making a good impression.

  “Oh, I hope I’m not intruding.”

  “Not at all. I couldn’t leave you alone when you don’t know anybody. That’s not how we do things around here.” That warms my heart, there’s something very genuine about Jen. No airs and graces about her, when she had every right to act entitled if my internet searches this morning were anything to go by. She’s good people.

  “You’ve been so kind and welcoming.”

  “I feel bad that you’re basically going to be working on your own this year and it’s all Hank’s fault.”

  “I think he’s going to be involved. I met him this morning; he said he’ll be there on Monday.” The image of his abs flashes into my mind, which in turn reminds me of his penis, and I can’t help but blush. Can she tell what’s going through my mind right now? I bloody hope not for her sake.

  “My little brother is going to get up early on a Monday to go to work? That boy hasn’t done a decent day’s work in his life. He dropped out of college, quit every job my dad gave him and left on a plane only to come back three years later.”

  “Oh, okay.” It just gets better and better. “So why is he setting up a magazine?”

  “They’re cutting him off.”

  “What are they cutting off?” That sounds rather drastic. Hopefully not that majestic penis.

  “His allowance. He doesn’t work for them, he doesn’t get any money. They’re fed up with him and his house flipping and his lack of interest in the family business.” No pressure on me to make this magazine a success, then. Great. I let out a loud harrumph, and she laughs at my disgruntled reaction. “Yeah, that’s why I’m taking you out. Cocktails, my treat.”

  Becky and Claire are lounging outside, soaking up the late spring sun. The short one with the spiky hair looks like she’s due to pop any minute, her belly’s bigger than Luxembourg, she has to be Claire.

  Becky, however, is quite the opposite. Easily a foot taller than all of us, her skinny legs making up seventy-five percent of her body. Her long, blonde wavy hair and pale skin would be similar to mine if I spent three days in the hair salon with my head in a bowl of keratin and a face mask on. As I pull up a chair next to her, it occurs to me that to everyone around us we must look like those edited before and after photos that pop up on social media. Except that this woman is permanently photoshopped to perfection.

  “Hi, I’m Claire, I ate all the pies.”

  She moves to get up and hug me. “Don’t get up. We’ll do a British hello.” I wave like the queen and it brings a smile to her tired face.

  “And I’m Rebecca Sinclair.” A limp hand is waved in my face in such a regal way, I can’t figure out if I’m supposed to shake or kiss it. I go for the shake and I just end up lifting and lowering her fingers for half a minute until she pulls her hand away. “And you are?”

  The assurance in her voice, the lack of eye-contact. Does she have any idea how intimidating she is? That is most likely the point of her behavior. Assume superiority right from the get-go, let me know where I stand. She’s very good at it.

  “Caitlyn.” She squints at me, waiting for more. “Walsh, Caitlyn Walsh.” I can see the cogs whirling around in her mind. Should she know who I am, am I in any way important or useful to her?

  “She’s Hank’s editor,” says Jen.

  Becky lets out a snort. “Oh Jesus, I hope you bought a return ticket.”

  Jen coughs, and Claire looks away in embarrassment. Not a single person has any faith that Hank and I are going to pull this off, do they? I haven’t worked so damned hard to get my degree and then traveled thousands of miles to be disrespected like this. I’ll show them, if I have to run the whole magazine my damned self, which, if what I am led to believe is true, is not out of the realm of possibility.

  We order drinks. “So tell us about you, Caitlyn,” asks Claire, her hands rubbing her stomach.

  “What’s there to tell? Grew up in London. My mother passed away when I was thirteen, I lived with my grandmother until I was sixteen and then I took a secretarial apprenticeship. Worked my way up the ladder until I was running a small start-up. Jacked it all in for university and here I am four years later.”

  I’m waiting for one of them to proclaim, ‘how quaint’? It’s evident I’m among money here. None of these women get out of bed for anything less than a million, and that’s just their allowances.

  “You’ve come far.” Jen has begun to grow on me. Her sincerity is genuine, unlike Becky with the nice hai
r who defined me as a minion the minute she’s lain eyes on me.

  “I hear you’ve met Hank already,” says Claire. Becky glances over at her and smirks as if they know a naughty secret. How could they possibly know about me and Hank? Has he remembered, has someone told on us? “On the plane.” They knew.

  My heartbeat rises, I panic. I can’t let them see that they’re affecting me in this way. Breathe. Say something, anything, just say it calmly.

  “What do you say in America? I plead the fifth, is that it?” This gets a giggle out of Becky. Am I rising in her esteem? Surely not.

  Jen leans in. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your brother was waving his cock around in first-class…again.”

  My relief that they were only talking about Hank and not ‘me and Hank’ is quickly replaced by the realization that I’m dealing with a serial stripper.

  “Again?” I spit it out, trying to hide my disappointment at my new colleague’s penchant for nudity. “This isn’t something I need to worry about in the office, is it? Because that’s not really how we do things in the UK.”

  “As far as I know he’s only done it twice before. There was that one time in Chad’s Jacuzzi but that was just because he thought there was nobody home,” replies Becky.

  “So that makes four in total,” says Claire, holding up four fingers for us all to see. Alright, I can count.

  My dream job begins to crumble before my very eyes. Maybe I can just tell Hank that he doesn’t have to come to work, that I’ll cover for him? A high-society magazine run by somebody who is rapidly gaining notoriety for his naked shenanigans. They certainly do things differently on this side of the pond.

  Jen pales. “Jesus Christ, if it’s not one thing it’s another.” It must be so shit having to deal with a brother like Hank. You work hard, you live a respectful life and your drunken, pill-popping brother shames you at every opportunity. I begin to see why their parents are cutting him off.

  Claire has the decency to blush. “Sorry, Ted told me. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  You shouldn’t have teased Hank’s sister about his naked shenanigans? Yeah, probably. Becky on the other hand adores seeing Jen squirm. The delight in her eyes, as she swirls the straw around her drink and chuckles to herself leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

  “So when are you due?” I ask Claire.

  “Another month, if you can believe it, but I’m ready to go if he wants to come out early.”

  “You keep that guy in there until he’s fully baked,” says Becky. “He needs to do as much growing as he can while he’s still in there, if he’s going to beat genetics.”

  Claire doesn’t reply, she lowers her eyes, pinches her lips and takes a deep, nasal breath. She’s a petite woman, small and perfectly formed. Is her height a common teasing point too? I’m assuming, now, that her husband isn’t a tall man.

  This ‘besties’ lunch is fraying at the edges. When Jen had mentioned that we were meeting up with her friends I thought my presence would be an issue. It hadn’t even occurred to me that they already didn’t get along.

  Small talk fills the time whilst we wait for our food. Claire fills us baby novices in on the last-minute preparations for the arrival of her son. Her husband is the first son of the first son and so their child will be the first son of the first son too. I’m not up on my American aristocracy, as it were, but I do know a thing or two about royalty and I get that this is a pretty big deal.

  “And of course, the baby shower’s tomorrow. Ted’s mother hasn’t spared a dime. She hired this guy who normally does weddings. I’m not privy to everything, but we had a cake tasting a couple of weeks ago. We couldn’t decide, they were all so delicious, we got so many in the end.” I look at the half-eaten salads abandoned on the tables surrounding ours. A niggling feeling tells me people here don’t eat that much dessert. There’s going to be an awful lot of leftover cake.

  “Caitlyn should come,” says Jen, smiling at me.

  “Oh, I don’t think–” I hardly know them that wouldn’t be appropriate at all.

  “For the magazine,” adds Jen, quickly, before I say something I’ll regret. “You don’t get more High Hamptons society than Ted’s family.” Jen grabs my arm. “They’re positively presidential. Or at least his great-grandfather was.”

  For the magazine. Of course. Why would she be inviting you to prestigious parties Caitlyn? Know your place, woman. “Oh I’d love to.”

  “Do you have a photographer?” asks Becky, in a rare moment of giving a shit.

  “That would be me. Masters in photojournalism. I’m my own one-man, well, one-woman show.” I do jazz hands whilst I’m saying it and laugh at my own joke whilst Becky remains stoic in front of me.

  “How quaint,” she replies. Ah, there it is. Clichéd rich person statement, I’ve been expecting you.

  The waiter brings over our food and we eat in relative silence. Tensions are high among these women. They are all lost in their own private thoughts. A few glasses of rose and several uneaten salads later and the atmosphere has become a touch more convivial.

  We say our goodbyes to Becky and Claire who are going to their weekly mani-pedi appointments and Jen invites me for a digestive stroll down Main Street. I don’t feel like I’ve actually consumed enough food for my digestive system to get working, but I do need to walk off the wine. “If you don’t mind me asking, who are you going to wear to the shower tomorrow?” she asks, looking me up and down.

  Who? Ah, like a designer. I go to answer, then cut short my reply. People from where I grew up don’t ask each other who they’re wearing.

  I look down at the cotton summer dress I’d chosen for today’s outing. It isn’t going to cut it for a billionaire baby shower, is it?

  “I have a little Alexander McQueen number that would be perfect, but I didn’t bring it.”

  “Alexander McQueen? For an afternoon tea?” Her jaw drops. The horror. “Oh, oh you’re joking, aren’t you? Sorry I’ve been on hiatus for a month, haven’t been around any real people in a while.”

  Real people. I know what she means, but wow, that stings like a nasty paper cut. “People here aren’t real?”

  “No. Nobody who lives here’s real. You’re amongst the uber-rich. Claire and Ted, between them, are worth more than you can count; his family are worth more than that. Becky’s dad, as well as her fiancé Chad’s dad, they’re billionaires, as is mine. We don’t talk about it, but you need to know what you’re getting into here. This isn’t small fry.” She loops her arm through mine as we walk along. “That’s not to say there aren’t a few celebrities who scrape together a few million to buy a home and then get invited to parties because of who they are but they aren’t the ones you’re going to need to put in your magazine.”

  I know virtually nothing about these people. Except for what I’ve seen at lunch. A lot of research is going to be required before tomorrow. I’ll be hitting up the internet for all the deets on The Hamptons’ mega-rich inhabitants. Lifestyles of the rich and famous.

  Here I am, assuming I was going to be writing about village fetes and local jams when it turns out I’m going to be mingling with the Real Housewives of the Hamptons.

  “You might be right, I need to do some shopping.” I reach into my bag and then stop myself. Careful, Caitlyn, you don’t have money in your bank account, remember? I throw my purse back down into the bottom of my bag. This is awkward.

  “Would you allow me to help?” Jen, who grabs ahold of my arm even tighter and a sense of embarrassment creeps up into me. I haven’t felt this way since my mother used to have to pay for the weekly shop in pennies and coupons.

  There’s no way out of this without a little humor. “Ginevra Baresi, are you trying to Pretty Woman me?” Shut up, Caitlyn.

  She laughs. Thank God. “I’m not my brothers; I don’t want to sleep with you in return.”

  “Ooh burn.” My type of humor, I love it.

  “I have a ton of unworn clothes
at home. Every season the network sends me over a whole wardrobe of dresses and suits and I hardly ever wear any of them. You’re not quite the same size as me–” I’m easily two sizes bigger and a foot shorter than her. “–but I’m sure we can find you a couple of outfits.”

  “Thank you, that’s so kind.”

  When I was a child I’d changed schools often, what with my mother’s illness and moving in with my grandparents. Best friends were a rarity, but sometimes when you were all alone and lost in a brand new school you came across another person who knew the school and all the other kids but they were a different kind of alone, lost in the crowd. In my experience those people, the misfits, as some might cruelly suggest, were my kind of people.

  Jen has friends, she’s a successful career woman and from memory, she’s had her fair share of public relationships and yet she smiles at me and I find a camaraderie, something I can’t quite put my finger on. A new friend. Maybe it’s been so long since I took my head out of a textbook, I haven’t noticed that I needed one.

  “And Hank gave me a credit card, in case you needed to get anything. What do you say; shall we let Hank treat you to some new shoes?” She looks down at my scruffy pumps as she says it and shakes her head. She has a point; these things belong to a previous life.

  “You sure he won’t mind?” Things are already awkward I don’t want him on my back for wasting the company’s money too. After yesterday’s shenanigans though, am I not to some extent Pretty Womaning him? Ugh, what a horrible thought. I had been the sensible, sober one, despite the fact that he’d been ready and willing. That has to count for something, right?

  “Honey, he won’t even notice.” She laughs. “The card is limitless and handled by accounts who are more than used to the Baresi brothers abusing their expense accounts.”

  I shrug. “If you insist.” And she pulls me into the kind of shop where security unlocks the door for you. Not Pretty Woman at all.

  Chapter Six