The Billionaire's Courtship

by Ava Miles

  He needed to brush up on his tango. As part of his makeover, he’d taken ballroom lessons so he’d be prepared for any party or club. When he picked up the phone to call his former instructor, he realized it was nearing five o’clock in the morning. Way too early to call, even for the billionaire who wasn’t used to waiting for what he wanted. This was the kind of thing Margie didn’t like. How he could snap his fingers and get what he wanted instantly.

  As the golden and pink lights of sunrise filtered through the windows of the penthouse—he’d forgotten to close the curtains—he made a schedule of other romantic outings. He cross-referenced the weather forecast and made some adjustments to the timeline. Maybe he could slowly introduce her to grander activities during her time here. That way she could see how much she meant to him.

  He would court her like she deserved to be courted.

  And then what?

  She would still leave. She’d made sure to remind him of that.

  But he didn’t want to think about that now. He couldn’t think about it now.

  Since he couldn’t sleep, he read more blogs about the romantic things to do in Paris. Until today, he’d had no idea how many articles there were on the subject.

  He revised their schedule again and decided to take her to the Rodin Museum, one of his favorite places in Paris, tomorrow for a picnic. Nothing lavish there, but it was romantic. Many locals went there to enjoy the gardens and the fountains behind the sculptor’s house. Personally, Evan loved to walk along the windy dirt paths and study the various sculptures on display. Few people had ever captured the soul and the body in bronze like the master, and the museum showing his drawings and clay models was incredible. Margie would love it.

  Satisfied with his plan, he decided it was time to paint. His sitting room had become a crazy kaleidoscope of color. Still, he didn’t feel any closer to finding answers. He stirred the yellow paint he’d chosen because it reminded him of a dress Margie had worn once, and of the kitchen he’d painted for her in Hot Cross Buns.

  The mixture turned into a tidal pool the faster he stirred, and his mind emptied. Then an image appeared in his mind, but it wasn’t of an invention. He saw Margie in her yellow dress. The wind rushed around her, and her skirt twirled around her body. She laughed loudly, her green eyes sparkling.

  Something oozed on his hand, and he shook himself. When he looked down, he saw a huge spot of wet paint on his skin. He couldn’t see his skin, and for some reason, he was puzzled by that.

  Paint was designed to add color, wasn’t it? But it covered things up too. He stared at his hand so long his skin started to itch. Then he realized the paint had dried like a mud mask. He dabbed the end of his shirt in the glass of Perrier he had beside him. As he started to scrub the paint off, he realized Hugo Boss probably hadn’t expected his designs to be used to clean up a paint spill. Oh well. Then he froze. The paint was changing the color of the shirt, the pigment staining what had been white to a muted yellow.

  Again, he could feel there was something there. It was like a word on the tip of his tongue. The agony of that feeling was so frustrating he kicked at the paint can without thought. Paint pooled over the hardwood floor, and he could almost hear Chase say: Evan, you’re having one of your inventor tantrums. He didn’t care. What in the hell was the paint trying to tell him?

  The sunny-colored paint pooled across the floor. He couldn’t see the wood now. Only the paint. He ran his fingers in it. It covered up his skin again.

  It covered up the floor.

  It covered up his hand.

  “What am I supposed to do with you?” he finally said out loud. “Tell me, dammit! No more horsing around!”

  But all he could see was how the paint covered things up. Covered up everything in sight.

  “Dammit, I know that already. Tell me something new.”

  He talked to himself more than most people did, so he didn’t question it. He picked up the roller and stuck it in the pooling paint on the floor and swiped it across the floor in a long streak. It covered every square inch. Sure, there were spots that would require a second coat for uniformity, but it covered the surface. A patch of his cherry wood floor was now a sunny yellow.

  Was he supposed to make a paint that covered up military installations? No, they already had paint to do that. He extended his foot back to kick the overturned can again, but then stopped himself. Destroying his home wasn’t exactly helping matters.

  He decided to let it go. His creative block was still there, but at least he was chipping away at it, like a lumberjack chipping away at a tree that stubbornly refused to fall down on its own.

  “I’m going to figure this out,” he said, raising his fist at the paint. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your choice.”

  He cleaned up the paint as best as he could. If he used turpentine, he’d ruin the varnish on his floors, but then again, they’d have to be redone anyway. As he cleaned them, he marveled at how easily the paint came off.

  Without quite knowing why, he painted more on the floor and then removed it with the cloth.

  On again. Off again.

  What in the hell was he supposed to do with this?

  Frustrated beyond belief, he stood. It was time to let it all go and simply paint.

  Since he liked seeing the different colors on the wall, he painted and repainted over the same section in that lush yellow. When he finished, he sat down on the floor and looked up at the wall, feeling like he was wrapped up in Margie’s embrace.

  She was all around him now, like the sunshine she emitted with her smile, like the sound of her voice when she said she loved him. He lowered himself onto his ruined floors in his ruined Hugo boss clothes and went to sleep with the paint roller still tucked in his hand.

  When he awoke, the sun streaming in through the windows was blinding. His back felt like a mass of tangled wire as he stretched from his place on the floor. Maybe he should paint the windows. It would make everything outside invisible to him.

  Invisible.

  Then he straightened. His heartbeat paused as time seemed to lengthen around him.

  That was it! He wasn’t supposed to cover things up so much as make them invisible. Holy shit! He was supposed to make invisible paint.

  He had to call Chase. Crawling across the floor, he finally tried to stand and stumbled from excitement. As soon as he found his phone, he dialed Chase. He only realized after he’d dialed the number that it would be the middle of the night for his friend.

  “This had better be good, Evan,” Chase said in a groggy voice.

  “I’m going to invent invisible paint,” he said, and then had to sit down on a nearby chair in the sitting room from the rush of energy those words sent through him.

  This revelation had come to him because he’d told Margie the truth. He knew it in his gut.

  “What did you say?” Chase asked.

  “I’m inventing invisible paint.” This time his voice was clearer and his head didn’t spin. “Paint that can—”

  “Make stuff invisible,” Chase said. “I heard you. Holy shit, Evan. This is huge! When can you send me the prototype or the design or whatever the hell it is you’ve invented?”

  He lovingly rubbed the paint clinging to his clothes. “I haven’t invented the formula yet, but I will. I just needed to hear what I was supposed to invent next.”

  Chase groaned. “Hearing what you’ll invent? Jesus, Evan, who told you? The Paint Prep Mistress?”

  “If you’re going to be nasty, I’m hanging up. I have to study the chemical composition of paint more.” And he would. Somehow the formula to make an invisible paint would come to him.

  Each of his inventions had begun with an idea. The rest was just details. Right now, everything was possible. Margie loved him, and she knew his secret and hadn’t turned away like he’d feared.

  “Hmmm…okay, when you have the actual invisible paint, give me a call. I’m going back to sleep.”

  “Chase, this
new formula is going to change everything. Battleships will be invisible. Army bases will be undetectable. Maybe I can even design a human-friendly paint for soldiers. Just think of the possible applications.”

  “I am, Evan. I’m just not popping a bottle of champagne until I know you can do it.”

  Now that smarted. “Have I ever not delivered on a design?” Then he thought of the last two years. “Don’t answer that. This is real, Chase. I told you there was something about the paint.”

  “At least you won’t be creating a retail division of Quid-Atch Incorporated.”

  “I still might,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Painters all over the world are going to want to kiss me on the mouth when they use the Paint Prep Mistress.”

  “That, my friend, sounds like a man who needs to get laid.”

  Evan clutched the phone tighter in his hand. “You promised you’d be nice about Margie.”

  “I know I did,” Chase said. “I didn’t say you weren’t getting laid. And now I’ll shut up. Go research paint, Evan.”

  “I’ll need a new team, Chase.” His brain was turning cartwheels, it was spinning so fast. “People from the paint industry. Maybe someone from Dow Chemical? And everyone who worked on the INV-333. I’ll send you something.”

  “I’ll have someone come up with a new R&D budget,” Chase said, but his voice held more cheer than doom and gloom now.

  “This is going to be epic, Chase,” he told his friend.

  “I know,” he said. “Happy inventing, Evan. And welcome back.”

  Welcome back is right, he thought. When Chase ended the call, Evan realized he hadn’t told his friend about the developments with Margie. Well, he would tell him later.

  Now was the time to celebrate his new idea, the one that was going to change the world. He immediately began a text to Margie, but then forced himself to stop. She was at work. He checked the time. If she left on schedule today, she would be off in a few hours.

  In the meantime, he could celebrate alone. He hobbled over to his Meneghini La Cambusa refrigerator, which cost as much as a luxury sedan, and located the bottle of Dom Perignon he had on hand. He popped the cork across the room and drank straight from the bottle. With champagne dripping down his chin, he hearkened back to Margie’s toast in Dare Valley.

  “To me and all my painting awesomeness,” he said, lifting the bottle and doing a little jig, exactly like the woman he loved did when she was happy.

  He couldn’t wait to tell her his news.

  ***

  Margie was glad for the hectic pace of the bakery. Even in the middle of the night, there was action. In the basement of Boulangerie Ma Belle, they were all like perennials in winter, their roots active underground as they waited for the light to bring new life to the surface. Margie’s calves ached from all the trips she’d made upstairs, carrying the bread to arrange on the shelves for the customers who would soon flow through the door.

  She’d worried Andre by showing up late. So much so, he’d ushered her to a private place upstairs to talk. After listening to a minute of apologies, he’d taken her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “Ma petite, if you need help, do not hesitate to ask Belle and me. We are your family here, no?”

  She’d teared up and nodded at hearing him refer to her as family. He’d kissed her on both cheeks and then led her back downstairs, immediately handing her some dough from the mixers to set into the bowls to rise. Andre didn’t like large quantities of dough trying to rise together. He said it was too much weight for the bread to reach its full height.

  She focused on the bread and tried to be present to it. It was harder to make a proper baguette today. So she quieted her mind. Let her hands lovingly caress the dough until it softened under her touch, rather like she had caressed Evan’s body. Love seemed to fill her until she was brimming over with it. And as she gave the bread her gentleness and attention, she felt it give her the same.

  Her baguettes weren’t works of art like the ones Andre, Fabian, and Ronan made, but they were much better now.

  When Belle arrived, she popped down to the basement to give Andre a lingering morning kiss. Immediately afterward, she pulled Margie into a hug and led her to the side of the room.

  “You are all right, ma petite?” she asked. “Andre and I were so concerned for you.”

  “I’m better. I was late to my shift because Evan chased me down as I was walking to the bakery.” Even now, warmth filled her at the thought of it. “He said he loved me and then told me the truth. It was…one of the most beautiful moments of my life.”

  Belle gazed at her with a soft smile. “How romantic! I take back all of the nasty names I called him to Andre after we put the children to bed. And now Andre will not have to beat him…how do you say? To a pulp?”

  She laughed. “I didn’t tell Andre anything. He’s a guy, and I arrived late.”

  “And he just wanted to make sure you were all right and then start baking bread. Ah, that man.”

  “Andre is as focused on making bread as Evan is with his inventions.” Perhaps that was another reason she adored the baker.

  “You will make a good wife someday,” Belle said. “Our men need someone to tell their deepest secrets to. Like your man, Evan, Andre once feared sharing his secrets with me.” Her smile was mysterious as she glanced over at her husband. “But he has no more secrets from me, and I have none from him.”

  “Is that the key to your relationship?” she asked.

  Belle tilted her head to the side like she was thinking. “For us, happiness is always growing together. One of us will want something new, so we share it. It’s exciting. There must be space to grow and remain curious about life.”

  She had grown up feeling skeptical about marriage. Her own parents’ relationship had given her so little inspiration, but in the past few years, she’d met couples who’d made her consider the beauty of a life shared. Couples like Jill and Brian, and now Belle and Andre. “Thank you for sharing your wisdom with me, Belle.”

  “You’re welcome, Margie,” she said, heading back toward the stairs. “Now, I’d better get upstairs and open the shop. Our customers need their bread.”

  The rest of her shift went fast, and soon she was washing the baking pans beside Fabian and hanging them to dry. Her cheeks were flushed, and her skin was damp from the steam of the water. The smell of baked bread hung in the air all around her. When she set her last pan aside to dry, she took a deep breath and savored the moment.

  “Time for you to head home, ma petite,” Andre called out as he came down the stairs.

  He and Ronan must have finished making the croissant dough. She had yet to make croissants with Andre, but he said she would soon. Unlike bread, the croissant dough took days to properly set before it could finally be fashioned and baked. The more layers, the longer the process, he said.

  “I can stay longer,” she said, even though she was anxious to meet up with Evan. “Since I arrived a little late.”

  “Posh,” he said, waving a massive hand. “You weren’t that late. Fabian, tell her. We won’t send you to the guillotine for that,” he added in French since she was trying to speak more—and listen better.

  “Your head is safe today, Margie,” Fabian said with a deadpan face.

  Andre laughed so hard, he clutched his belly. “But only today. Now, as for tomorrow…”

  Fabian finally laughed too, and she joined in, from the humor as much from the joy she took from understanding their language enough to follow their jokes. Being around male bakers was more fun than she’d imagined. At her own bakery, all the employees she’d brought on to help her bake had previously worked with Grandma Kemstead, and all were women. She hoped that might change at some point now. It would be nice to have a balance.

  “All right, I’ll go,” she said, taking out the clip she used to keep the hair out of her eyes while she was baking. She wanted to spend every minute she could with Evan.

  Andre kissed her on both cheeks after
she picked up her purse. “Take some bread with you, and don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”

  “Thank you, Andre.” She grabbed the bread bag he thrust at her, smiling at the sight of the two almost-perfect baguettes.

  “I mean it, Margie.” His mouth had turned into a rare scowl. “Belle told me your man confessed who he was to you. I’m happy for you, ma petite, but if he hurts you again…”

  He wouldn’t, she knew. The only thing that would hurt her—hurt both of them—was when she left Paris. “I promise to call if I need anything.”

  There were customers in the shop when she came upstairs. Belle gave her a saucy wink, so she blew her a kiss. Then her friend laughed at something a young mother and child were saying in animated French about the baguettes they were buying.

  Margie shook out her hair when she stood on the street. The sun was warm, and a breeze danced across her skin. She immediately thought of Evan and how his hands had felt on her. She wanted to hear him say he loved her when he was buried deep inside her, gazing into her eyes. Lust bloomed inside her, and she dug into her purse for her phone.

  I’m finished for the day. Let me know when you want to meet up. I miss you.

  Her phone immediately buzzed.

  I’ve been missing you like crazy too. How about I pick you up? I have somewhere special planned.

  Her diaphragm suddenly felt like a crusty slice of bread had gotten stuck there. Was it going to be something totally over-the-top?

  Give me about twenty minutes to change, and I’ll be ready.

  His reply was immediate. Can’t wait.

  And then he added a red heart at the end of the message. So far they hadn’t texted anything like that, and her heart melted. Oh Evan, I love you. Please don’t go all billionaire on me.

  Twenty minutes later, Evan buzzed the apartment, and she rang him up. Since the weather was warm, she’d chosen a simple purple cotton dress that looked great with her dark hair. Part of her had wanted to fuss over her wardrobe now that she knew Evan hung out with models wearing designer clothes, but since he had never once tried to change her, she let it go. He was with her because he wanted to be, not for what she was wearing. And this way, she could keep anchoring herself in the life she wanted to lead, the one where she could wear simple cotton and be herself.