Cocktails and Curves: A BBW Billionaire Romance

by Alexandrinha Abbott

  Image Credit

  Cover image courtesy of photostock /

  www.FreeDigitalPhotos.net

  Cocktails and Curves:

  A BBW Billionaire Romance

  By Alexandrinha Abbott

  With Virginia Holiday

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 1

  Believe it not, real men love curves. I knew this from personal experience. When I was younger, I was shy about my curvy body. I envied those women whose thighs didn’t even come close to touching on top. As I grew older, I realized that those women, the ones with the gaps between their thighs, didn’t have more rewarding relationships with men than I did. They spent just as much time crying into their coffee as the curvy girls. Although in their case, it might be a nonfat cappuccino instead of a full-fat mocha latte.

  It’s all about the confidence. Lucky for me, I’ve got it in spades. There’s no doubt. I was the heaviest girl at the bar where I worked. I also got the most tips. Working as a cocktail waitress when you’re bigger than a size 16 can be a drag if you obsess over the pseudo-anorexic chicks working by your side. Fortunately, I haven’t obsessed over an underweight chica in more than a decade. I pitied the poor things. They always looked so hungry and undernourished. The reason for the immense gap between their legs was probably due to rickets caused by severe malnutrition, which softens the bones and deforms the femurs. I always wanted to feed them cupcakes.

  At the age of thirty, I was also a fair bit older than most of the other cocktail waitresses. That means I spent far less time crying in the bathroom over boyfriend troubles, a broken nail or a bad hair day. It also means that I had accumulated quite a bit of experience when it comes to dealing with men of every way, shape and form. They didn’t rattle me anymore. I had outgrown that phase long ago.

  On Friday nights, I typically went home after an eight-hour shift with aching feet, a pocketful of tips and a handful of men’s phone numbers scribbled on scraps of paper or cocktail napkins. Many men openly ogled my ample assets from the front or the rear as I scurried around the bar just as spryly as a twenty-year-old anorexic but without all the drama.

  “Come here, Baby,” a man slurred. Here it was, a perfect example of my effect on the average American male. He grabbed my arm and pulled me so close that I could smell the cocktail olive tucked between his gums and cheek. The drunk was sucking on it like it was candy. “You’re so pretty,” he said. “I like a woman who’s got something to hang onto.”

  “Thanks,” I chirped brightly. “Now take your hands off me before I kick you where it hurts,” I added in a whisper. He didn’t let go. So I connected the toe of my boot with the front of his shin, hard. “I told you it was going to hurt,” I admonished as he released my arm and unleashed a bevy of curses at me.

  Unlike most of the other girls, I didn’t wear stiletto heels to work. It was far easier to evade groping hands and flattened palms if I could move like a panther. I just couldn’t do that in high heels. My tips didn’t decrease when I swapped out my towering heels for cowboy boots. In fact, they increased dramatically, and I got more than my fair share of compliments to boot. Pun intended.

  I moved deftly through the crowds, collecting drink orders and dispensing cocktails. As I worked, my pockets grew fat with ones, fives and tens. I even accumulated a couple of twenties and a handful of phone numbers from men whose faces I couldn’t even remember. It was just another Friday night.

  At one point, I looked up and spotted a man staring at me. He was approximately in his mid-thirties, and he was movie-star gorgeous. I was used to attention from customers, but this was different. Most men leered. This one was gaping at me with his mouth hanging open. I headed his way. “What can I get you to drink?” I asked.

  “I’ll have bottled water if you’ve got it,” he said. Once he closed his mouth, he was actually quite handsome. To be more accurate, he was breathtaking. Brad Pitt had nothing on this guy, not even twenty plus years ago when he showed his naked bottom on the big screen in “Thelma and Louise.” This guy was all deep blue eyes, thick chestnut hair and rippled muscles that nearly burst through the fabric of his shirt every time he moved.

  “We’ve got bottled water,” I said, smiling. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like something more titillating?” I winked.

  He didn’t even bat an eye. “Water will be fine.” He almost smiled but not quite. What’s with this guy? Maybe he doesn’t like curves. Nah. Maybe he just doesn’t like girls. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

  “You’ve got it, Babe,” I said sweetly. When I turned and walked away, I put a little wiggle into it just in case he was watching. Although I wanted more than anything to turn around and see if he was, I forced myself to keep my eyes forward as I went to fetch his bottled water.

  As I was getting his water, I ran into one of my skinny coworkers. “Hey, Sarah,” I said. “Could you do me a solid?”

  Sarah nodded and smiled. What she lacked in brains, she made up for in nothing. She was a good egg, though.

  “Do you see that guy over there?” I pointed.

  Sarah nodded her head again. “You mean the one who looks like Brad Pitt only younger and hunkier?”

  “That’s the one,” I agreed. “Could you please bring him this bottled water?”

  “Oh, it would be my pleasure,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “There’s one more thing. Turn up the heat on him a little bit. You know what I mean. Act like you think you’re getting a good tip.”

  “Okay. Do you think he’ll give me a good tip?” Sarah asked hopefully.

  “Probably not,” I admitted. “I just want to see if you’re his type.”

  With a final smile, Sarah took the bottle of water from my hands and toddled over to the hunk on her dangerously high heels. She swayed her flat hips from side to side. Her sparkly black pantyhose caught the light with her movements while I watched her from a safe distance.

  Sarah delivered the water, leaning forward as she pressed the bottle into the handsome stranger’s hand. She ran her fingers along his arm, and I heard her laugh.

  I watched as the man gently took her hand in his and removed it from his arm. He looked serious, but I couldn’t hear a single word he said.

  Sarah nodded her head several times, straightened out and patted him on the shoulder. Then she turned around and headed back in my direction. When she approached me, she had an indecipherable expression on her face.

  “Well,” Sarah said. “I definitely don’t think I’m his type.”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Do you think he’s gay?”

  “I don’t think he’s gay. Um, he said his wife just died.”

  “Oh, that’s horrible. No wonder he looks so glum. It still doesn’t explain the way that he gaped at me when he first got here,” I said.

  “It kind of does,” Sarah replied. “He said his wife looked exactly like you.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “He said he wants to talk to you. I guess he wants to apologize for giving you the wrong idea or whatever.”

  I tried to muster a smile. “At least I know I’m his type. Thank you, Sarah.” I headed back toward the widower. Everything made sense now except for the part where the bereaved was sitting in a bar drinking bottled water. My quick steps and long strides brought me to his table in record time. It was another benefit of wearing cowboy boots instead of stiletto heels. Fortunately, the manager of this place didn’t care what the girls wore as long as they were s
exy. I was lucky that he recognized the sexiness of my non-traditional cocktail waitress body. Like I said, I got more tips than any other girl in the place.

  “Hello,” I said. “Sarah said that you asked to speak with me.” At that moment, I felt strong hands on my body, and I was spun around hard.

  The drunk from earlier had recovered from my kick to his shin, and now he was trying to get his revenge by pressing his rank mouth to my lips. Just as quickly, he was gone. In the blink of an eye, he had gone from standing deep within my personal space to lying supine on the floor with a confused look on his face.

  “The lady told you to keep your hands off her,” my handsome widower said. “I suggest you call a taxi and make your way home before you get into any more trouble.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Thanks for defending me. I can take care of myself, but that was still very chivalrous of you.”

  “When do you get off work?” he asked abruptly.

  I successfully hid my surprise. “Two a.m.,” I said.

  “May I pick you up then?” he asked.

  This was certainly an improvement over being ogled or ignored. What did I have to lose? “Sure,” I said. “I leave through the employee entrance in the back. You can park in the employee lot. It will make it easier for me to find you.”

  “I’ll be there,” he said. He grabbed his unopened bottle of water and left.

  The rest of my shift passed in a blur. It wouldn’t be the first time that I had gone home with a customer, but I tried to keep it to a minimum. Especially now that I was past my thirtieth birthday, it just seemed unbecoming to succumb to the charms of various drunks. Except this one wasn’t drunk, I reminded myself, and apparently I resembled his dead wife. Add to that the fact that I didn’t even know his name and I hoped that he wouldn’t expect too much from me until we got to know each other.

  At the same time that I reminded myself to behave like a lady, I wondered how it would feel to kiss those full lips or be stroked by those big hands. Maybe I needed a nameless fling with an über-handsome stranger now and again before I forgot what it was like to be with a man in the biblical sense.

  By midnight, my apprehension had turned to excitement tinged with more than a little confusion. I had agreed to meet with a man whose interest in me was directly related to his dead wife. As far as fetishes went, this one was more than a little creepy.

  I checked my makeup in the dressing room mirror, fluffed up my hair, straightened out my sequined top and short skirt and grabbed my purse. “It’s now or never,” I muttered under my breath.

  When I spilled out into the cool night air of the employee parking lot, I didn’t see anything but disappointment. Other than an obnoxious stretch limousine that was blocking up most of the lot, there were no unfamiliar cars in sight. My handsome stranger had failed to make his appearance. Among the more disappointing aspects of this development was the fact that I would be walking home in my cowboy boots.

  My car was in the shop. It shouldn’t have been that much of a disappointment. I knew when I got a ride into work that I would be walking home, but the stranger’s offer had led me to believe that I was getting a ride. With a sigh, I shrugged my shoulders and stepped into the parking lot.

  To my surprise, the rear passenger window of the limousine rolled down, and the stranger’s face appeared in the gap. “You’re late,” he said. “Get inside.”

  A uniformed driver bounded out of the car and opened the door for me.

  “Thank you,” I told the driver. I obediently climbed into the back of the limousine. “I’m sorry for the loss of your wife,” I said. “But that doesn’t give you the right to be so bossy. I’m not late. I can’t magically appear in the parking lot at the exact moment that my shift ends, and I don’t even know your name.”

  “My name is John Goldman,” he said. “You’re right, of course. I apologize for my bad behavior. It’s no excuse, but I don’t think that I have quite recovered from your resemblance to my wife Peggy. She was a remarkable woman. Are you a remarkable woman, Terry?”

  “How do you know my name?” I asked.

  “I would appreciate it if you didn’t answer my questions with another question, but I will allow it this one time,” he said. Then he reached out his hand until I thought he was going to touch my chest. “It’s right there on your nametag,” he said. “Terry, that is your nametag, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said. My heart was pounding so hard that I wondered whether he could hear it, too.

  “Now, please do me the courtesy of answering my question. Are you a remarkable woman, Terry?”

  “Absolutely,” I replied. “I am a remarkable woman. Would you like to hear me roar?”

  “There will be plenty of time for that later,” he said.

  I was too shocked to say anything at all because I had just realized that the limousine was moving smoothly through the darkened streets to some unknown destination, and I didn’t know whether to be thrilled or terrified. “Where are you taking me?” I asked.

  “We’re going back to my home, but you can leave whenever you like. My driver will take you wherever you need to go. Does that sound fair?”

  “Certainly,” I said, but my heart was in my throat. “That’s very kind of you.”

  “You should try to relax and enjoy the ride,” John said. “After all, I’m guessing that a cocktail waitress doesn’t spend much time in limousines.”

  I bristled. “That’s awfully presumptuous of you,” I said. He was right. I had never been inside a limousine in my life. “My mouth is so dry. I could really use something to drink.”

  John reached into a discreetly concealed cooler and pulled out a bottle of water. He extended it toward me, but I didn’t take the plastic bottle from his hand.

  “I was hoping for something a little more refreshing,” I said.

  “Well, you’re in luck,” he said. “I have more refreshing refreshments back at the house. If you are thirsty in the meantime, I suggest you drink the water.”

  I accepted the bottle and removed the cap. The cold water did feel good as it slid down my parched throat. “Thanks. Say, you don’t live in a mansion, do you?”

  “Why yes,” he said. “Technically I suppose one could consider it a mansion. Why? Don’t you like mansions?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’ve never been to one. What’s not to like about a mansion?”

  “You’ll like everything about the mansion,” he assured me. “It even comes with its own dungeon.”

  I laughed. At the time, I thought he was joking. “What exactly is it that you do?” I asked.

  “I do many things, but I suppose you are wondering what I do for a living. I’m an attorney who has several high-profile clients. It isn’t much, but it pays the bills.” He chuckled.

  “You mean like celebrity clients?” I asked.

  “More like Saudi Arabian royalty,” he answered.

  “Why would Saudi Arabian royalty need a layer in the United States?” I asked.

  “There are many good reasons, but I can’t share them with you. I’m sure you’ve heard of attorney client privilege.” He smiled, showing off a spectacular set of pearly whites. “Besides, I’m sure that the details of what I do would bore you to death.”

  “We have arrived at your destination,” the driver said. The limousine stopped in front of a magnificent marble beast of a mansion, and the driver disembarked first. He opened the rear passenger door and extended his hand to assist me from the vehicle.

  I emerged into the bright spotlights that illuminated the front of John Goldman’s extravagant marble home. It was so bright that I actually had to shield my eyes. “The sun never sets on the Goldman Empire,” I quipped.

  “That’s good,” John said. “I like it.” He took my arm and led me up the marble steps to the elaborately carved wooden doors. Placing his palm flat against a glass panel caused the door to swing open silently on its hinges.

  “Old World money meets New-World techn
ology,” I said.

  “This is New World money. I don’t have Old-World money, Terry. I earned this all myself.”

  “Doing things you can’t discuss due to attorney client privilege,” I finished for him.

  “Yes, exactly,” he said. “I’m relieved to hear that you understand completely. Let’s go inside.”

  The interior of the mansion was every bit as gaudy as I had imagined. It was flipping fabulous. There were leopard print carpets and red velvet walls, hanging crystal chandeliers, lavish oil paintings and elaborate wall hangings.

  “This is amazing,” I marveled.

  “I’m glad you like it,” he said.

  “It looks like it was designed by the madame of an Old West bordello.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Terry. They didn’t have resources like this in the Old West.”

  I continued to look around. My feet carried me further and further into the gaudy wonderland as I followed one marvelous detail after another. Finally, one piece of artwork in particular stopped me in my tracks. “Is that a painting of me?”

  “Sweet Terry, why would I have paintings of you hanging on my walls? We only just met tonight. That’s a painting of my wife. May God rest her soul.”

  Oh, that’s right. “I’m so sorry. Of course, Sarah told me about the resemblance between me and your late wife. I’m sorry.” Oy vay, I should have known better. I noticed a silver urn on the mantel beneath the oversized painting and wondered whether it contained the ashes of my departed doppelgänger. “How about that drink you promised me?” I really needed a drink.

  “Please make yourself comfortable,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He returned with a flute of deliciously cold champagne. It was exquisite.

  I drank the liquid more quickly than I’d planned and extended the glass for a refill while contemplating whether the bottle cost more than my monthly salary at the club. After drinking the second glass, I was far more relaxed. I batted my lashes at my generous host. “Why did you bring me here?” I asked, placing one manicured hand on his thigh.

  He ignored my hand. “Well, why don’t we start with the reason why I was at the club tonight? A family friend told me that he had spotted an extraordinary woman who was nearly identical in appearance to my late wife. As you might imagine, I found his declaration more than a little difficult to believe. So I thought I ought to check you out myself.”