Between Two Billionaires

by Sky Corgan

  I'm used to getting asked out by high school guys. Well, when I was still in high school, at least. Since then, only one other guy has asked me out, and he was a co-worker who I wasn't interested in at all. I'm not used to being asked out by older men, especially handsome ones with money. Not that the money matters, because it doesn't. All that really matters is that he's a good man with morals. Tristan's morals are questionable, but he seems to have everything else going for him. Why not give him a chance?

  I want to chastise myself for bending my dating requirements because of his good looks. But it's not just that. I owe him this date. That's what I keep telling myself, at least.

  I spend my afternoon waiting by the phone like a pathetic fool. Every fifteen minutes or so, I pick it up to look at the screen, checking for a missed call. There's no way I wouldn't have heard it, considering that the phone is right beside me, but still, I check it. Again and again and again. Throughout the afternoon and into the night until it's time to get ready for bed.

  I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed. Even though I don't really know Tristan and have been acting disinterested, I'm admittedly a bit upset that he didn't call me. I sulk to bed, frowning and wondering if I did something wrong to make him lose interest in me. Maybe he hated my joke so much it made him think I'm stupid. Perhaps when he saw me the second time, he decided he didn't like me after all.

  I let self-deprecating thoughts carry me off to a dreamless sleep. Then I wake up and check my phone again. Nothing. He lied to me. He's not going to call.

  I go about my day, trying to keep my head up—trying to think positive. If it was meant to be, it would have happened. Everything happens for a reason.

  I abandon hope of receiving a phone call from Tristan, put my phone on silent, and head to work. I'm working an afternoon shift at the coffee shop, and it's rather dead. That gives me plenty of time to reflect on the past week and my life in general. I think of how big Tristan's house is, wondering if I'll ever be able to afford something as nice. That's why I need to keep working hard. I need to make sure I can go to college next year. I just wish life was easier. It's not like my parents can't afford to send me. Ethel's father controls all the money though, and he says he wants us to work for what we have. Life isn't about getting handouts. I can't help but think he'd change his tune if Ethel wanted to go to college. While her father has always been nice to me, he's never really treated me as his own. He gives her money to go out and blow on expensive clothes and whatever she wants. He gives me nothing. It seems like an oxymoron. He doesn't want us to live on handouts, yet his hand is always out for Ethel and her childish desires. His hand is closed to me, and all I want is a college education.

  By the time my shift is over, I feel defeated by life. It's a dumb thing to think. I know I still have it better than a lot of other people, but it's easy to feel pity for your own situation, especially when it's all that you've known.

  I drive home and get changed, then I pull my phone out of my pocket to check my messages. To my surprise and delight, there's a missed call from Tristan. I quickly plant myself in front of my computer and dial his number, waiting with bated breath for him to answer.

  He picks up on the second ring. “Hey, Cinderella.”

  “Hey, Prince Charming,” I quip, feeling a smile curl my lips until they hurt.

  “Why didn't you answer earlier?”

  “Work.” I slump a bit, remembering all the things I was thinking about earlier.

  “Ah, yes, that evil four letter word. Anyway, I was thinking we could get together this Saturday.”

  “Sounds good. Just tell me what time and where to meet you.”

  “Such a fearful thing, you are.” I can hear him grinning on the other end of the line. “You fear me sending a chariot for you.”

  Does he really know me so well already? “I would be more comfortable driving myself,” I admit.

  “Alright. Do you remember where my house is?”

  “I think so.” I try to retrace the route in my head. If all else fails, I have his address. I can look it up online.

  “Then meet me here at seven, and we'll go from there.”

  “Seven,” I hesitate. I honestly don't like the idea of meeting him at his house, but I feel kind of at his mercy after trespassing on his property.

  “Yup. Write it down. Don't forget. I'll look forward to seeing you. And, by the way, you're special coffee was delicious.” The simple compliment draws my smile up even more. He can be so undeniably sweet. I absolutely love it.

  “I'll see you at seven o'clock on Saturday night,” I tell him.

  “Good night, beautiful Sarah,” his voice softens, sounding almost romantic.

  “Good night, Prince Charming.”

  I hang up the phone and squeal, hugging it and swooning like an idiot. It takes everything in me to temper my excitement. I try to recite all the warnings I've been taught. If it seems too good to be true, it usually is. He could be a wolf in sheep's clothing. There's only one reason a guy wants you to come to his house. It does no good though. I'm too enthralled by his affectionate sentiments. I like him too much.

  ***

  My enthusiasm is a bit too much to be contained. I start getting ready at five o'clock on Saturday afternoon, and I end up parked in Tristan's driveway by 6:15. I cringe at myself for leaving my house so early, but I couldn't help it. I was just too excited.

  For several minutes, I sit in my car and stare up at the house. It's odd being in his driveway. There's no security guard manning the door. The neighborhood is quiet. Everything seems surreal. And I still feel like I don't belong here.

  I do this time though. Tristan invited me. And this is his house. So, if he wanted me here, then I do belong here.

  My mind wanders. He probably has cameras on the driveway. Maybe he's watching them right now, wondering why I showed up so early. Wondering why I won't come inside. Perhaps he's not even here.

  After a while, I begin to feel like a creeper, so I decide to climb out of my car and go to the door. Besides, it's hot, and after sitting fifteen minutes in the car with the windows rolled down, I'm starting to get sweaty. The last thing I want is for my makeup to melt off and to show up all smelly. Not attractive at all.

  I stand in front of the front door with butterflies fluttering in my tummy. When I lift my hand to ring the doorbell, I hesitate for half a second. What if this isn't really even his house? What if he lied to me? No, that's stupid. The security guard let us upstairs, and he knew exactly where to find clothes for me.

  I'm fidgeting with my nails by the time the door opens to Tristan's smiling face. He's dressed down in a pair of distressed jeans and a red and white stripped polo. Even though he's not wearing a suit, he looks handsome as ever, his blue eyes bright and filled with joy from seeing me.

  “Hi there,” I greet him timidly.

  “Cinderella, I honestly wasn't sure if you were going to stand me up or not. But surprise, surprise. You're here early.” He steps away from the door, drying his hands off with a dishtowel.

  “I like being punctual.” I step inside, looking around the grand foyer as if I'm seeing it for the first time. The entrance is laden with curved archways and gorgeous architecture. Now that it's not crowded with people, I can actually appreciate it.

  “Did you have a hard time finding the place?” He closes the door behind us, then leads the way through the house. He gestures to the dining room, which is off to the left of the kitchen, indicating that I should sit.

  “No. Not at all. I used MapQuest.” I tell him, feeling old school. Everyone else has a GPS system, and I'm still printing out driving directions like I'm stuck in the past.

  “MapQuest,” he lets out a short laugh, walking into the kitchen to finish doing whatever it was he was doing before I got here. From where I'm sitting, I can watch him. It only takes a few minutes for me to realize he's making a salad.

  “You cook?” I'm honestly surprised. Aren't rich people supposed to have persona
l chefs to do this kind of stuff for them?

  “Mhm. I like cooking.” He takes a head of lettuce, washes it off in the sink, then begins to shred it into a bowl.

  I can't help but smile. He's making me dinner. How romantic. On the inside, I'm squealing in delight. I can't wait to taste his cooking.

  “I'm sorry I showed up so early. Had I known you were making dinner, I would have waited,” I tell him, feeling kind of bad.

  “Don't worry about it. Everything is already prepared, pretty much. All I have left to do is make the salad.” He goes to the fridge, pulls out some tomatoes, washes them, and then begins chopping them up for the salad. His technique is brilliant. Far better than mine. He looks like he could cook for a living.

  “How has work been?” I'm quickly running out of things to ask him. The more I think about it, the more I realize we really don't have anything in common.

  “Fine,” he replies. “A little hectic, since my brother is out of town.”

  “Oh.” I nod. I have nothing else, so I sit in silence.

  He finishes the salad, setting it off to the side before he pulls what looks to be a casserole out of the oven. “I hope you like lasagna,” he says, unraveling the mystery of what we're having for dinner.

  “I do.” I'm still blown away by the fact that he cooked a whole meal for me. Not many guys would do that, especially for someone they just met. He must really enjoy cooking.

  Once everything is out of the oven, he starts setting the table. I feel absolutely useless. When I ask if I can help, he politely declines, and so I just wait. He sets everything in front of me. Lasagna, bread sticks, salad. He puts two taper candles between us, lights them, and then dims the overhead lighting to set the mood. After that, he pours us each a glass of wine before taking my plate, serving me, serving himself, and then finally sitting down.

  “I'm sorry that took so long,” he apologizes.

  “No. Don't apologize. I'm sorry for being early.” I watch him take his cloth napkin and put it over his lap. Then I do the same.

  “Don't apologize for being early. That just means I get to spend more time with you.” He smiles sweetly at me before picking up his fork. “Bon appétit.”

  Eating in front of Tristan is difficult. I'm so mesmerized by how attractive and kind he is. He can't possibly be real. But he is, sitting across from me, eating the meal he made for us.

  “Are you going to eat?” He glances up at me, noticing that I'm staring.

  “Yes.” I blush, turning my attention to my food. It looks delicious. If I can't eat the whole meal, I at least have to try everything. He put so much work into this.

  “So, the girl you were with at the party, who was she?” he asks.

  The question makes me uncomfortable. For some reason, I feel like he's lulling me into a false sense of security. Like as soon as he finds out Ethel's name, he's going to call the police and have us both arrested. This would be the perfect opportunity to stage a coup. “She's my sister,” I reply hesitantly, not wanting to disclose too much information.

  “Your sister?” His hand freezes over his lasagna.

  “Well, she's my step-sister,” I divulge a bit more, knowing exactly what he's thinking. Ethel and I are exact opposites. Her skin is ebony while mine is ivory. She's sassy, and I'm timid. It's obvious we didn't fall from the same tree.

  “Ah, that makes more sense. You two don't look remotely like you're related.” He continues eating.

  “My mother met her father at the dentist's office. He was her new dentist. It was love at first sight, if you hear them tell it.” My eyes widen in mock disbelief. Their romance is still a mystery to me. Then again, my mother kept Ethel's father away until she was sure there was something serious going on between them. My mother is very private like that.

  “So I'm guessing it was your sister's idea to crash my party?” He cuts up his lasagna before taking a bite.

  I try not to scowl at his reference to party crashing. It makes me feel like a criminal. “Yes, it was her idea.”

  “Why?”

  I sigh. The answer seems so stupid. I can't even force myself to tell the truth. “Because she thought it would be fun.”

  “It didn't seem like much fun for you.” He smirks. “You were hugging the wall almost the entire time.”

  “You were watching me.” My eyes flit up to meet his.

  “You don't actually believe I'm so oblivious that I don't remember who I invited to my own party, do you?” He stabs at his salad with his fork. “Of course, I wasn't one hundred percent certain you didn't belong. Sometimes, the people I invite bring guests. But you were so busy keeping to yourself. No one came up and talked to you. It was like someone had just dropped you off in the middle of nowhere.

  “Then when my friend called to bring on the strippers, and you were pushed into the crowd, I figured it was a case of mistaken identity. That's when I knew something wasn't right. When you stepped out of your shoe, I thought it would be a good opportunity to approach you. When I took you upstairs, I decided to test you. Needless to say, you failed. I knew you weren't really a stripper then. At least, I thought I knew until your sister gave me one of her business cards. It wasn't actually confirmed until I called the business the next day looking for you.

  “The funny thing is that there were supposed to be strippers at the party. They were running late though. Your sister's ploy worked marvelously.”

  What luck. If I told the story to Ethel like that, she'd think she was a genius. This is probably something better kept to myself.

  “So you knew I wasn't a stripper?” I redistribute my salad on my plate, quickly losing my appetite from nervousness.

  “You're not confident enough.” He looks directly at it as he says it. “You're shy about your body. It's not a quality a stripper would have.”

  “I guess I'm a horrible actress,” I laugh shortly.

  “You were trying?” He lifts an eyebrow. “Could have fooled me.”

  The truth is that I wasn't trying. It just seemed like the appropriate thing to say.

  “Do you like the food?” he asks, noticing I haven't eaten much.

  “It's good. I'm just nervous,” I admit.

  “Why are you nervous?” He grins in amusement.

  “I'm not used to this.” I look around the dining room. The setup is so intimate. The dim lighting, the candles, the handsome stranger. Well, I suppose he's not quite as much of a stranger anymore.

  “What are you used to?”

  I think of every lame date I've ever been on. “Going to the movies. Maybe going for fast food afterward.” I look down and bite my bottom lip, realizing how immature that must sound to him.

  “How old are you?” It's an unexpected question, and one that makes me exceptionally uneasy.

  “How old do you think I am?”

  He sets his fork down and looks straight at me. “Let's not play this game. I'm twenty-four. How old are you? If you're underage, I won't get mad. I just need to know, for safety's sake.”

  I push a strand of hair behind my ear, fearing rejection. “I'm eighteen. I just turned eighteen in May.”

  He sighs, and I can't tell if it's in relief or disappointment. “Let me see your ID.”

  “My ID?” I parrot. He doesn't trust me. That kind of hurts.

  Reluctantly, I reach into my purse to fish out my driver's license and hand it across the table to him. He reads my birthday carefully, then his eyes sweep over the rest of the ID. I hope he's not trying to memorize my address. Maybe letting him see it was a bad idea.

  “You are definitely eighteen.” He hands it back to me, sounding pleased.

  “I wouldn't lie.” I frown before putting it back in my purse.

  “Apologies. I just have a lot to lose. I hope you understand.”

  “I do, but you still need to learn to trust people more.” I put my ID back in my purse and return my attention to him.

  “There are some things it's more important to know the truth about th
an others. You'd understand if you were in my position,” his tone takes on an arrogant lilt. This is getting awkward. We should probably just drop the subject.

  “You're an amazing cook. I'm so full.” I lean back in the chair, rubbing my tummy. Immediately, I feel like a slob for it. It's totally inappropriate, but at least he doesn't seem offended.

  “You eat like a bird,” Tristan comments, looking at my plate.

  “You gave me such big portions. I ate about half,” I insist.

  “If you say so.”

  Now it's time for me to come up with my exit strategy. It was a nice dinner, but I should be getting home. I have work in the morning.

  Tristan takes a few more bites of his lasagna, then he stands and picks up our plates to walk them to the kitchen. Instead of watching him, I grab my purse off the back of the chair, pulling the strap over my shoulder in preparation to make a speedy escape. When he returns to me, I stand, taking a deep breath as I look at him.

  “Ready to leave already? Was my cooking that disappointing? You haven't even touched your wine.” He gestures to my glass, still sitting unmoved on the table.

  “I don't like to drink in front of strangers.” I readjust my purse, feeling a bit guilty. For all that I know, that was an expensive bottle of wine he poured.

  “But I'm not a stranger.” His expression is deadpan.

  “I still don't know you well enough to drink around you.”

  “Stay and get to know me.” The intense look returns. He's managed to keep it at bay for most of the night. It's definitely there now though, making me feel vulnerable.

  “I have work tomorrow.” I avert my eyes.

  “What time?” He shifts his weight.

  The truth is that I don't work until noon, but I need an excuse to leave. While I enjoy being around him, I'm still wary. Maybe I'm just being stupid. He's shown me nothing but kindness.

  “I suppose I could stay a little longer,” I relent, silently cursing myself for it.

  “Excellent.” His face brightens up. “I have something special planned for you. Come on.” He brushes past me, grabbing my hand to pull me out of the room. When our fingers touch, a strange electricity shoots through me. His hand is so warm, and I like the way it feels clasping mine.