Braxton

She was late. She’d missed the dinner I’d provided for my work associates and their guests. I wonder why she hadn’t arrived on time like everyone else, but then, when I see her step through the door, frazzled, looking anxiously around for her husband, who is standing across the room, leaning against the wall, talking to some of the other people from our team who do not perform well, I understand that Thompson probably didn’t even invite her to the dinner.

She rushes over to him, and he stands up straight, looking annoyed, like she’s interrupted some important work discussion. I pretend to listen to the woman standing next to me, one of the presidents of the marketing department who is talking about an account I could care less about, but my eyes are on her, the beautiful woman who is unfortunately attached to that sleaze, Jeff Thompson.

I watch as they step away from the others, as Jeff grabs her elbow and pulls her close, a little too violently for my liking. I see her face and know that she wants to say something to him about how she’s being treated but is afraid to. I watch as they step outside onto the balcony. I watch--and then I excuse myself and walk closer to where they have disappeared, positioning myself close enough to the door that I can hear what they are saying, though they won’t be able to see me through the frosted glass barrier between the balcony and the room.

“I called you several times,” she says, her voice pleading, pained.

“Well, excuse the hell out of me for having a life!” Jeff shoots back, clearly letting his anger get the best of him. “What are you wearing, anyway?”

“The silver dress, like you said,” she replies. I can’t see her, but I can picture her looking down at her gown, inspecting it. She looked gorgeous to me from across the room earlier. What problem good this jackass possibly have with her gown.

“I don’t remember it being so low cut,” he says. “Half of your breasts are sticking out!”

She is silent for a moment and then offers, “I brought this wrap.”

“You look like an old woman!” he shouts back at her. “Look, I don’t have time for this, all right? I invited you because I was expressly asked to; some of the other wives wanted to meet you or some bullshit. I’ve done my duty. You’re here. I’m going back out to drink with my friends. Maybe you should just… go.”

“Go?” I hear the agony in her voice, the pain of his abrupt dismissal, as if she has been cast off by someone she loves deeply. How did such a beautiful woman ever develop feelings for this self-absorbed pig?

“Or stay out here if you want to. Just don’t embarrass me, all right? My job is hard enough as it is without you looking like a whore in front of all of my bosses and work associates.”

He stomps off, coming back toward the door. I am pretending to listen to the conversation happening around me and do not look at him, though I am tempted to put my foot out and trip him--then we’ll see who is embarrassed. Since my eyes are not on Thompson as he slinks by, I don’t know if he has noticed me standing there or not, but I doubt it. He is usually only aware of himself.

Once he is back with his buddies, I excuse myself from the conversation and step outside.

It is dark out now, the lights from the city and the stars providing some illumination that meets the figure near the railing who is far enough away from the light filtering through the door and window, as well as the weak light on the wall by the door, that she is mostly in shadow.

I can hear that she is weeping before I even get within a few feet of her. She does not seem to have noticed that she isn’t alone anymore. I don’t want to embarrass her or bother her, but I feel her pain stabbing me in my own heart. I cannot understand Jeff Thompson, how such a shallow, idiotic man could be married to such a beautiful creature and treat her the way that he does, but it makes me angry in a way I cannot describe.

I take another step closer and she hears me then, swiping at her cheeks and pulling her wrap around her shoulders before she even turns her head. I’m not sure if she’ll recognize me or even how well she can see me now that I am also away from the light, but when her eyes meet mine, I am fairly certain she knows who I am.

“Are you all right?” I ask her, my voice gentle.

She nods, clears her throat. “Yes. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to….” She stops talking, not sure what to say. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine,” I remind her as I step up closer to her. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Oh, no! Really, I’m fine. I just wanted to get some fresh air.”

I take a whiff of the fumes from the city, the cars below us doing nothing to make the air fresh and then look at her, arching an eyebrow.

She actually cracks a smile at me. “Well, maybe not fresh. But… not stuffy. Not that the people inside are stuffy--or that the party is stuffy. Only that….” She groans and looks away from me, shaking her head. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

“That’s all right,” I assure her. Then, waiting for her to look at me again, I offer her my hand. “I’m Braxton.”

“I know,” she says, a small smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “I recognize you. I’m Julia Thompson.”

“I know,” I say back, getting her perfectly sculpted eyebrows to rise. “I’ve been waiting to meet you.”

Julia

Braxton Merriweather is standing in front of me--and he knew my name. I can hardly believe my ears. I blink at him a few times, wondering why it is he knows who I am, why it is he’s come to speak to me.

I know that Jeff was angry when I arrived. That wasn’t his fault, though. That was my fault. I was out of sorts, and he had every right to be cross with me. Still, people who didn’t understand the situation might think that was Jeff’s fault, that he was being too hard on me.

I want to ask Mr. Merriweather how he knows who I am, but I am too shy to pose the question. Instead, I just stand there, staring at him, trying to process the situation. He is absolutely the best looking man I’ve ever seen in real life and probably even more handsome than most of the guys I’ve seen on TV or the movies. He is also rich beyond comprehension.

Before I can say anything in response, Braxton asks, “Have you eaten any dinner yet?”

I wrinkle my forehead at the question. It seems like such a strange thing to ask. “Uhm, no,” I stammer, wondering why he’s asking.

“I didn’t think so,” he says. “You missed the dinner.”

I continue to look at him, puzzled. “There was a….” I stop talking. Obviously, there had been a dinner, or he wouldn’t be mentioning it now.

“Yes, and I hate to think of any of my guests going hungry.” Braxton looks toward the interior of the building, though we can’t really see through the frosted glass. “There are hors d'oeuvres being passed around, but that simply won’t do.” Mr. Merriweather offers me his arm. “Come along, and I’ll get you something proper to eat.”

I stare at his arm for a moment, not wanting to be rude but also not wanting to be a bother. Or make Jeff even more angry since he’s already told me to stay out here. “Oh, no, that’s okay,” I assure him. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Julia. You have to eat.” His arm is still crooked, extended to me.

I look at his arm again and then back at his eyes. They are a bright blue that twinkles in the dim light, almost as if they are glowing, though not in an alien way. “Really….”

“It won’t do to have anyone at my party go without dinner.”

The way he says it, I can’t possibly turn him down. It’s like an order of some sort almost, though not in a rude way.

I find myself looping my arm through his, despite the fact that I know Jeff will come undone if he finds out that I’ve gone back inside, especially with his boss. He will shout at me and tell me I am a bother to everyone. He might be right, but at the moment, I don’t feel like a bother, not to Mr. Merriweather, anyway. I feel like an invited guest whom he wants to ensure is having a nice time. It’s been so long since anyone has made me feel this way, made me feel important, I am not sure how to handle any of it.

The feel of his arm on mine, even through his jacket, is electrifying. I want to wrap my other arm around his, too, and hold him close, but that would be ridiculous. Just because the handsome billionaire also happens to be thoughtful and kind, that doesn’t give me the right to latch on to him like a small child clinging to a parent in an unfamiliar situation.

I glance around once we enter the building, but I don’t see Jeff anywhere. I figure he is back with his friends. Mr. Merriweather gets plenty of attention as we walk through the party. People want his attention. He is polite, but doesn’t stop walking until we reach the other side of the large room. Then, he pushes through a door I didn’t realize is even a door, and then we are in another room, and the sounds behind us fade away. I take a deep breath as I realize this is a suit--a large sitting area in front of us, and on the other side of the room, a huge four-poster bed.

We are not alone, though. There is a woman there, dressed in a nice champagne colored gown. She has a friendly smile on her face.

“Cindy, I have just discovered that Mrs. Thompson was not able to join us for dinner. Will you see that she’s brought the finest steak we have available as soon as possible? Freshly prepared, of course.”

“Yes, Mr. Merriweather,” she says with a twinkle in her eyes.

Then, he turns to me. “You do like steak, don’t you?”

I nod. “Thank you.”

Cindy has left the room, and we are alone. “Please, have a seat,” he says, gesturing toward the couch. I do, but he does not join me. I am nervous under his heavy stare. My shawl slips down a little, and I pull it back up. It’s not cold in here, not at all, but I remember what Jeff said about how obscene my dress is. I didn’t realize that you could see so much cleavage. I find myself looking down. I still don’t understand why my husband is so upset about this dress. When I look back up, Mr. Merriweather’s eyes are also on my chest. He looks away as soon as he sees that I am looking at him. I almost smile; unlike when some men ogle a woman’s breasts, he seems to have just been following my eyes. But even if he was not, and he was actually checking me out, I don’t mind for some reason. It doesn’t matter, after all. I am a married woman, and he is the most eligible bachelor in our city, maybe the whole country.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks me.

I can’t imagine this billionaire who is used to having other people wait on him hand and foot getting me anything, but I am thirsty and could definitely use some alcohol to help me relax. “Sure…” I say.

He crosses to a wet bar and comes back a moment later with a nice red wine. “This should pair nicely with your dinner.”

I take the glass, and our fingers brush against each other slightly, sending shivers down my spine. I almost spill the glass. “Thank you,” I manage.

Braxton Merriweather smiles at me, and I feel like my insides are catching fire.

Braxton

Julia Thompson is breathtaking, and I can’t keep my eyes off of her. I know I need to be more discreet. Staring at her as she sits there nervously on the sofa in the private suite I maintain right off of the main ballroom in my apartment complex, I want to forget that I have a few hundred guests just on the other side of the soundproof door, including her husband. I want to tell Cindy not to bother with the steak, that I’ll give Julia everything that she needs.

I can’t do that, though. Not yet anyway. It would be immoral of me to put moves on this married woman--unless, of course, her husband approves it—and so does she. I have been thinking of what I can do to get Jeff Thompson to realize he is not worthy of his wife, but he is such an arrogant asshole, I think he’s somehow gotten the impression he is too good for her. He is about to be reminded that he is nothing, that he is an insignificant peon and that his entire career exists only because I have not lowered my thumb and squashed him like the bug he is.

Julia sees me staring at her. She lowers her eyes, and I do, too. Her husband has accused her of showing too much cleavage. From my vantage point, she is hardly showing any at all, certainly not too much; probably not enough. And I am really looking.

But when she sees that I am doing just that, I look away, trying to maintain my status as a gentleman--for now.

I get her a drink. Our fingers brush. I feel electricity pulsing throughout my body. I want this woman. I want her now.

I can’t have her though--not yet.

“Cindy should be back soon,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Okay. Thank you.” She is nervous. She licks her bottom lip, and I wish that I could lean over and do the same. Instead, I linger by the door. “You don’t have to stay here with me,” she says, making it sound as if she is insignificant. I am not her husband. I do not find her to be less than worthy of my time.

“I don’t mind,” I say to her, finally sitting down on the edge of the couch. I am keeping my space from her not because I find her repulsive. On the contrary, I am drawn to her like a magnet. “What is it that you do, Mrs. Thompson?”

“Julia, please,” she says quickly. “I am… a homemaker.” She makes a nervous giggling sound in the back of her throat, as if I will also think that her being a homemaker is funny, or again, insignificant.

“Do you like being a homemaker?” I ask her.

Her eyes dart back and forth, side to side, quickly, as she searches for the right response. There is no right response with me--only the truth. She doesn’t know that. She thinks she’s supposed to be or say or do something different than whatever it is natural for her to be because she’s been told she is wrong so many times. “I like… art,” she finally says with a smile.

I smile back at her. I want her to know that I love that she likes art. “Are you an artist then?” I ask her with an encouraging tone.

She shrugs. “I would like to be, I guess. But… I don’t have time for that.”

I can tell by the way she makes that last remark that it isn’t true. She has plenty of time, probably too much time. She has more time than she knows what to do with and would like to use it on her art, but she can’t. Because she’s not allowed to.

Jeff Thompson is a horrible prick, and I want to break him in half.

Before I have a chance to let her know how angry I am at her douche of a husband, Cindy is back with her meal, and I am inclined to let her eat alone. I stand as Cindy lifts the cloche. “I’ll be back,” I assure her, not putting any time restraints on my return because I know that I will be caught up in conversations with people I do not wish to speak with.

“Thank you, Mr. Merriweather,” Julia says before she even cuts into her steak.

I am near the door now, but I stop and turn to look at her. I smile. I can’t help it. She’s so goddamn beautiful. “It’s Braxton,” I tell her. Julia’s smile widens, and the apples of her cheeks turn pinker. I know she will not call me that, not yet, but I hope that, before too much longer, she’ll be screaming my name in the throes of passion.

I turn and head out the door before I completely lose my head, my feet carrying me through the crowd, searching for one man, and one man alone: Jeff Thompson.