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.

Jeff Thompson is standing with a group of low-level workers from his department, laughing, their drinks nearly empty and not for the first time from what I can tell. They are certainly inebriated. I stand back and study them for a while, planning how to say what I need to say to Thompson without losing my cool. Standing this far away from him, looking at him with my expensive liquor in his hand, wearing off-brand shoes and a suit that he’s worn nearly every day since he started working for me, just changing out the shirt under the jacket, I can’t help but wonder what he does with all of the money I pay him. He certainly doesn’t spend it on his wife.

But then, I’m pretty sure I already know. It is my understanding that he has a pretty serious addiction to pornography. That can get costly, once a person is entangled. I can’t help but wonder if perhaps he is also paying for sex.

Why he would do that when his wife is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, I can’t say, but he has never struck me as a particularly intelligent person. In fact, judging simply by his work recently, it stands to reason that Jeff Thompson is an idiot, one of the stupidest people I’ve ever met.

I stare at him for a long time before anyone in his little circle looks up to see me. Then, they are suddenly all serious. No more laughing or carrying on. No more stupid, obnoxious jokes.

“Mr. Merriweather,” one of the other suits, a fellow I just hired about six months ago named Reggie Carter, says. “How are you, sir?”

I am obligated to respond, so I do. “Fine, Reggie, thank you. And you?”

“Good, good,” sir, he stammers. My attention is back on Thompson.

I clear my throat. “Can I speak to you a moment, Jeff?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound like I am about to lower the hammer on him. The hammer does need to be lowered, but this is a social event, and I remind myself of that as I step aside, certain that Thompson will follow me.

Stepping into a small alcove off to the side of the main room, near the bathrooms, I turn and look at him. He is obviously drunk, and I wonder how much of what I have to say to him is even going to stick in his head by tomorrow morning. I pause for a moment before I speak, afraid that what I might say could come out confrontationally, and that’s not what I want, not yet, anyway. “Thompson,” I say, looking down so that I can see into his eyes as he is much shorter than I am. “As you know, I wanted you to invite your wife to this social gathering. I think it is important that the company include family whenever possible.”

“Yes, sir, I know,” he says, his words slurring. “She’s here… somewhere.” He looks around, as if she has just wandered off, not as if he has told her to stand outside because he is ashamed of her.

I nod. “I am aware, Thompson. I found her standing outside by herself and invited her back inside.”

His eyes widen in surprise but then shrink again as he oscillates between what he wants to say and what he thinks I want him to say. Eventually, he settles on, “I’m so sorry she’s causing you problems.”

I take a deep breath through my nose. “On the contrary. Your wife is delightful. Unfortunately, she missed the dinner I had prepared for all of my guests.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately, Julia is not so good with punctuality.” He blames it on her.

I know it is not her fault. “Is that so?” I ask, my hands pushed deep into the pockets of my suit pants as I rock back and forth, trying to keep my temper. It is difficult for me to keep my patients with people like Jeff Thompson.

He sort of shrugs but since he is drunk, he nearly falls over. “I’ll make sure she gets something to eat when we get home.”

The way he says that makes me think he might be talking about something sexual, and it sickens me. “I’ve made sure she had dinner,” I assure him. The laugh that was about to come out of his mouth catches in his throat, and I can see now that he understands this is not funny to me. “I just wanted to make sure that you understand that the reason she came inside and is currently sitting in my suite, eating the same dinner everyone else was treated to, is because I insisted that she come. You wouldn’t be upset or angry about that, now would you, Thompson?” I ask, daring him to say that he would be.

“Of course not, sir,” he says, his eyes wide.

“Good. Because I want you to know that I do not appreciate men who belittle their wives. I don’t tolerate any sort of abuse or negativity of any kind, and if I were to find out that you were to go home and do something negative to your wife because of my insistence that she come inside and have something to eat, I would be… very distraught about that. I hope I’m making myself clear, because Thompson, you must know, if anything were to come of this, I would most certainly find out.”

He stares at me wide-eyed as he considers all that I’ve said, and I think there is a good chance he is hearing me, but I’m not convinced that he will follow what I am saying. He takes a deep breath and says, “I am always kind to my wife, sir.”

I nod and try to believe that, even though the exchange seems to convey to him that he’d better not yell at his wife when he gets home, I am not convinced. “Tomorrow morning, I would like to speak to you in my office at nine, understand?” I rest my hand on his shoulder to get my point across, not because I particularly like touching him.

He nods his head. “Yes, sir. I will be there.”

I pat his arm and move away from him before I am tempted to pat him harder. I know Thompson. Even if he was sober, he wouldn’t remember what I have told him. He most certainly will not be there at 9:00 in the morning, but in case he decides to take his frustration out on his wife, I will make sure that they are followed home so that I can check on her tomorrow. It simply won’t do to have a small, idiotic man like Jeff Thompson blaming his beautiful wife for his shortcomings.

I see several people who want my attention so I excuse myself from Thompson and head back across the room to speak to people I truly want to spend my time with.