The Way to a Billionaire's Heart: Part Two: BWWM Interracial Romance

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  Mia Caldwell

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  Walker

  I’d had a pretty lousy night’s sleep, so I was in no mood to be awaked with a phone call, and sure as hell not one from Mother. You need at least one cup of black coffee before you deal with Mother. Sometimes with a shot of whiskey in it.

  The previous evening with Andrea had set my head spinning, I had been so wound up I couldn’t sleep. Stupidly, I had called Celia to talk about it. We’d been friends since we were little kids, and even though we’d had a few patches of more-than-friends, I figured we’d always be there for one another. Like the siblings neither of us had. Even if it was sometimes more like the siblings in a dirty book.

  She’d been a complete bitch about it. A monster, really. I’ve heard her being catty with her friends before, but because I didn’t know the people she was talking about, I’d never given it any thought. But to have her venom turned on Andrea had really pissed me off. I’m pretty sure the actual words “arrogant bitch” passed my lips. I’m not proud of the language, but I stand by the truthfulness of the sentiment.

  I’ve been running a major corporation for five years, seven if you count the years I shared the helm with my dying father. I’m young, but not stupid. I’ve traveled the world, seen a few things, known all sorts of people. And yeah, I’ve slept with what is probably more than my share of women, if you want to get technical about it. But I know when an attraction isn’t just, as dear Celia so eloquently put it, “jungle fever.” Yes, she did, hence “arrogant bitch.” Doesn’t seem so extreme now, does it?

  So yeah, rough night. And I had to wake to my phone flashing “Mother” on the lock screen. I let it go to voicemail and put a pillow over my head to block out the light and tried to get a few more minutes of sleep.

  I gave up when it became clear that I was just going to lay there rehashing the previous night–the pudding, especially delicious when sucked from Andrea’s finger, the taste of her soft mouth, the beautiful swell of her breasts in that lacy bra…and then the conversation with Celia came back to me and I was angry all over again. May as well get up and go for a run.

  I listened to the voicemail as I drank my coffee. “Walker, you better come by here, I have some information you need to hear.”

  Nice and cryptic. Thanks, mom. But I decided to run along the C&O canal to Rock Creek Park and wind up at Mother’s before coming back to my own house.

  Normally, I’m in the office by eight, but I’d taken the morning off in hopes of waking up with Andrea in my bed. No dice, however. I vow, once more, to make it my life’s mission to stamp out this notion that you shouldn’t sleep with a guy on the first date. You should, I swear. We think girls that put out are awesome. But I admit, there is an old-fashioned charm to longing. If the goal was to drive me mad with the need to touch that silky skin again? Mission Accomplished.

  It was shaping up to be one of those September days in D.C. that make you wonder if Fall will ever come. Every bit as humid as mid-August and today the air was still. I thought of Andrea sitting on a breezy beach in Aruba, high of 80 degrees, trade winds…If I hadn’t had a week full of meetings to try to launch this new line, I’d have hopped on the plane that afternoon. I imagined she wore a sporty two piece, sexy without even meaning to be.

  Once in the shade of the jogging trail, the heat was less oppressive. I’ve never liked going to a gym to workout, so I had a full gym built in my condo. I live on the top floor of a building I own on Water street, far more space than one person actually needs, but hey, “need” isn’t everything, right? But even after putting the machines in front of the tall windows that look out over the city, I seldom use them. I’d rather be outside, running or rowing. That’s where I can do my best thinking, it helps still my mind.

  Usually. But I was pretty sure no amount of exercise was going to clear Andrea from my mind. I tried to focus on tonight’s dinner meeting with the head of our print advertising account…and just kept thinking about where I could take Andrea for dinner that would impress her but not be too obviously trying to impress her. I turned my mind to the meeting I had scheduled to discuss changes to the company fleet…and instead wondered what kind of car Andrea drove. I thought she belonged in a BMW, luxurious but dependable. Sexy without being too flashy. I picked up my pace, hoping that would help; instead I just imagined how it would be to make Andrea breathe as hard as I was, pictured her beneath me. It was getting my heartrate up, for sure, but not doing much for helping me focus on the business.

  It was driving me crazy that I had to wait a whole week to see her or even talk to her. How could she go out of phone contact for that long? But really, I was a little jealous of her freedom to disconnect like that.

  I’m a powerful man. Washington’s Most Eligible Bachelor, according to Washingtonian magazine (three years running). But the truth is, I’m usually consumed by my job. I love the challenge of figuring out how to make Rossi Brands work, how to bring it into the 21st Century. Sure, I take time off, I travel. But I’m never fully on vacation, I’m always just a phone call away. As I jogged up Rock Creek Park, for the first time I considered that maybe that wasn’t healthy.

  Until he started training me to take over his job, I hardly spent any time with my dad. I don’t want my own kids to have that same longing for attention and time. I want them to know me and know I’m there for them.

  What the actual hell? Kids? Where did THAT come from? I haven’t even wanted a goldfish since I was an adult.

  That woman was doing a number on me, for sure.

  When I got to Mother’s house in the East Village of Georgetown, I was drenched in sweat. But hey, summon me in Indian summer and you get what you get. I know from the appreciative looks on the trail that some women go for this look. Probably not my mom, though. For which I am grateful.

  I went in the back door that’s unlocked when someone is there and the cold air of the a/c washed over me. I just stood there for a minute, adjusting to the temperature change.

  Rosa had heard the alarm beep when I came in and she soon met me in the mud room.

  “Ah good, Mr. Walker! Your mama is waiting for you.” She was giving me her usual friendly smile. “Fresh shirts on the shelf.” She pointed to the shelf over the dryer where she kept a stack of t shirts for me to put on when I arrived shirtless and sweaty. It’s nice to have someone looking out for you.

  “Thanks, Rosa,” I said, kissing her cheek and then slipping on the shirt before I headed up to Mother’s room.

  She was propped up in bed playing some game on her iPad when I came into the room. When she looked up, she fixed me with that Mother Stare she has.

  “What? What did I do? What’s so important that you wanted me in person?” No matter how old you get or how many millions you have, your mom can still reduce you to a guilty kid with no more than a cocked eyebrow. It’s a fact.

  “Tell me the truth, Walker. Did you have sex with Celia last night?”

  "What? No! What are you even talking about?"

  She continued to bore into me with the Eyeball of Truth, but I had nothing to hide. Finally she relaxed her face and cocked her head at me.

  “You’re lucky Rosa likes you so much.”

  “I agree. But I still don’t know what’s going on.”

  “She told me that she walked in on you and Andrea last night. From the way she blushed to tell it, I’m guessing you two weren’t just chatting over wine and plotting how to get me to eat mustard greens.”

  “And?” I kept
my face cool, but again, inside? A teen caught making out. How do mothers do it?

  “Well, she likes Andrea–as do I–so she was happy for her and for you. So when she heard Celia this morning, she was angry enough to come to me to tell the story.”

  “You’re being vague. Heard Celia what?”

  "She was shouting into her damned phone, the way she does, so that everyone on the Eastern seaboard can hear how goddamned important she is, but this time she was shouting about you."

  I felt my blood run cold. Just like in the books. I swallowed. “And?”

  “She was telling the person on the other line about what a wild night she’d had with you. Rosa said ‘insatiable. Like he just got out of prison.’”

  “Did she say my name? How did Rosa know she was talking about me? Maybe she’d been up all night with some K street lawyer. What do I care?”

  “I asked the same thing, I’m not an idiot. Rosa said she knew it was you.” She paused and gave me an unreadable look. "And she said Celia told her friend that she was here to convince me to tell you to get my mother’s ring for her."

  I shook my head. What the hell?

  “And marry her, dumbass. She said she was going to marry you.”

  “Well, she isn’t. I don’t know what she was trying to pull, but it isn’t true. I’ve not laid a hand on her in months, last New Year’s, maybe? Don’t worry, I’m not asking Celia to marry me, with or without the ring.”

  “I don’t think you’re getting the important part. She was shouting into the phone while in my kitchen. While Andrea was here making my breakfast.”

  And all the blood just drained out of my body. I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.

  Clearly it showed on my face, because Mother said, "Exactly. That’s why I wanted to tell you this morning, so that if it wasn’t true, you could tell her immediately. When she came up here, she seemed distracted. I asked if I’d heard Celia. Celia had told me she was coming by to finally pick up those horrid landscapes your father had loved. I told her ages ago that she could put them in the gallery, but I’ve had trouble letting go of the ugly things. But Celia never came up and the paintings are still in the study. Rosa said Andrea left very quickly after that. You should call her."

  My mind was racing. If Rosa, who has known me for years, was willing to believe Celia’s crap, it seemed certain that Andrea would have. Dammit.

  Remember what I called Celia? Uh-huh.

  “I can’t call her. She didn’t get a sim card.”

  “I have no idea what that means, but I’m confident you can find a way around it. You’re resourceful and rich. I like that girl. Don’t fuck this up.”

  When I came downstairs and through the kitchen, I saw that Andrea had left behind the saute pan. On a whim I grabbed it.

  It was nearly eleven on a Friday, Celia would be in the gallery, getting ready to open. I considered calling a car, but knew that it’d be faster to run, plus I could pound the pavement to discharge some the anger that was building up. Celia is a selfish bitch, no doubt about it, but surely Rosa’s account wasn’t quite right. Even Celia wouldn’t make up a crazy story like that. Would she?

  I tried to calm my thoughts as I jogged, enjoying the looks I got for trotting through Georgetown with shiny cookware in my hands. Really, I should thank Celia. Although she had no idea, she’s the one that introduced me to Andrea, in a way. She’d come by my office to see if I was free for lunch one day. In pulling out her phone, a small stack of business cards had fluttered out of her pocket. She scooped them all back up but one had slipped under my desk. When I found it later, out of curiosity, I’d looked up the website. And when I saw Andrea’s picture on the homepage, I…felt something stir and it wasn’t just in my pants. I can’t explain it, but I knew I had to meet her.

  I have friends at The Post, of course, so I pulled a few strings to get Andrea featured in the “30 Under 30” issue of the Magazine. Then I pulled a few more to get me in there even though I’d just turned 30 (one line about “at the time of voting he was still 29” did the trick). My hope was that we’d both turn up at the awards gala, she’d see me in my tux, I’d be sure she was at my table…and clearly I’ve revealed my secret affection for romantic comedies.

  Hey, we can’t all be lumberjacks.

  Anyway, Andrea didn’t come to the gala and I got trapped next to a corporate lawyer that I’m pretty sure switched nametags to get next to me. Torture. I bailed as soon as I could.

  That’s when Mother’s knee surgery gave me a second idea. Of course she was perfectly capable of getting food delivered. She did it all the time. God knows that kitchen seldom saw cooking. But I convinced Mother that the doctors wanted her eating lots of fresh food for healing. And I convinced Rosa that she had enough work without cooking too. And I convinced Andrea to come every day, twice a day instead of cooking ahead. She drove a hard bargain, I’ll give her that. But I am a man who is used to getting what he wants. And so I did. Or almost did. If Celia didn’t fuck it up.

  By the time I got to Galleria Celia (yes, her vanity “job” has her own name on the sign) on Wisconsin, I had drenched through the shirt I’d put on at Mother’s. The door was locked, so I pounded on it until some wide-eyed assistant came out to find out what the commotion was.

  “Get Celia!” I shouted through the glass. She scurried to the back, probably to report on the (devilishly handsome) sweat-soaked crazy person out front, brandishing a skillet. Most of the anger was left behind on the sidewalk. Now I just wanted answers.

  Celia emerged from the back and swanned over to the front door to let me in. She had her big Society Hostess smile on, like seeing me was such a lovely surprise– last night was hardly the first time we’d fought. But like I said, she’s not stupid, and I could see the flicker of uncertainty in her crystal blue eyes.

  “Walker! How lovely of you to drop by!” She moved as if to give me the standard grip-the-shoulders-air-kiss, but recoiled slightly when she saw how sweaty I was. “Ah,” she said, “I’ll save that for later. What brings you by?” Her eyes dropped to the pan in my hand. “Making me breakfast at last?”

  “Hilarious. I’m pretty sure you know. Why did you come to Mother’s house this morning?”

  “To pick up your father’s landscapes, like I told her, but I got a call and had to go before I was able to get them packed up. I’ll come later this week.” She was playing it cool. A professional liar.

  “That call, did it happen to involve telling someone that you and I were getting married? That we’d had sex last night?”

  Her eyes reflected her uncertainty. She thought she had it under control, but I’ve known her too long not to see when she’s looking for firm footing.

  “What would make you say that?” she asked. She was trying to find out just how much I knew, just how much she could deny.

  “Oh, just the fact that Rosa was in the room and heard it all. And how could she not, since you were shouting so that Andrea could hear you too.”

  Celia’s face darkened. She looked like an evil Disney queen, beautiful and dangerous. But most definitely the bad guy. See what happens when you forget that servants are people, too? People who can hear the shit you say?

  “That Rosa,” she tried, “I’m sure she just misunderstood. English isn’t her first language.”

  “She’s lived here for twenty years, you know she heard you correctly.” I stepped closer to loom over her a bit. “Why did you do it, Celia? Tell me.”

  She sighed and turned away, waving her hands dismissively. “Your little crush is after your money, Walker. You’re being stupid and I was trying to help you. You know, I hired her once and I found her totally dishonest. She made my friends very uncomfortable.”

  I had to hand it to her, Celia was selling it. I wasn’t surprised; after all, her little gallery was fairly successful. She was able to talk people into buying the most hideous paintings, so surely a little lie to save her own skin was like second nature.

  "I’m touch
ed by your concern, Celia dear, but I’m a grown man capable of handling my own love life."

  “Love life. Don’t be ridiculous, Walker. You are a very powerful, very rich man. You’ve been protected your whole life. You have no idea how to tell if a woman is just after your money because you’ve seldom seen anything else.”

  I looked at her pointedly. “That’s true of one of them, at least.”

  She gave me a look of disgust. "As if. I have my own money. The only true thing is that you and I make a terrific team. How will you take a woman like that to stockholders’ meetings? If you go to the Club, she’ll be uncomfortable. Did you think of that? If you’re so in love, did you think of how it would be for her to enter your life?"

  “This isn’t Georgia in 1958, Celia. She’d be fine. Don’t think I’ve forgotten your little ‘jungle fever’ dig from last night.”

  She ignored that and went on. “It’s just science, Walker. Marriages between people of very different backgrounds seldom succeed. You just don’t have enough shared experiences, innate understanding.”

  I realized my mouth was hanging open and closed it. I gave myself a moment before speaking so I could keep my voice level. It’s a trick you learn if you have to deal with adversarial clients.

  "Okay. So you have gone from ‘she’s a gold-digger,’ to being my protector, to being her protector, and now to science? Is that it? Would you like to pick one and stick with it?"

  “Oh Walker,” she said with infinite elementary school teacher-like patience, "don’t you see that there are just so many different reasons why this won’t work? I’m your friend."

  I’m a little ashamed of how badly I wanted to hit her with the heavy pan in my hands. But only a little.

  Luckily for Celia, I’m not a violent guy, and I simply said, “Not anymore” and walked out.

  Get home, get a shower, get to the office. I needed to get to Aruba as soon as possible.

  Andrea

  If you’re going to “wash that man right outta your hair,” you could do worse than using the Carribean ocean. Kiera had booked a hotel right on the beach on the western side of the island, white sand leading down to water of an almost unbelievable turquoise blue. Sure, I’d seen pictures, but when your only real frame of reference is the Chesapeake Bay and the Atlantic Ocean, there’s a part of you that doesn’t really believe it’s true.