A Billionaire's Secret Baby - Chapter 5

If anyone tells you waitressing is an easy job, they’re a liar.

I’d always been good at it—my sunny personality and big smile were an enormous help. But The Blue Orchid was like nowhere I’d ever seen.

An elegant, grand dining room spread across the ground floor. White tablecloths and silver cutlery spread across the room. The private dining rooms were up a wide, spiral staircase at the back of the room, beautiful and spacious, hidden behind sliding screen doors. The walls were covered in historical memorabilia, pictures of Manhattan from before the era of skyscrapers. It was like something out of a history book. And the food?

Oh, the food was something else.

Sumptuous roasted chickens, with crisp leafy salads. Juicy steaks and fries delivered on silver platters. And classical French cuisine, right from the history books. Stuffed ducks and grilled fish, simple salads and home favorites, like cottage pie and beef bourguignon.

Pretty soon, I was working the floor, taking orders, making recommendations. I familiarized myself with the menu. But working at the bar with Andy, the wine sommelier? That was a different story.

At first, I got the impression that Andy didn’t like me very much. He was a sassy character, with a lean physique and a salsa dancer’s hips. He’d moved to New York from Baltimore to be an actor, but like so many people, he’d wound up working in restaurants through his twenties. But Andy was a smart guy with a nose for wine, and before long, he’d wound up as the wine sommelier at The Blue Orchid.

“What do you mean, you can’t tell the difference?” he said, when I asked him about two equally ancient bottles of thick, blood-red Châteauneuf-du-Pape. “Sweetie, you need to widen your palette. Otherwise this—” he gestured between us, “ain’t gonna work out.”

It turned out that compared to Andy I didn’t know much of anything about wine, but I sure knew how to make a nice Manhattan. And there were plenty of orders for them.

But it all changed one fateful afternoon, when I’d been working with Andy for a few weeks. As he worked quietly and quickly at the bar, he started to hum a song. It was “I Got Rhythm,” my favorite Gershwin song.

I was trying to keep quiet and do my job properly, but I couldn’t help it. I always sang to myself while I was working—it helped keep me cheerful and get into the rhythm of service. And the tune was infectious. In no time at all, I was singing along with him: “I got rhythm, I got music, I got my man, who could ask for anything more?”

I sent off a round of drinks, and when I turned back, I saw Andy staring at me.

“Where did you learn to sing like that?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I said, laughing nervously as I reached for another highball glass. I measured a few shots of tequila in and stirred them with some lime. “I used to be a jazz singer.”

“Oh yeah? Where’d ya play?”

“I played at the Blue Note once. And the Rose Room. That was my last gig in New York. Maybe six years ago?”

I knew the date off by heart. It had been the day I reached my third trimester.

“You played the Blue Note? That’s crazy! Girl, with pipes like that, you should have been a star. That said, with hips like these, I should have been in Cats. But you can’t always get what you want, huh?”

I laughed, and from that moment on, Andy and I got along like a house on fire. He began to introduce me to the staff.

I wish I could say the same about Alex Lowe.

Now that Alex had got me where he wanted me, I thought he’d have softened a little.

But I was wrong. For starters, every time he came in, there was always something.

“Straighten those bottles, please. This isn’t a speakeasy.”

I smiled politely, and did as he told me.

When he occasionally stopped by in the evenings, he’d wander by the bar.

“Are you cleaning this thing every night?”

“Yes.”

“It’s dirty.”

The bar was spotless. Even I could see that.

But the niggling wouldn’t stop. Eventually, it got so bad that he was even criticizing my outfits. “Have you got any better shoes?” Alex said to me one morning, when I came in. He was at the bar with a cup of coffee and the morning papers.

I rolled my eyes at that. But Alex wouldn’t let it go. I walked around to the bar and got the key for the cellar. But before I could go down, I heard his voice again.

“I asked you a question, Lola.”

“Why does it matter what shoes I’m wearing when I’m working behind the bar? And going down into the dirty cellar?”

I couldn’t help it. I had to answer back this time.

“That doesn’t matter,” said Alex gruffly. “It’s about taking pride in your work. And besides, you’re not always behind the bar. ”

“Okay, Miranda Priestly! New shoes coming soon.”

“Who’s that?” muttered Alex before he wandered off.

I had to respect his commitment, his attention to detail. And it wasn’t like I was being paid badly. The money I was making was allowing me to give Macy things I’d never dreamed of before. Finally she had a new coat, new sneakers. I was able to give her money for school trips and music lessons. If I was careful about my spending, we were even going to be able to fly home to Wisconsin this Christmas, see my folks, who hadn’t seen Macy since she was four. I poured my money into my daughter, finally able to give her a taste of what she deserved. And proud of it. But in doing so, I had to put up with Alex. The handsome billionaire, asshole who always managed to put a downer on my day.

But back to the important issue at hand—by which, I mean, the shoes.

After Alex had told me about them for the twentieth time, I went out and got myself a brand new pair of Penelope Chilvers loafers. I could feel a tingle of excitement as I came in that day.

All morning I waited for Alex to show up. When he finally did, I waved to him cheerily behind the bar.

As usual, he fixed me with a look.

“Something I can help you with, Lola?” he said.

“Take a look,” I said.

Alex stepped behind the bar, and I twirled for him.

“You look very nice,” he said. “Very pretty.”

I stopped, and blushed. “Notice anything different?” I said.

Alex looked at me blankly, and shook his head.

“You sure?” I said.

“I don’t get it,” he said irritably. “What am I meant to see?”

“My shoes, Alex!” I said. “I got new shoes! Like you said?”

He rolled his eyes.

“You call that a shoe?” he said, and marched through the door and up the stairs to the office.

I sighed, and puffed my cheeks out, wandering miserably over to where Andy was polishing a stack of glasses.

“Don’t mind him, baby,” said Andy to me. “He’s just a grump.”

“Some grump,” I said. “I wonder what made him that way?”

Andy looked around to see if no one was listening.

“You know what I heard?” he said. “Alex ain’t got no family. I mean, nothing. He grew up in Philly. North side. Fairhill. My cousin grew up there. That’s a tough neighborhood.”

I almost didn’t believe it. I couldn’t. I’d assumed Alex had come from wealth. He was just so sophisticated and aloof.

But the truth was I was more confused than annoyed with him. And when he’d told me I was pretty, I’d felt something between us. Electric and mysterious, and lost to the past. Or so I’d assumed until now.

***

Juggling my job and Macy was tricky. I woke early and got her to school. If I was on a day shift, I could be back home by the time the bus dropped her off and make her dinner. But if not, Sara picked her up for me and put her to bed. She was my rock, and I paid her back by looking after Luis, her son, now and then. But the worst days of all were my double-shifts when I closed. Working them meant I got two, sometimes three days off. But it wasn’t easy—and I didn’t get home until late, sometimes 1.00am.

But Sara never complained. “You go out there and find yourself one of those rich uptown men, baby!” she told me. And we laughed.

I was closing one evening at The Blue Orchid when I had every waitress’s nightmare: three complaints at once.

“This steak’s medium-well,” said one customer. “I wanted it medium-rare.”

“This wine tastes funny,” said another.

“I don’t like this. I want something else. The steak.”

“I’ll get that right for you,” I said to each one, and for once, I felt glad for my big, goofy smile. Cherise had gone home and now it was me and Andy, who watched me with increasing sympathy from the bar.

“I only got one more steak,” said the sous-chef, when I explained I needed two on order.

“Can you uncook this one a bit?” I said. He gave me a look that sent me scampering from the kitchen. But somehow they always came through.

It was closing time when I’d finally finished dealing with the customers. I finished my shift and sat down at the bar. There, I put my head in my hands and began to tear up. It had just been such a long day. I’d been at work for sixteen hours, and all of a sudden, I didn’t care about anything. I just wanted to get home and see Macy. I went into the corridor and up the stairs.

“Lola?” said a voice behind me.

I knew that voice; knew its dark tones, its harsh edge. It was Alex’s voice. But I’d never heard it so soft.

I turned around, and there he was. “What’s wrong?” he said. I turned away, sniffling.

“Don’t pretend like you care, Alex,” I said. I was tired of playing his games.

“I care enough. You’re one of my employees. Can’t we talk about what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“You look like you’ve been crying.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Just a little, I guess.”

But then I began to burst into tears.

He was at my side in a moment, and his strong arm was around me, his big hand on my shoulder. I looked up through the tears, and that night, something dazzled in his eyes. Not cold anymore, but warm.

“Come on,” he said. “Come and sit down for a bit.”

He took my hand in his, and I remembered how comforting it felt to have my hand wrapped in his gentle grip. I stepped into the office. It was warm and comfortable inside, elegantly decorated with antique wooden panels and an enormous desk, with a comfortable couch.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been harsh, lately.”

I shook my head. “It’s fine,” I muttered. “What did I expect?”

“You can expect that sometimes I’ll act like an ass,” said Alex.

I smiled at that, and looked up into his eyes.

“Yeah?” I said, giggling a little and wiping away the last of my tears. He was an ass. But in some ways, he felt like my ass. Like he’d shown a softer side I hadn’t known was there.

“Yeah. I’m sorry. I just, well. I don’t always know how to be with you.”

The tension between us was flooding the room, the darkness heightening the sensation that it was just me and just him. Two warm bodies that were now unbearably close. I felt a safety and comfort in his presence now. Here in the office, I was reminded of a night long ago, before everything got so damn complicated.

“Have you ever tried being yourself?” I said.

“I guess,” said Alex. “Doesn’t always work out too well when you’re a guy like me.”

“You’re not that bad,” said Lola.

“I feel like I am sometimes,” said Alex. “When I look at you.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said, laughing.

In the closeness of the room, I could hear every sound. The beating of Alex’s heart, and the pounding of my own. I let my head fall onto his shoulder, and looked up at him.

He bent down and kissed me, and warmth spread from my lips into my chest.

“Why is it always you?” I said softly, and Alex smiled.

“I don’t know. I guess I’ll never know the answer to that.”

I picked up his arms, muscular and strong, and pulled them around me, let him hold me to him. I told myself I was letting him; that I wasn’t kissing him, that I wasn’t holding him.

But before I knew it, I’d thrown my arms around his neck, and then I could no longer deny my own agency, as my hand reached up to touch the soft skin on his cheek, to feel his face, to feel his well-defined cheekbones.

He slipped his hand under my blouse, and when I felt his hand pressed against my bare skin, I knew that I wanted him, that some force of desire had taken me completely into his charge, that there was no way back, only forward through the troubled feelings in my heart.

Together, we sat on the couch, and I kissed Alex. But everything I did only stirred the lust between us more, never quenching it. I assumed he hadn’t wanted me and lied to myself, saying that I was only imagining his eyes lingering on my chest, on the loose strands of hair falling to my shoulder. That I was only reading into his occasional compliments and kind words. But it couldn’t be denied here in the dark.

There, in the dead of night, he pressed against me, and I felt myself collapse in his embrace. The couch was soft, and my head swam, dizzy and tired as his hand reached down to my waist, fell at my knees, and began to push up, beneath the hem towards my panties. I gasped as his hand made contact with my pussy, as he began to slowly tease me with his finger on the soft fabric. I felt his need to please me, and knew it was what I’d lacked: what no man had given me before or since him.

Our love, our lust, was like an unfinished sentence: it demanded our attention now that we were in the same room as each other.

I looked up into his eyes, and suddenly it was too much, too close, and the edges of who I was melted away in his presence as he slipped aside my panties, and his fingers began to work at my clit. To my shame and surprise, I was wet for him already, could feel his need to please me, and I gave way easily as he fingered my pussy expertly.

But I couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look at what we were doing, and I turned away, and bent over before him on the couch, quickly throwing my panties down around my knees.

“I want you,” I said, and then Alex held me, his hands were running up my back, and he’d parted my legs. I heard him unzip his pants and felt a terrible thrill course through me as his cock, already hard, brushed against my legs.

It was the work of a moment for him to push against me, and then I felt myself give way, there on my hands and knees, and his enormous cock pushing inside of me. I knew how well-endowed Alex was, but it still shocked me, and then he was pounding into me, fucking me, gasping and breathing hard while my knees buckled and I trembled.

His hand reached up my neck, brushing my chin, and knotted itself around the soft hairs at the back of my neck. I’d never felt so dirty, so awful, and yet never so good, as he fucked me roughly, and I began to moan softly, crying out for him. The intensity of it swept away all my fears, questions, and thoughts that stirred whenever I saw him.

“Alex,” I said, “Alex,” and he was going faster and faster, and my hand crept down to my pussy, and he slowed, grunting with approval. “That’s it,” he said, “good girl,” and I shivered at the dark pleasure as I began to touch myself, working my pussy until I was tensing and groaning, calling for him, “Alex, Alex.” And then a wash of delight pulsed through my body, as I came on his cock, and as I did, I felt him give way, and a guilty delight lifted my spirits. And I was back in that room above the bar, years ago, the place I’d been running from all my life. And yet it was the place where I’d been happier than I really knew how.

I was back in his arms, under his spell.

“You’re mine,” said Alex, as I drained his cock, feeling him pulsing in turn, filling me up, leaving me whole again.

His woman, and only his.

We collapsed into the couch together, and lay breathing heavily in the dark.

What have I done?