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First date with a billionaire.
A gorgeous billionaire, actually. He was voted Sexiest Man Alive two years in a row.
He’s been seen near-kissing with everyone from Lorde to Lady Gaga to Madonna, for Pete’s sake.
Ugh. I am going to be sick.
The simple truth is, I do not want to date this man, or any man. I do not want to do all of the typical getting to know you chatter: asking the questions, getting the answers. I do not want to memorize his birthday. I do not want to make a date where we meet each other's college friends in order to extend the diameter of our intimacy boundaries. I don’t want to do any of this crap. Sure it would be nice to have some sex, I think, admittedly a little wistfully, but it’s usually all wrapped up in emotion and that comes with a big price.
I just want to be left alone, planted in the middle of my couch, dictating my stories into my computer. Me and my virginity, by myself and at peace.
Is that really so much to ask?
Apparently yes. Hannah was crystal clear in her threat: do this, make it work, or be unemployed.
Again, I ask the mirror for advice. My flowy dress whooshes out as I turn from side to side. Am I billionaire-date material? No. I am a virgin in a turquoise dress with messy hair.
This won’t work.
Determined, I give it another try, rolling my shoulders back and leaning all my weight so that my hip juts to the side. I raise one eyebrow and suck in my cheeks, trying to think fierce thoughts.
Fierce. Girl, you’re fierce. Roar.
To my surprise, it sort of works. I can show a little confidence, right? With my whole life on the line?
Come on, Bella, concentrate. Fake it til you make it, she said.
Definitely working. If I narrow my mind to only this goal, I can look the part. I’m smart. Shrewd. Focused. I am whatever I need to be to keep swimming, my head just above water.
Newly determined, I jam a couple of white leather stacked heels onto my feet and wobble back down the stairs to grab my blue beaded handbag that I think is under the dining room table for some reason, maybe the coffee table. I seem to remember half-punting it, last time I saw it.
As I get closer, I realize my phone is buzzing again. Another 800 number. Fucking terrific. I swipe left immediately and drop my phone into my bag.
And then I
stop, forcing myself to count to ten.
“Bella, you’re going to slay this,” I tell myself aloud. “This is your job. Do your job. Write the story. Act like a pro instead of whiny little teenager. Go on the date like a normal human woman. A million other women in Chicago are doing this exact same thing tonight. Hike up your big-girl panties, and let’s go.”
The security buzzer jingles, and I figure the car is here. With another quick glance in the mirror, I get my newly motivated butt through the front hallway and out onto the concrete stoop in record time. Hobbling down the steps, I pick carefully along the flagstone path to the security gate.
The driver looks me over from bottom to top as I approach, and I plaster a confident smile on my face, just trying it out. He smiles back, even looks a little surprised like I caught him off guard.
That's good. That's what I need: a little reassurance that my act is working on someone. This sort of eyes-forward confidence is very appealing to wealthy men, I imagine. Certainly I can fake anything for one night. Or, for three weeks, I suppose. Confident, secure, and in control. That's me! Bella Cage, superwoman.
“Ms. Cage?” he asks me, smiling shyly. I take a moment to look him over, appreciating his light green eyes and the manly stubble growth along his jawline. His thick neck. His broad shoulders.
See? They’re beautiful in their way. They're not all cheaters and liars and child molesters and grifters and…
But, wait. I digress.
“That's me,” I purr, trying out the voice I intend to use for the evening. It works. Nice purr, I congratulate myself.
“Right this way.”
He leads me through the front gate to the waiting car. I don't know what it is. Some incredibly expensive vehicle, I imagine, and it actually seems to be sort of purple in the light. In any case, he opens the door and I slide into the back seat, pulling my cell phone from my bag as I do so.
I only notice his eyes flicker up into the rearview mirror a few times as we drive. I murmur into my recorder, trying to remember everything about how I got ready. The worry, the procrastination, the shower. How I picked my hairdo. How I picked my makeup. Every brand of every cream and color I applied… I’ll need those for advertising tie-ins, I'm sure.
