Billionaires Bundle

By: Flora Ferrari

No one’s ever touched me so deeply on so many different levels, especially in so short a time period. Sure, it’s been ten years, but over the course of that time we haven’t been together much more than a few hours.

It’s crazy. I’m crazy. We’ve only met twice. Two times, and I know this is the only guy for me.

The old saying that life is what happens when you’re busy making plans was never truer.

I stumble to the shower and run the cool water over my body. I eye the showerhead and consider giving it a go, letting it help me relax…unleash this sexual energy that’s built up to a fever pitch, but I can’t. It’s not him. I could never trade a metal object for the real thing.

I finish my shower and dry off. I put on a spring dress and make my way out of the tiny apartment I rent.

There’s a kiosk nearby the outside of my building, but I intentionally don’t buy the morning paper. I don’t want to read the reviews, good or bad. It’s advice that’s been hammered home. I don’t want my head in the clouds if the words they print are good, and I definitely don’t want to feel down if the critics have found flaws. Even keel. That’s the way to survive in this business.

I hail a cab and stare out the window the duration of the ride into Brooklyn.

I arrive at The River Café, and I finally see what all the fuss is about.

On multiple occasions it’s been voted the best restaurant with a view in New York City.

It sits along the East River, just underneath and to the side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

“Brooklyn Bridge is falling down, falling down,” I mumble to myself as I walk up to the entrance.

I laugh at myself for reciting a nursery rhyme and approach the front door. There are flowers on either side of the entrance. They’re in full bloom displaying pink and white, accentuating the path that guided me up to the entrance, where the name of the restaurant is announced in a sophisticated cursive font. Wow, they really know how to impress.

But what’s most impressive is the man at the best table, which sits right next the window. I thought I would arrive early, but I guess I didn’t realize who I was dealing with.

I’m a full thirty minutes early, but he’s already seated, with a clear drink in front of him. I can see from here that it’s just water, and I appreciate him not enjoying cocktails during a time when I can’t partake myself.

He stands immediately when he sees me, and the host escorts me to the table.

Brian pulls out my chair, helping me get seated before he returns to his side.

He stares at me deeply with those piercing eyes of his. He says nothing, but his look says it all.

Here we go.



“I can’t be in a relation—”

“I hear they have good appetiz—”

He smirks and I smile, lowering my face and laughing lightly as I stare down at the tablecloth.

“Relax,” he says, extending his hand out and across the table. “It’s just lunch.”

“You’re right,” I say, knowing all too well it’s a lot more than just lunch.

I place my hand in his, just before the waiter arrives with our menus.

“My mother loved your performance last night,” the waiter says.

“Thank you,” I say, realizing the reviews must have been good.

“She couldn’t stop talking about it when she got home.”

“I’m glad she enjoyed it. Please thank her, for me, for coming and supporting our work.”

“I certainly will.” He pauses. “Can I get you two something to drink?”

“Water,” we say simultaneously, bringing a smile to the waiter’s face.

“Two waters it is,” he says, stepping away, giving us time to ourselves.

“Do ballet dancers eat?” Brian says.

“Come on. I know you know that’s just a misconception.”

“I’ve been told.”

“I’m at three thousand calories a day. Burn right through them.”

“The Michelle Phelps of ballet.”

“Michelle Phelps?”

“Michael’s sister.”

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