The Billionaire And The Waitress (gxg)

11 - a meeting

"I need money. You need a wife. Let's get married."

      Or, at least, that was how Muse imagined she'd say it. In reality, she was pacing up and down the length of the Central Park lake. Close enough to the Alice in Wonderland statue to notice when―if―Adrien showed up, but far away enough that Adrien wouldn't initially see her. Muse told herself she wanted the element of surprise, but honestly? She was having an internal debate on whether or not she should run away.

      Muse still didn't have Adrien's number. And she didn't know which general direction Adrien lived in. It was entirely possible at this point that Adrien lived in Brooklyn and was taking a two hour ferry just to get here.

      Actually, she could probably hire a helicopter. Or a private plane. What did Muse even know about billionaires? Maybe she'll arrive on a swarm of trained pigeons. 

      A tap on her shoulder, and Muse banished all thought of trained pigeons.

     Adrien, behind her, was grinning―dressed in flowy shorts, a tight top, and a blazer. It was somehow both professional and casual. She looked stunning.

     Naturally, Muse started with: "Um. Hi. Uh―hello."

     The city of New York, all around them, seemed to disappear as Adrien leaned in and brushed a kiss onto Muse's cheek.

     "For the cameras," she said with a wink, as if anybody, anybody at all, was even paying attention.

     Muse blushed. Thrown completely off guard. Stammering, "Right. So. Um. What I wanted to―"

     "Talk about?"

     "Yes, I have a, um―"

     "Contract?"

     This was going so horribly. Blinking in the bright sunlight, warm golden-green hills surrounding them, Muse should have felt relaxed. At ease. Just last night she'd straddled Adrien and tasted a hint of her lips, so close they could have kissed, but now―in the brightness of daylight―the afternoon sun―Muse felt strangely shy.

     Nervous. 

    Why was she nervous?

    Adrien Vitale was just―a woman. An ordinary woman. With the physique of a dancer and the face of a Roman goddess. And enough money to buy an entire country. Or two. Or several.

    "Here," said Muse suddenly. Thrusting the contract into Adrien's chest. 

   A contract. It would have been unbelievable to Muse only twenty-four hours ago, but it was an idea. She'd drafted it last night, with no experience and no knowledge of laws or policies whatsoever. Really, it was amazing the kind of information Google could provide for her. It had taken her until seven a.m., but at least it was thorough.

   If only because yesterday, after Muse had gone home from the whole art heist arrest, there had been a sign posted on her door. In bold, unmistakable Arial font.

    EVICTION NOTICE.

    The rent had gone up, and Muse hadn't even realized. Now this really was her only option.

    Blackmail a billionaire, kind of, or move out of the city.

    And Muse loved New York more than she loved anything―some days, more than she even loved herself. It had been there for her when nothing else had. Through her teenage years, and her adult years, when every person who loved her had died. It had been enough, on days when she couldn't forget, to walk outside. To count the cracks in the sidewalk. To feel people bumping, brushing, jostling into her. She should have been annoyed. Instead, she was grateful for the reminder she was alive. That she existed. Even if only so she could squint up at the setting sun, or feel the cold metal of her shoelaces against her fingertips, or breathe in the damp scent of hot summer rain on asphalt.