Her Billionaire Toy Boy

“Is it because of the product? You think the wine is good?” Sam noted the empty glass before his guest.

“No,” said the man. “Not particularly. I just live upstairs.”

Sam bought the man another drink to thank him for participating in his abrupt survey and went across the room to speak with another customer.

He slid into the seat next to the beautiful woman he had earlier admired.

“Hello,” he said, courteously.

“Hi,” said the woman. It was a clipped syllable; Sam instantly realized that she hadn’t much time. This was not a reflection on her age, he instantly corrected himself; although it was there. Evidence of her maturity was instantly apparent in the quality of her dress, her downplayed makeup, and the single streak of silver which cut through her black hair. She had on bright red lipstick which contrasted beautifully with the darkness of her skin and hair when juxtaposed with the white dress she was wearing.

Sam supposed instantly that this was the sort of woman who was enjoying a glass of wine in between very important, interesting sort of events—like a book signing for her debut novel, perhaps, or her husband’s funeral. She just instantly seemed like the sort of woman who had some kind of incredibly interesting story behind her.

Sam was half-sad that he was only there to speak with her about the quality of his wines and he was immediately a little embarrassed that he had to do so.

“If you don’t mind,” he said, hesitantly, “I was just wondering … if I could buy you a drink.”

He clutched the wine menu.

As experienced as Sam was with woman, this one put him in his place—without saying a word—in a way that he had never known before and therefore found ridiculously intriguing. He was a billionaire. He’d dated movie stars. He’d traveled the world. But something about this woman—she seemed wary of the time, weary of the world, in a way that made him know that hers was a story worth hearing.

If she’d let him hear it. He had never been less sure that he would not be turned down than he was in that very moment.

“Ah,” said the woman. “Well, I suppose I could do with one more drink before I turn in for the evening.”

She shook her left wrist just so that the diamond face of her watch gleamed in the low light. Sam was not sure whether she was trying to make a power-play—yet, a power play it was.

“Okay,” he said. “What were you drinking before?”

“A merlot,” she said.

“Wonderful,” Sam said, and then hated himself. He sounded far too formal for the occasion. “Will you be sticking with red or shall we go for a lighter varietal?”

“Red’s more my color,” said the woman, smiling.

“Right,” said Sam, and he beckoned a waiter over.

*****

As Sam was giving the waiter their order, Mira looked over the man curiously.

He was obviously much younger than she was. He had no age lines and his clothes still had the signature bagginess of one who had not quite learned how to buy clothes for himself, yet. Although hyper-extended adolescence being what it was, that might not have meant much, she thought wryly to herself. He was clearly nervous, for some reason, even though he’d been the one to walk over and initiate the encounter.

Mira wondered why he might feel the need to be nervous. She pursed her fingers along the base of the stem of her wineglass. He was a young man, living in New York, a city where young women like him were looking for just what he was—a normal man, a man who looked like he was in need of company on this night. Mira wondered why he was sitting here chatting with her.

A waiter showed up and filled their wine glasses, then gave them a full tray of charcuterie followed by a bowl of bruschetta and a baguette. Mira smiled at him and then focused on Sam.

“So,” she said. “Who are you, then?”

Sam took a small sip of his wine and stared off into the distance for one minute before darting his small eyes back to hers. “Sam. I own the place, actually,” he said.

Mira had placed him well below his age, then. Her eyes traveled critically over his forehead and his distinct lack of crow’s feet. She didn’t wish to say anything rude, so she said nothing at all. When he didn’t either, she reconsidered her position. “Well, then,” she said, amiably. “Um. Congratulations, I suppose, it’s a nice establishment.”

“Nice of you to say so under such duress,” he said dryly. “Who are you?”

“Mira. Lawyer.”

“Taciturn.”

“Concise.”

“Blunt.”

“Wise.”

“Fair,” Sam said, laughing. “Fair, then. What brings you here on this night of all nights?”

“Alone, you mean.”

“In whatever state or company you happen to be in.”

Mira shrugged. “It’s close to work.”

“I see.”

“What, my being here is that interesting? What brings you to drink at your own bar?”

“I’m conducting a routine tasting. Quality control.”

“That almost sounds like a joke about a baker and his donuts.”

“Regardless, someone’s got to do it,” said Sam. “Will you join me?”

“I thought that’s what I was doing,” said Mira. She raised her glass in a toast. “To quality control.”

Sam brought his tumbler to hers.

“So, Mira,” Sam said. “What are you up to this weekend?”

“Why?”
“Curious. Not fishing. Just trying to start a conversation.”
Mira looked at him suspiciously.

Sam looked back at her. “I’m basically working if you think about it. Stop looking at me as if I have an agenda.”

“Don’t you?”

“Of course I do, but my planner’s at home. Seriously, now. You can make it up if you like. Or, here—an abstract question, to be answered only in the abstract.”

Sam’s eyes were dancing. Mira felt herself relax slightly and then berated herself for doing so.

“Ideal morning. Go.”
Mira shook her head at the bluntness of the question and then laughed.

“Ah,” she said. “Well. Coffee, of course.”
“Thimble or bucket?”

“Vat,” she said. “Two. And a book.”

“Right, then, stop,” said Sam. “More questions are in order. What sort of book?”