Billionaire's Escort

“Oh, I believe it. But have you ever had a boyfriend who knew how to treat you right? The way you deserved to be treated?”

“Uh . . .” It felt like the room was starting to spin, though not in an entirely unpleasant way. “That’s debatable.” I patted his knee. “You know,” I said. “You seem like you’d be a very good boyfriend. You’re probably married though, aren’t you? You probably have a wife at home.” I giggled.

“Oh ha ha, you’re a bit of a funny one, too, aren’t you? No wife at home. That I know of, anyway.”

“You should find a wife.”

“Should I?”

“Yeah. Me, though—I don’t want to be a wife.” Was I really slurring my words this badly or had my ears just stopped working properly?

He clutched at his chest. “Don’t want to be a wife? You’re breaking my heart.”

I laughed and finished the last of my beer, thinking that it felt pretty good to be sitting here, laughing with someone. When Billy signaled the bartender to bring me over another beer, I didn’t object.

But when I finished that one, I knew I had most definitely reached my limit, and if I didn’t stop now, I’d probably start doing something stupid, like trying to climb onto the bar and dance. Or throw up everywhere. Or both.

“I should be going,” I said. “I think I had four beers. Maybe five. That’s a lot. I’ve got to go to work tomorrow.”

“On a Sunday?”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday?”

“Last time I checked.”

“Oh. Then, no. I don’t have to go to work on a Sunday. I didn’t know what day it was.”

Billy smiled. “Do you know who

you are? What year it is? Who the president is? I’m just joking. Let me walk you home, at least. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

And so we left the bar, and I felt his hand touch the small of my back as we went out the door, but it was more like it was just guiding me out, making sure that I didn’t trip. When we started to walk down the sidewalk, we were close to each other, but not so close that someone might think we were a couple or anything. We were just two friends, going for a walk.

The fresh air made me a little more alert, even though the ground still felt like it was tilting underneath my feet.

“Take my arm,” he said, holding his forearm out to me. “You’re a little tipsy. Or I could give you a piggy back ride.” He stopped walking and bent at the knees a little, nodding toward his back. “Hop on.”

I laughed. “I’m not going to get on your back.”

“Why not? You don’t think I’d be able to carry you?”

“No, I just . . .”

“You want to fall over and scrape your knees?”

“No.”

“Then, hop on!”

“Well . . . okay.” I jumped up and felt him slip his arms underneath my knees as he straightened up. I let my arms dangle over the front of his shoulders, but I could feel myself slipping.

“You want to help a guy out and hold on a little more tightly there?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said, wrapping my arms around his neck.

He coughed. “Too tight,” he said. I loosened my arms a little. “Ah, just right,” he said.

“Okay there, Goldilocks.”