His Sugar Baby

Now she hangs up on me, which is good because I have no response. Her words humble me in a way I’ve never been before, and I deserve. They also make me dig deeper into Anne. Except I hit a wall. It takes a while to figure out why. Anne changed her name when she went to work for Tabatha. Before then her name was Faith Anne Snyder. What I find hits me harder than I expect, than I want it to.

Chapter Four

My email indicator goes off. I’m not proud of the way I lunge across the couch for the phone. Please don’t let him be a weirdo, please don’t let him be a weirdo. Tapping my way through the screens on my cell phone, I get to my email. His email is short; he liked my profile and would like to have dinner with me tomorrow so we could get to know each other beyond our profiles.

I click on his profile and sigh with relief, he’s hot. He’s only nine years older than me, younger than I would have expected. Bright blue eyes glow out of his picture, and he’s dressed in a suit that screams made just for him. His profile says he’s six-foot one and he calls himself a tech nerd. He doesn’t look like any tech nerd I’ve ever seen. He has an olive skin tone that glows against thick hair the color of chocolate, with a light curl to it. Staring at his chiseled jaw and cheekbones and his thick pouty lips, I sigh. The man looks like he’s an Italian film star or something.

I Google him and stop breathing. Holy fuck, a genius billionaire. I keep reading, a reclusive, genius billionaire who didn’t do the party scene or jet set. It’s a little disappointing. I’m not into the party scene but I do enjoy the traveling. I’m disappointed because it means he’s more interested in the sexual aspect an agreement like ours would be. Which, considering how attractive he is, doesn’t make any sense to me.

Then, the more I keep reading I understand completely. There are numerous Facebook posts from former girlfriends, with the women all complaining about pretty much the same thing. Grant had cared more about work than them and refused to even consider marriage. Grant Dexter is a workaholic confirmed bachelor.

I should be jumping up and down with happiness. I’d be ignored all day until he wanted me in his bed at night. It would give me the time I need to figure out what the hell I want to do with my life. Instead, I’m a little disappointed at the idea of not spending more time with someone who seems so interesting.

Trying to keep it cool, I respond that I would like to get to know him better, too. I’m free tomorrow evening. Immediately, he responds he’s glad and if I give him my address, he’ll pick me up at eight. I send him the address of the Airbnb condo building I’m staying in. It has a doorman for security so he can just text me to let me know he’s there.

My phone pings with a text.

Any preferences for a restaurant?

Wow, major points for asking.

I haven’t been to many of the restaurants here

My favorite food is Italian

His response comes quickly.

Italian it is

I know a place I believe you will like

See you at 8 tomorrow

With a happy squeal, I bounce off the couch. I was beginning to get worried I wasn’t going to find a new sugar daddy at all in Chicago. As of today, my profile has been up for two weeks and I’ve been in Chicago for a week. I’ve only had one other response and he was a weirdo. Yesterday, I Googled the weirdo to find out what I could about him.

My phone rings and I wonder if it’s Grant. It’s not, it’s Tabatha. I haven’t talked to her in years. I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. We don’t talk for long, just long enough to cause my legs to go out from under me.

Hanging up, I sit wondering what the hell is what. If it had bothered him so badly me being an escort, the hooker he called me, what made him to change his mind? Had Tabatha’s words really made a difference? Closing my eyes, my head goes back. If he had been able to find out about Tabatha then he knew. He knew everything.

Curling up on the couch, all I feel is empty. Grant Dexter knowing everything about the past I tried so hard to forget feels like he has stripped me naked without my permission. I never talked about the time before Boston. Robin had asked, once. When I told her I didn’t want to talk about it she never asked again. When men asked—which wasn’t often—they were content with small town and boring, and I wanted to escape from it all. No further questions were asked, it was an age-old scenario.

I never talked about my time as an escort, but not because I was ashamed. I had done what I needed to do. I couldn’t change it and I don’t think I would if I could. There weren’t many other things I could’ve done at the time that wouldn’t have ended in all kinds of bad. It happened, and I just want to leave it all behind me. I’ve kept the one and only reminder I want to keep. Closing my eyes, I refuse to think about the past. I’m not willing to go back there.

I wake up the next morning on the couch. My mind is no clearer than when I fell asleep. Shuffling into the kitchen, I make coffee then take a shower while the coffeemaker does its thing. Normally, I take my shower at night letting my hair air dry since I already use a flat iron and don’t like to use more heat than I need to. My day feels upside down as I step out of the shower. Drying off, I go through to the small bedroom and apply lotion. I take out only a loose shirt I might put on later, or not. I’m content to be naked.

Even though I’m not happy about Grant Dexter digging into m

y life, I understand the billion reasons behind it. Men with as much money as Grant Dexter do what they can to protect their wealth and themselves. With the write-ups on him, it was clear he was a bit of a control freak, no surprise really. If he was going to have a woman in his life who was only there because of an even exchange of money for sex and time, then he’d want to know everything about that person—down to their shoe size. Just because he knew about my past didn’t mean he’d get me to talk about it. He already knew, that was more than enough.

It’s two minutes until eight o’clock. I’m nervous, which is weird because I don’t get nervous about meeting men. Yet, I’m worried about my weight for the first time in years. For a long year I gained and lost the same twenty pounds in order to be more appealing, until a regular client told me to stop. He had requested me at the size twelve I was for a reason. He found me sexy with curves.

As much as my time spent working as an escort wasn’t something I had wanted to do, I came away from it with much more than money. I was more confident in not just my own appeal, but in who I was. So much so that even in the years since, when I had gone up to a size sixteen, I didn’t let it bother me. Only now, I’m wondering if Grant will find me as appealing as he thought I was from my profile picture.

My phone pings, and I pop up from the couch. One last check in the mirror before I text him I’ll be right down. My dress is a black sheath that goes to a few inches above my knee with a long sleeved lace overlay. I keep it simple with black Jimmy Choo three-inch heels.

Grabbing my small clutch, I check it’s all there: a twenty-dollar bill, compact for loose powder, lipstick, and a small vial of pepper spray. Locking the door, I slip the key and phone inside the clutch.

The doorman greets me with a smile and holds the door open for me wishing me a good evening. Grant is there, holding the door open for me to the Town car. A man hasn’t held a car door open for me in forever, usually they let the driver do it. His smile makes me catch my breath. He’s even more gorgeous in the flesh.