The Billionaire's CamGirl

“Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Chris,” she retorts. “When was the last time three Beliems were in Manhattan together? I couldn’t not call your aunts and uncles. And lucky for us, your cousins were in town, too.”

Chris introduces me around the room to his various relatives. I know I’ll never remember any of their names, but mine is on their lips already, as if I were the guest of honor, the topic du jour. When his elderly aunt mentions how romantic it is that we met in Paris, I detect Chris shooting an annoyed look toward Ryan, sipping a gin and tonic across the table with a Cheshire grin across his face. My palms are clammy, and I start searching for any excuse to leave.

“Weaver come sit by me,” Mrs. Beliem calls across the room.

Chris squeezes my hand in a reassuring gesture, and I walk away. Into the lion’s den, it feels.

Mrs. Beliem is patting the seat next to her, and I have no choice but to sit down. Perfectly timed, a waiter appears at my shoulder and asks if I’d prefer white or red wine. “Red,” I say. I want to say, “Thank you so very much and keep ‘em coming, brother” but I simply say, “Thanks.”

“It’s so nice to meet you Mrs. Beliem. Thanks for inviting me,” I say.

“Call me Anne, dear. And it’s all my pleasure. I never get to meet any of Chris’s friends. Not that he has many lady friends, though,” she says, an air of regret in her voice. “Tell me something about yourself. Have you lived in the city long?”

I’m pleasantly surprised that Anne is easy to talk to. I tell her about growing up nearby on Long Island and how I stayed close to home, going to college here in the city. She asks about college and I tell her about my program, and outline a little for her my ultimate goal, opening up a trendy youth hostel when I have enough money for it. It’s all going so well. Chris is smiling at me from across the table where he’s talking to an aunt, and I feel comfortable, like instead of this being a test, it may end up being the beginning of a nice relationship with Anne. But then that familiar, accusatory voice sounds at my side.

“But how do you spend your time now, Weaver? What have you been doing since graduation?” he asks, and under his breath I hear him add “Aside from my brother.”

“Well, I tried to break into the industry, working in a pretty nice hotel and restaurant for a year.” I’m speaking to Anne now, my back half-turned to Ryan. “But it was brutal. Long hours, low wages, and it became clear after a year that it wasn’t going to lead anywhere. But I still have my plans and I really hope soon I’ll have enough money and be able to–”

“It’s like pulling teeth from you,” Ryan interrupts me, and Anne throws a severe look in his direction. I reach for my glass and take a sip because I’m not sure how to respond to his so obvious aggression.

“Did I hear you guys talking about plans?” It’s Chris, coming to sit by my side. “We do have some very special plans coming up.” I look at him, puzzled, and I hold my breath. Kate’s words are ringing in my ears: If he drops to a knee and proposes, run!

“I was going to surprise you later, Weaver, but no time like the present. How’d you like to fly over to Paris with me in the morning?” he says, a twinkle in his eyes.

I’m shocked by the suddenness of his invitation, but here in front his family, I’m not going to ask for details. We can discuss them later. I feel a shiver of excitement because I realize that’s exactly what couples do.

“Lucky girl,” Ryan sneers. “Seems like this relationship is already paying off for you.”

I squeeze Chris’s leg under the table when I feel him jump at Ryan’s comment. While I appreciate his instinct to throat punch him, I’d much rather handle this on my own, especially while meeting his mother for the first time.

“I agree, Ryan,” I say. “I’m so lucky.” I turn to Chris and say, “I’d love to. Thank you so much. You know I’ve only been to Paris once, and the trip was too quick.” I lean in and give him a kiss on the cheek, making sure to inhale deeply his scent and warmth.

Anne’s eyes light up when she hears me say that, and she’s reaching for her cell phone in her purse. “Oh Weaver, you have to give me your email address. If you’ve only been once, I have a million places that you must see. Chris here,” she says, pointing over to her son, “isn’t much a museum lover. He’s more like his father, an outdoorsman. His idea of a weekend in Paris is sitting at Bar Hemingway sipping whiskey when the Louvre is just blocks away.”