Southern Charmed Billionaire (5 page)

We passed beautiful stone halls with gold frames, grand baroque mirrors, and more elaborate waterfalls.
 

“Would you like anything to drink? Some champagne? Coffee? Sparkling water? Tea? We have you set up for a deep tissue massage, exfoliation, mud bath, and then a 24-carat gold facial following an electronic facial, an eye brow threading, mani, pedi, then hair and makeup.”
 

My heart stopped. I’d never even
been
to a spa before. I had no idea what to expect. This, this was something else. This was luxury, paradise.
 

“Oh, and I must warn you. Today there is some special filming going on for that reality show
Charleston’s Elite
. You’ve heard of it?”
 

I shook my head . “I’m not from here.”
 

“Well, that’s alright. If you don’t wish to be featured in any background shots, just fill out this form here, and if anything’s caught on camera, you will be blurred you out.”
 

Great.
 

She led me to a room filled with satin benches next to white lockers. “Here are your robe and slippers. Simply undress and leave your things in here. And Savannah will be right with you shortly to take you to you first appointment. I’ll have the beverage of your choice waiting for you in the heated lounge chairs by the fountain, right around this corner.”
 

My face beamed as I said "thank you." Feeling like the luckiest girl in the world, I quickly undressed and happily wrapped myself with the most delicious-feeling robe in the world. Feeling like a million dollars, I sipped my champagne, awaiting my first beauty treatment.
 

Hours later, and after falling asleep from a nap, the nail stylist showed me a color of pale pink for my nails. Feeling tipsy and happy, I admitted to her, “I’m a pedicure virgin. I’m really ticklish too. I hope I don’t annoy you to pieces.” Her smile was kind, and I went back to sipping champagne and reading trashy magazines.
 

While being led to my private shower and bathroom where hair and make up would later meet me, a chilling statement stopped me in my tracks.
 

“Oh my word, did you hear that poor puppy? She says she’s with Atticus? She’s never even had a pedicure before. Where on earth did he drag it from?”
 

It?
 

An articulate southern belle’s voice made me freeze in my tracks. It was nerve-wracking, being talked about like that as another voice joined her giggling. I gazed around the room in search for these gossipers.
 

“If she’s never had a pedicure before, then how on earth is she to be on Atticus’ arm?”
 

“Maybe she’s delusional. Who knows? You know women will do
anything
these days to be famous.”
 

“Or to have a free spa day.”
 

Laughter floated off the walls, and my heart caught in my throat.
Already, gossipers
. I shook my head, escaping the memories that jumped out at me from elementary school, and all the mean girls' and gossip. I promised myself not to go there.
 

Get it together, girl. Seriously. This is a job. A means to an end. And at the end of all of this is a successful cupcake business. Keep your eye on the goal.
 

Kate
 

Feeling like a million bucks makes you stand like a million bucks. Being groomed, massaged, and having every detail of your body perfectly attended to, well, it makes you walk in easy stride.
 

Yet no matter how easy I felt for being glam head to toe, he insisted that I loop my hand in his arm, and being this close to him made me want to faint.
 

So hard.
 

His rich cologne covered me in a blanket as we scooted about the room.
 

“Tonight’s function is about bringing awareness to the Berkeley Foundation. My family started this foundation decades ago. It’s expected for me to pretty much shake hands and make small talk with everyone in the room. After we make our rounds, we’ll make way to our table and have our dinner. We should be out of there by 10pm, tops.”
 

We arrived at 7pm. By 8pm, my face felt numb from smiling so much, between sipping wine and making small talk when questions were diverted to me: "And who might this young lady be?" "And what do you do?"
 

"I’m Kate, and I’m a private chef."
 

This took Atticus by surprise.
 

“I thought you were in music management?” he asked.
 

“I was. That was after my cheffing days.”
 

“Hm.” He replied thoughtfully.
 

But I never filled him in further, because as soon as my mouth opened, another excited guest greeted Atticus hand. Wow, he wasn’t joking. This really was like a job.
 

I always pictured these events of the elite to be easy as pie: eating, chatting, drinking, and spending money. But I guess when you held a prominent position like Atticus's, you're more like a politician or pastor of a very, very large congregation. Atticus was in his element. Or perhaps this jovial, charismatic creature was who he always was. I tried my best to not just gaze at him dreamily throughout all the small talks and introductions. I was, after all, just an escort—not that type!—a date, but not really a 'serious' date. Just eye candy on his arm. But I knew I felt something, even it was just pure flirtation. Oh, we were flirting alright. And I enjoyed every bit of it. I really couldn’t
stop staring at him and listening to him speak with honest curiosity and admiration. He really was highly articulate and had a lot of important things to say.
 

“Excuse me, Kate. I’ll be right back. Men’s room. Uh, wait for me by the bar. You’ll be fine right here, I promise.”
 

Nerves don’t really frazzle me, after all, coming off a successful food truck business in the hustle and bustle in the city that never sleeps. I was used to rude people. I was used to busy people. I was used to impatient people.
 

But behind the white apron I wore while cooking, I was Chef. There was an element of respect in what I did, especially when people knew of my food’s stellar reviews. The memory still panged me, writing that closure letter after my ex did the unthinkable. My memory diverted to that very chilling morning when I published my closing blog post on my Facebook page when someone else’s voice interrupted my thoughts.
 

“And what does your daddy do?” Her eyes were menacing, and she held her sculpted chin high, as if she were balancing a pile of books on her head. I could practically see her nostrils flaring.
 

She had slithered in, disrupting my thoughts, and I hadn’t even noticed her.
 

“Excuse me?”
 

“I asked, what does your daddy do?” Her voice was slow and deliberate, as if intentionally speaking to me like I either had a hearing problem or was slow.
 

“And why does that matter?” Who was this pretentious bitch?
 

“It’s Charleston, honey, and you’re on Atticus Branch III’s arm. You do not run in these circles unless your daddy is a someone. You’re not in your late cycle of life, so you certainly haven’t married well into money. And I know everyone. And I mean
everyone
. And I have
never
seen you before.”
 

“What my daddy does,
honey
, is none of your business.” I gritted my teeth. Even though I know there was no way for a perfect stranger to know about my father and my past, the possibility of my dirty laundry possibly being aired to the public still rattled me. It was a past I eagerly sought to move forward from. An embarrassing, shameful past. When Atticus had mentioned catty women in my interview, I thought he was just being general. The claws really did come out. My response seemed to only bait her further.
 

“Oh? Is that so? Or are you skirting the question because you know you don’t belong here?”
 

“Excuse me?” Oh
hell
no, Felecia. “Why would you—”
 

“You think by attending one of these events, making a big splash, that you're going to get access to his money just like that? His billions?”
 

Billions?
 

I gulped. He was that rich?
 

“Listen to me. You clean up nicely, sure. But let's not play pretend any longer. Atticus has a heart of charity—it always gets him into trouble. Tell me, are you a drug addict?”
 

“What?”
 

Her eyes darkened with malice.
 

“I was in the spa earlier today and overheard your excitement to receive your
first
pedicure.” She admitted as if we were talking about something serious. Like, admitting I was twenty-six years old and seeing a dentist for the first time with twelve cavities.
 

 “So? That doesn’t mean a thing. You can’t just accuse—”
 

“Oh, you obviously have a drug problem. Who doesn't get regular beauty treatment unless their last cent is spent on
something
?”
 

She was actually serious. Spoiled-rotten serious.
 

Um, people who have to work hard for things in life who don't wake up born in a castle? Who use every last dollar to make something of themselves?
But I wasn't going to let her in on any part of my history. Or me. She didn't deserve that.
 

"I don't do drugs. I'm sorry, but I wasn’t aware of an interrogation hazing ritual. So what, you've never seen me before? What are you, Queen Bee of the latest gossip column or something?"
 

"No, but she is. And she's listening very carefully." Her eyes moved towards a woman not far away, smartly dressed in a red dress.
 

I rolled my eyes and tapped my fingers along the table, impatiently waiting for Atticus to return. Suddenly, the room felt hotter. Louder. My insecurities of being the girl with the wrong clothes from the wrong store came whirling around of me. I tried to keep a lid on it, but she was prodding me so hard!
 

     "Look at you, you don't even know the proper etiquette on how to hold a glass of wine. Any woman who belongs here would know you hold the stem, never the glass. You’re changing the temperature of the wine as we speak from the heat of your sweaty palms, which is saying something, because you
know
you’re a fish out of water. Furthermore, any Charleston woman of means and position in our rather tight-knit group is born into it. You don’t just waltz in, and you most certainly don't drink
red
wine. Look around, you why don’t you? You would be drinking Champagne to keep your pearly whites white.
And
to keep your lip color intact. Of
course
you’re not from here. And neither do you belong.
Especially
not on his arm.”
 

      My jaw dropped open. I couldn't believe this bitch.
 

     She made my blood boil. I did not get walked on by bitches like her. She was not going to knock me down. On that note…
 

“If you really have a problem with the way I sip beverages of my own free choice, then why don’t I just make you a heart made out of straws then so you can suck my ass?” She had unlocked the door of my inner Brooklyn child.
 

Her eyes widened at my choice of words, and my I roared in triumph.
 

“I’ll be sure to pass the condolences and warm anecdotes to my brother, dear. And that's an interesting choice of words, to be sure. Another hint of your uneducated breed. My brother despises language. Anyone woman belonging to this pedigree would understand that. Well look, there he is now! Perfect timing, Atticus.”
 

My heart dropped.
Sister
? As in, the sister he said was a bit of a handful? My eyes widened as the gossip columnist who lurked with great intent right in ear sight of our conversation. She now spoke low, hushed words into her phone as if speaking to someone or taking notes. No doubt she heard the whole thing.
 

He glanced at me with a worried face.
 

“Brittany, that's a face that tells me you're up to no good.
Daily News
is in earshot.” He hissed.
 

“Oh, Atticus, I am so delighted you asked. I was just striking up a conversation with your charming new charity of a case girl toy who has a very lively choice of words. I do believe you should listen to the creative things that come out of her mouth. Colorful indeed. Why, I do believe she decorated the phrase 'kiss my ass' up a bit.”
 

He ran his hands through his hair.
 

“Kate, this is my sister' Brittany.”
 

“Charmed' I’m sure.” Brittany muttered my direction.
 

“Brittany, this is my date, Kate.”
 

“Well, as you may already see' I certainly am not charmed. At all. By you.
 

Atticus's arm was firm as he pulled at his sister. “May I have a word with you by the fountain, please? I’ll be right back, Kate.”
 

I watched my new enemy walk away with my new boss.
 

Great.
 

Feeling a moment of relief at being away from that awful person, a warm, well dressed woman smiled my way. Her face was glowing with expertly applied makeup and hair.
 

“I just love your shoes. And that dress is to die for. Where did you get it?”