Trusting the Billionaire (Weston Brothers Book 2) Read online

  Trusting the Billionaire

  By C.C. Snow

  Copyright

  Trusting the Billionaire

  Copyright © 2016 by C.C. Snow

  All Rights Reserved

  Kindle Edition

  Photo from Depositphotos.com

  Please note the content in this book is meant for mature audiences.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Note from Author

  Chapter 1

  I had a theory.

  It was inane and utterly trivial, but tedium drove a woman to find strange things to amuse herself—like make silly, unfounded observations about the customers she had to wait on.

  Boiled down to its most basic essence, my theory was that there were two types of male customers who brought their dates to a one-Michelin-star restaurant like Portofino’s: poor and rich. Brilliant, I know, but there was more.

  A poor man’s objective was to impress his date, hoping to entice her to take that next step in their relationship, either to sleep with him or to marry him. As evidence, I had seen two proposals in the last three weeks I had worked here. Of course, I had seen no proof of a successful seduction—nor would I want to.

  A rich man had two possible reasons to dine here. One: he was having a nice, run-of-the-mill dinner with his date—after all, he could easily afford the expensive fare. Or two: he was dumping her. If he were asking her to marry him, he would have upgraded to a three-star establishment.

  I assumed these men thought the refined, elegant atmosphere would inhibit their dates from enacting any high drama. Most of the time they were right, but I had seen a few explosive spectacles too.

  There were patrons who were neither poor nor rich, but I found they were generally married and came with their wives to celebrate special occasions. Ergo, they were irrelevant to my theory.

  When I told my best friend, Ethan, he accused me of being a cynic and a classist, but I pointed out that my theory panned out with shocking frequency.

  As soon as the blonde couple entered the restaurant, I had a gut feeling they would be another statistic supporting my theory. They reeked of money. The woman was in a Versace dress—current season—and I’d be willing to bet my paycheck that the man’s suit was hand-tailored to his tall frame.

  I couldn’t see their expressions clearly in the dimly lit interior, but I recognized the subtle signs of the prelude to the kiss-off dinner.

  The man held himself stiffly, only perfunctorily touching his date to guide her through the restaurant while the woman clung a tad too tightly, too desperately. I felt a wave of pity for the unsuspecting woman as she clutched his arm and peered—no doubt adoringly—into his face.

  Poor girl wouldn’t know what hit her, I thought sardonically. I hoped this parting would be quiet and dignified.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the maître d’ lead them to the nicest table in the restaurant. I breathed a sigh of relief that I wouldn’t be waiting on them. The other waitstaff vied to get that specific section, but I was glad I didn’t have the seniority to warrant the privilege. And I wasn’t sure I would ever want it.

  Waiting on the best tables in the house came with its perks and its drawbacks. Generally, the tips were fantastic because the patrons who sat there ordered the most expensive wines, but they also expected servile attention. The wealthier they were, the more obnoxious they tended to be. I far preferred to serve the customers who came to Portofino’s as a special treat. They were much more appreciative of the food and atmosphere and didn’t treat me like I was sub-human.

  One of my customers made eye contact with me and I returned my attention to taking care of my tables.

  An hour later, Sylvia walked up to me and asked, “Elle, can you do me a solid and take care of my last table for me? You can keep the tip. I have to leave to pick Lulu up from the babysitter because my ex is a douchebag.” Her tone was filled with loathing.

  I ran my customer’s credit card through the machine and regarded her with sympathy. “He cancelled again?”

  “Yes. Fucking asshole called last minute and said he couldn’t take her for the weekend after all. More like he took his newest plaything to a cheap motel and forgot it was his week.”

  Placing my hand Sylvia’s shoulder, I said, “Maybe it’s time to take him to court again, Sylvia. Any judge worth his salt would award you full custody once you presented your ex’s poor track record.”

  Her narrow shoulders sagged and she pinched the bridge of her nose. “I know, but it’s such a pain in the ass to deal with lawyers and I don’t want to put Lulu through that shit. Besides the last custody battle wiped out my savings.”

  I nodded my understanding. That she was putting her daughter first won my respect and admiration. “Of course you have to do what’s best for Lulu. And don’t worry about table seven. I’ll take care of it. And the tip belongs to you. You’re the one who brought them their order.” Sylvia had shown me the ropes when I started at Portofino’s. Taking one of her tables was the least I could do to repay her for her help.

  “Thanks. They’re almost done,” she said, clearly relieved, and untied the black apron around her waist. Leaning toward me, she lowered her voice. “I doubt they will get dessert. They don’t look like they’re enjoying their meal.”

  I looked over at the table next to the window and sighed with resignation and dread. It was the couple I saw earlier. They were speaking intently, their heads bent intimately toward each other.

  “I owe you one. Now I have to go tell Tony I’m taking off early,” Sylvia said, making a face of dread.

  I peeled back my upper lip in revulsion, wordlessly commiserating with her. Tony, the manager of the restaurant was a bit of a sleaze ball. Over the last several weeks, I had been groped and propositioned more times than I cared to think about. If I didn’t need this job so much, I’d tell the disgusting pig to suck on his own dick, but unfortunately I didn’t have that luxury if I wanted to pay for my share of the rent this month.

  “It should be fine. Most of the diners are finishing up anyway,” I said, surveying the emptying restaurant. “Besides, Karen is here if I have any problems.” I pointed to the other server who still had customers in her section.

  “Thanks, Elle. Have a good night,” Sylvia said as she started walking toward our manager’s office.

  Placing the receipt and credit card in the leather holder, I walked back to the older couple at table eighteen and smiled. “Here yo
u go, Mr. and Mrs. Norse. And happy anniversary again.”

  There was a chorus of praise for the food and service, making me smile even broader. Every muscle in my body was tired from the long dinner shift, but customers like the Norses always gave me a glow of pleasure.

  “Have a good night,” I said and watched wistfully as the Mr. Norse helped his wife of thirty years out of her chair and carefully guided her out of the restaurant, his gnarled hand at her elbow.

  Walking up to the only remaining customers in my section, I took down their orders for dessert. After I relayed the request to the kitchen, I looked over at table seven and stifled a sigh. The tension surrounding them was almost palpable. I only saw the back of the man’s head, but I noticed how tense his shoulders were. As for his date, there was a subtle line between her perfectly arched brows.

  Concealing my reluctance, I approached the table and feigned a smile. I kept my gaze on her, trying to figure out where I had seen her before. “Ma’am, sir, is there anything else I can get for you tonight?”

  The woman raised distinctive emerald green eyes and a light bulb went off in the back of my mind. Anya Van Houten. Latest Bond girl. Blonde, petite, beautiful, and from all accounts, something of a drama queen.

  “Dessert? Coffee?” I asked, gesturing toward the menus Sylvia had left with them.

  “A cappuccino. Nonfat,” she said curtly, her tone dismissive. Her chin tilted at a haughty angle and I smirked inwardly. In my previous life, I had dealt with far loftier souls than she and I wasn’t intimidated by her snobbishness. Any empathy I had felt earlier for her vanished.

  Keeping my expression blandly congenial, I turned to the man and almost stuttered when his eyes met mine.

  Holy shit.

  The man was Gorgeous with a capital G. In fact, they’d have to invent a new word for this level of hotness. He had thick honey-blond hair that was just long enough to cover the tips of his ears. His cheekbones were high and sharp, giving his cheeks a slightly sunken in look. Perfectly sculpted lips. Blue-green eyes with long lashes, topped by thick brows two shades darker than his hair. And the imperfection of his too-long nose only augmented his overall magnetism.

  My fingers itched to get my camera. Those bones would show perfectly in black and white. Then I mentally shook my head because his eyes demanded high definition color.

  His intent gaze roamed over my face and I barely clung onto my composure.

  And God help me when his lips quirked up in a half-smile, showing a glimpse of his white teeth.

  I stiffened my knees against the weakness invading my bones and tore my gaze away, castigating myself for my reaction. I had seen plenty of beautiful men before and there was no reason to act like a ninny now. “And for you sir?” I asked, feeling like my tongue had swelled to twice its size.

  “What happened to Sylvia?” he asked in a low, smoky voice.

  Surprised he noticed the change in servers, I returned my gaze to him. Most people found us to be as interchangeable as pieces of silverware. “Unfortunately she had to leave for a family emergency. My name is Elle and I’ll be serving you for the rest of the evening.”

  His eyes darkened and I became conscious of how sexual my statement sounded. His gaze held mine and I felt my breath catch in my chest. I’d heard of guys who oozed sex, but this was ridiculous.

  Anya reached over and stroked her slender fingers over his hand, drawing his attention. From the glare she shot me, I figured she was also staking her claim.

  “Sir, would you like a coffee or dessert?” I asked, studiously avoiding looking at him directly. For a moment, I felt like I was falling under a spell and it felt damn uncomfortable.

  “Nothing for me. Thanks.”

  “Remember, nonfat,” Anya repeated, as if I were mentally challenged.

  “Of course.” I said, fantasizing about making her drink with heavy cream. I collected the dessert menus from them. “I’ll be right back with your drink.” As I spun on my heel, I heard the woman whispering furiously to him and I quickened my steps, hoping the evening ended soon. I had a premonition that if this were a kiss-off dinner, the woman was not going to take it well.

  I made the cappuccino—with nonfat milk, placed it next to the desserts, and walked slowly to table seven, my attention focused on keeping the hot liquid from spilling. Dimly, I noted that the woman’s voice was getting louder.

  “Here you go,” I said cheerfully and picked up the saucer.

  The famous actress abruptly stood up and flung her arm out. “I can’t believe you’d do this to me!”

  And disaster struck.

  In helpless horror, I watched my own personal Titanic unfold in slow motion.

  Her hand connected with mine and I shrieked and hunched my shoulders as the scalding liquid splashed onto my chest, soaking my white shirt. The tray started to slide off of my other hand and in a desperate move, I dropped the cup to the floor, flinching when I heard the ceramic shatter. I reached to steady the tray, but it was too late and I whimpered as panna cotta and chocolate mousse spilled like a dessert waterfall into her companion’s lap.

  Someone was yelling shrilly, but all I could focus on was the mound of goop on his Italian wool trousers. The stinging discomfort of the hot drink on my skin was forgotten. The clatter of the tumbling plates seemed very distant.

  I gulped, thinking about how much his suit cost. Probably more than I made in a year. I could afford to send it to the cleaners, I thought frantically, but as he stood up, letting the soggy mess fall to the floor, defeat spread through me. The swirls of brown and white streaked the lower half of his jacket and along both legs. It would take a miracle to salvage his clothes.

  Sounds started to filter in again.

  “You clumsy cow!” Anya spat out venomously, dabbing at the few drops of liquid that landed on her arm with the napkin. She seemed supremely unaware that she was relatively unscathed while I had been drenched in hot cappuccino and her boyfriend was covered in a sugary, gelatinous mess.

  I bit back my blistering comeback and said, “I’m sorry, ma’am,” trying to sound contrite. In the last two years, I had learned that meekness was the best strategy when dealing with unreasonable customers.

  Glancing at the man, I was taken aback by the look of rueful amusement on his face. Why wasn’t he livid? “Sir, I’m so sorry. If you’ll send me the cleaning bill, I’ll pay for it.”

  He took the linen and swiped at the slop on his thighs. When he realized he was only smearing the desserts into the fabric, he gave up with a sigh and threw the napkin onto the tabletop. “It’s not your fault. It was an unfortunate accident.”

  “What is going on here?”

  I closed my eyes as I heard my manager’s voice behind me. He took in the scene, gasped, and roughly pushed me aside.

  “Mr. Weston, sir, I’m so sorry about this,” Tony apologized, his voice an obsequious whine.

  “It’s all her fault. She tripped and dropped everything,” Anya said, pointing her finger at me.

  Resentment coursed through me at the unfair accusation. I opened my mouth to rebut her, but my boss whirled around and hissed, “You’re fired, Elle. I refuse to put up with your gross incompetence.” Puffing his chest, he pulled up his pudgy body in false self-importance.

  “Listen, it wasn’t her fault.”

  I was too furious to appreciate the man’s forceful defense of me. I couldn’t believe Tony was not going to give me a chance to explain myself. This was taking the motto “the customer is always right” to the extreme. The injustice of the situation lit my temper like a stick of dynamite.

  In the back of my mind, I knew I was going to regret what I was about to say, but I couldn’t stop myself.

  Jaw jutting out, I slammed my empty tray into his doughy belly, took off my apron and threw it in his face. “You don’t need to fire me because I fucking quit.”

  I allowed myself a smirk at the look of astonishment on his face. Making sure I kept my voice loud and clear, I leaned towar
d him and poked him in the chest. “And I wouldn’t suck that pencil-dick in your pants for all the gold in Fort Knox. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer about a sexual harassment case, you asshole,” I said.

  It was an empty threat because I didn’t have money for an attorney, but I greatly relished the look of panic on Tony’s face. Let the pig sweat this out. If nothing else, my threat would make him think twice before he made another lewd suggestion to one of his employees.

  Deciding to go whole-hog, I turned to Anya Van Houten and said contemptuously, “You’re a lying bitch and you’re a terrible actress. You over-emote. Try to remember, less is more.”

  Her mouth dropped to her scrawny chest.

  I wrinkled my nose and flicked my gaze deliberately over her petite frame. Next to her, I felt like an Amazon at five feet nine. “Oh…and if I were you, I’d lose a few pounds before I did another nude scene. In that last movie, I thought I saw a…” I let my eyes linger over her very flat stomach. “Pooch.”

  She screeched like a scalded cat and I grinned at my bull’s-eye hit. What could I say? When I wanted to be a bitch, I could be a downright evil one. I’d never seen one of her movies, but I could see this opponent’s weak spots easily. Dressed in designer clothes that hugged every inch of her bony body, she was broadcasting loudly that she had body image issues.

  A choked laugh brought my gaze to the man Tony called Mr. Weston. His face was suffused with mirth as he watched the drama play out.

  He had done nothing to warrant my anger, but I was suddenly and irrationally sick of people like him. I knew his type all too well. Privileged and entitled because of their wealth and looks. I had lost my job—a job I desperately needed—because of his selfish, spoiled girlfriend.

  Narrowing my eyes, I turned my wrath toward him. I sized him up, exaggerating the up-and-down motion of my head. “Mr. Weston, you look like you’ve got money.”

  His eyes widened at my snarky comment, but instead of alarm, I thought I saw anticipation in their aquamarine depths.

  “May I recommend that you spend a few bucks and buy some taste? Or at least upgrade?” I jabbed my thumb toward his still huffing girlfriend. “I hate to speak ill of my own sex, but she’s kind of…” I made a moue. “Cheap.”