But then I force my chin up. No one here knows that I’m poor, and besides, I’m the guest of a powerful man. As I step onto the sidewalk, a young lady dressed in a black pencil skirt and matching jacket greets me and ushers me inside.
“Please, come this way, Miss Richardson. My name is Melissa, and I work for Mr. Wilshire. He’s requested a private dining area for the two of you this evening,” she says. “If you’ll just follow me.”
“Of course,” I stammer. “Happy to.”
The inside of the hotel is even more dazzling than the exterior, with a pristine white check-in desk, an ornate fountain tinkling lightly, and plush jewel-toned couches scattered here and there. It’s the kind of thing I’d imagine was built for royalty, with its gilded elegance and air of hushed refinement. I’m certainly out of place, but I hold my head up high. No one at the hotel knows what I’m really here for.
Melissa leads me into a fancy restaurant with white tablecloths, before wending our way to a private back room. It’s intimate and gorgeous. There’s a small table for two complete with candlelight and a vase of fresh flowers. A waiter is standing by the table and he pulls out a chair politely.
“Mr. Wilshire will be with you momentarily,” the woman says.
“Um, thanks,” I nod.
Meanwhile, waiter holds up a bottle of wine. “Would you like me to pour you a glass while you wait, Miss?”
I look around and decide why not? “Yes, please.”
Once he’s poured me a glass of wine, he leaves the bottle in the center of the table, then he excuses himself. I’m sipping the deep red liquid, savoring the smooth mouth feel, when the door to the room opens and Peter walks in. I take a long swallow of my wine, but my mouth still feels dry. This man is gorgeous, and I’m reminded of the fact seeing him here close-up. He’s wearing a black suit with a blue button down beneath his blazer, emphasizing the azure color of his eyes. That charcoal hair is swept back, and as he takes me in, a knowing smile crosses his face. He stalks across the room to where I am, and leans down, entering my private space. The man is so close that I can feel body heat emanating from him like a furnace.
“Hi, sweetheart. It’s nice to see you again,” he says before leaning in to press a soft kiss to my lips. Immediately, all thoughts exit my brain and I become a puddle of mush.
“You, too,” I whisper.
The handsome client is still smiling when he straightens up and walks around to take a seat across from me. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to pick you up. Was the drive okay?”
“Yes, it was totally fine, thanks. Are you in Atlantic City a lot? I admit I thought we’d be going out in New York, but this is just as nice.”
He throws his head back and laughs, showing off an even white smile.
“Yes, because this is my hotel actually. The Wilshire Hotel belongs to my family.”
I gawk at him before remembering to shut my mouth.
“Really? This entire hotel? It’s so nice!”
He grins, but then turns to the menu.
“I’ll tell you more about it, but first, let’s order honey. You must be starved after that long drive.”
He’s right and my tummy grumbles a bit, making him quirk an eyebrow at me humorously.
“Also, in the interest of transparency, I want to be clear that this is a real date, and not an escorting date,” he adds, almost lazily.
I stare at him.
“But you’re paying City Girls.”
He nods.
“Yes, I am, but I want you to be here of your own free will. You are, aren’t you?”
I think for a moment, and then nod.
“Yes, and I think I’d like that.”
He smiles.
“Good, it’s settled then. We’re a real couple on a real date, and not some bizarre set-up via the agency.”
Then, Peter picks his menu up, and I take that as a cue to look over the options as well. But my mind is buzzing. A real date? That’s something that I never expected, and a warm feeling fills my stomach. Then, my eyes squint because there aren’t any prices listed on the menu, and my sixth sense tells me that nothing on this menu is cheap.
“Please sweetheart,” Peter says, as I look at him over my menu, “order anything you like.”
Right. We’re on a date which means he’s paying. Of course, he owns the entire hotel, so it’s a different kind of paying, but I suppose the ultimate bill goes to him. A bit out of my depth, I nod and look back at the menu. There are several great options, but then I see my favorite food near the bottom of the page.
“I’m going to get the Southern fried chicken with grits and collard greens,” I announce with a happy smile. As soon as the words leave my mouth, heat burns my cheeks. This is a five star restaurant, and I’m probably one of the only people to order the fried chicken.