The Build Up (41)

“Thank you, Mrs. Serrano.” The lighting was dim, but anyone with eyes could see that I was flush with nervousness. I’d never been around this much money in one room in my whole life. Their net worth was the GNP of a developing nation. And they liked my work. It was unbelievable.

“Please. It’s Marina!” continued Marina. “And although I love design, my main concern is cost. Marco doesn’t concern himself with those things, but Paulo and I do.”

Paulo smiled. “That’s her degree in economics from Cambridge. It is always about the money.”

Despite my thorough research, I’d forgotten one minor detail—Marina Serrano wasn’t just some former beauty queen; she was brilliant. Marina was an economics genius responsible for crafting policy for the Spanish government. I admired the fact Marina’s beauty, and her intelligence were things that Paulo equally admired about his wife. I wondered if Porter felt the same about me.

The chef brought out the first course himself. He and Paulo laughed like old friends, slapping each other firmly on the back. Marina and I eased into conversation, with Marina showing me pictures of her sons and talking about the unpredictable weather here in Atlanta. I smiled and laughed, the nervousness eventually dissipating. I felt so much warmth from the Serranos. Porter looked at me, giving me a reassuring nudge. I smiled.

As they served the second course, the four of us eased into casual conversation. I could easily blame the different Serrano wines we had with each course, but Paulo and Marina were easy to talk to. They didn’t come across as stuffy, despite their net worth. The Serranos were charming, down-to-earth billionaires that seemed to enjoy having a great meal with regular folks.

“So, whose idea was the fan experience area? I loved it!” said Marina.

“Oh, it was Ari’s,” Porter said. “Ari’s design eye is exceptional. You know she lived in Florence for a while.” My chest bloomed at his words.

“And London,” I chimed in, the wine giving me a boost of confidence. “I thought about Wimbledon and the lawn. It is literally the best experience in sports I’ve ever had, and I thought I could bring that experience to the stadium. Combine it with the feel of your vineyards. I know you’re all about sustainability. So, no space wasted. And hopefully, built as green as possible.”

As Porter and I talked about the design of the stadium, we would finish each other’s sentences. Paulo smiled as Marina nodded, looking at her husband. Without thinking, Porter put his hand on the small of my back, making small circles. I wanted to melt just like the chocolate flan on the menu.

“She’s as smart as she’s sex—” stammered Porter. “I mean, self-confident.” I looked at Porter, admiring the profile of his face as he continued to speak. His face beamed with an incredible sense of pride.

There was my answer.

By the time the fourth and final course came, Porter and I had the Serranos eating out the palm of our hand. I talked more about my time in Florence, making them laugh at my stories of a supposed Medici “prince” who wanted to marry me. Porter and Paulo talked about their shared love of vinyl records, each of them comparing what they owned in their vast collections.

With the wine flowing, a cotton-candy-like softness swirled around me and the thought of someone slipping me out of this librarian skirt was becoming more appealing. It had been months since I’d had sex with anyone. No booty calls to my “stand-ins.” No trips around home base with Big Papi could satisfy what I wanted right now. And what I wanted right now, the touch and feel of the one man that, even though I knew it was wrong, could satisfy me.

After Paulo and Marina gave their kudos to the chef, we ended the night with hugs, more kisses on the cheek and an open invitation from the couple to come yachting in Marbella.

“You two are a great team. My secret weapon, no?” He enthusiastically patted Porter’s shoulder and kissed my cheeks fervently.

We waited outside for the car service. We were both full and extremely buzzed. Porter, just a few inches taller than me, had the perfect shoulder to rest my head. As I rested on his shoulder, I felt him lean down, his cheek resting against my temple.

“Private dining? Drinking $800 bottles of wine? I feel like Jay-Z and Beyoncé,” I whispered to Porter.

“You’re prettier,” Porter said, without a hint of sarcasm.

“Now, I know you’re lying.” Porter laughed and squeezed my hand.

“You were amazing back there. It was as if you dined with billionaires all the time,” Porter remarked, his nose grazing the side of my forehead. I heard him inhale deeply. The feeling, so small, so intimate, ignited tiny electric sparks against my skin.

“I could say the same for you,” I chided.

Porter laughed, a deep soulful rumble. “Well, a few. My grandfather and his pals shut down a place a time or two. But...that stuff doesn’t impress me. The way you treat people is what matters. You treat people like they matter, Ari. I love that about you.”

I shook my head, trying to fight off the heat that was quickening my pulse. “You’re right. People are people. And I love people. Besides, to quote Maya Angelou, I’m a sista who laughs like I have gold mines in my backyard.”

Porter took my face into his hands and looked into my eyes. “And you’re a phenomenal woman.”

I tried to hold in my snicker but failed, erupting in full-blown laughter. “That’s sweet. I appreciate the sentiment but that’s the wrong poem.”