Porter reached to get my chair, but a waiter seemingly out of nowhere, did it for him. Porter frowned. I slid into the chair, amused at Porter’s annoyance at the waiter for doing something he always did for me when we dined.
“I ordered wine. From our vineyards, of course,” said Paulo, motioning for the sommelier who poured us all glasses of the full-bodied tempranillo. Paulo raised his glass, “Salud!” We all took a sip. I wasn’t a big fan of red wine, but as soon as the first notes hit my palate, I swooned. It was so smooth and rich, with hints of vanilla. The Serranos may have just made me a fan of red wine.
“I’m sure you both are wondering why I asked you to dinner,” said Paulo. “Let me cut to the chase, as you all say. I wanted to just get to know the people who are going to be handling this project. It is so special to me. I want everything perfect. It is our baby.”
“Yes, he loves this stadium like he does his sons!” chimed his wife, Marina. “But yes, I too wanted to meet the team responsible for the design of the stadium. It surprised me to learn that one of them was a woman. It is a pleasure to meet you, Ari. I looked up some of your past projects. I was highly impressed.”
“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.