Ankle Deep in Sugar Page 2

  Except for one man sitting alone at a table for 2.

  One very handsome man who is idly perusing the menu while alternately turning his head to look out the front window to watch the native life of Bridgestone passing by outside.

  Strike that.

  Hot. One very hot man.

  My nerves are back with a vengeance.

  There is no way on this planet, in this lifetime, that that man wants to be my sugar daddy.

  That man is so out of place in this dusty little rural pit stop of a town that there's not a doubt in my mind that that's Colter Meyers. Co-founder and president of the Meyers-Armstrong Foundation for Improved Existence out of Las Vegas, Nevada. The man who answered my ad on the Sugarmesweet website that I signed up on last month when I was still delirious with fever from the flu and right before I got the notice that the monthly rate for the hotel I've been living in for the last few months was going up even though the WiFi never works and I have to spend $4.85 a day for a cup of coffee at the shop across the street just so I can read all the rejection emails for the jobs I keep applying to online.

  That Colter Meyers. It literally could not be anyone else.

  We've been talking over the phone for the last couple of weeks, mostly trying to work out plans to make this fateful lunch date happen.

  His profile picture on the website is the same head-shot that's on his LinkedIn profile; very professional, all business, and doesn't really give a clear idea of what to expect.

  I came across a few other photos of him online but they were mostly associated with the non-profit he runs, lots of shaking hands with other rich dudes in suits. Nothing that prepared me for what to expect when I met him in person.

  Nothing that prepared me for that.

  That happens to be a man in his late 30s, with coal black hair cropped close the head with just enough length on top to reveal a slight wave where it's combed gently off his forehead. His chin is covered with a shadow of dark scruff just long enough to make it clear that it's there on purpose.

  The pretense of beard does nothing to hide the high cheekbones or the squareness of his jaw.

  He's wearing a casual white button-down shirt with a striped pattern in it that's made more from different textures of thread than different colors. From where I'm standing I can see the black slacks stretched across muscled thighs under the table.

  Nice shoes too.

  The hostess smiles at me and I motion to the man in the back room to indicate I'm here to see him before she can grab menus and try to seat me at my own table.

  She smiles with an impressed nod and I force my feet to walk the long length of the front room toward my destiny.

  I swear the closer I get, the hotter he looks.

  I am so in over my head with this sugar baby scheme. I thought I'd end up with some guy who's 30 years older than me, a guy who thinks I'm young. This guy is about my age. And his bio says he's worth 39.4 million dollars.

  Gulp.

  I'm about to turn around and run when Colter looks up.

  Damn. I'm caught.

  Colter

  When I finally tracked her down on that sugar baby site she was on she'd updated her profile again from what I'd last seen her write.

  She'd added that she's not only looking for a temporary arrangement with the intention of getting back on her feet and not interested in anything long term.

  I take a minute to look out the dingy window of the Chinese restaurant occupying the downtown building that was clearly built to serve some other purpose and get a feel for the tiny town of Bridgestone.

  It's an overgrown pit stop on some back-country highway running between Reno and Vegas. A couple of gas stations and a diner that somehow expanded into something resembling a town.

  The place probably peeked in the 60s, with a row of quaint bungalows lining the one residential street. A few have been kept up, most of them are occupied but need repairs, a couple at the end of the row where the street dead ends into the sprawling desert are boarded up and look like they might be housing meth labs.

  Main street-- where the Chinese Sun overlooks a block and a half of picturesque, small town, Americana in the form of a grocery store, a mercantile shop, a post office, a hair salon, and a handful of independent businesses that may or may not see enough revenue to cover their monthly rent-- is a ghost town on a Wednesday afternoon.

  The only part of Bridgestone that's keeping Bridgestone on the map is the shopping center by the gas station right off the highway where I found the coffee shop-- and Rachel-- when I needed to stop for caffeine and WiFi when I was driving through last month.

  From several conversations with her since tracking her down, I know that she's been living in the Bridge Star Motor Lodge since August.

  The monthly rate is cheap, but there's not much opportunity for work within a 35 mile drive. Which doesn't give a woman without a car much opportunity.

  The woman I saw at the coffee shop a few weeks ago stood out in this forgotten wasteland like a magnolia afloat in a cattle trough. Even with her runny nose and frumpy clothes.

  Something about her caught my than my eye that day, she caught my interest. And that's not something that's been easy to do lately.

  Especially for a woman.

  The women in my world are a dime a dozen; all wearing the same fashions from the same designers, with the same cosmetic surgeries by the same surgeons, and they all have the same end game: marry rich so they can support their lifestyle.

  Putting together snippets of Rachel's story as she filled out her sugar baby profile in hopes of finding a prince that can sweep her off her feet and get her out of this place got to me. I spent the next 6 hours of that drive thinking about this woman and wondering what the rest of her story was.

  Movement in the front of the restaurant distracts me from my thoughts and pulls my attention in the direction of the front door.

  She's here.

  She looks better than she did when I spotted her in the cafe a few weeks ago.

  Today she's wearing a sweater dress that covers everything, but it clings to her curves like a soft, fuzzy, navy blue skin stopping just above her knees and allowing a glimpse of about 6 inches of leg before the white boots start.

  She looks like a sultry, go-go dancing goddess.

  The last time I saw her, she'd been sick. Her hair had been pulled up in a tangled, haphazard excuse for a bun on top of her head and held there by one of those hair bands better suited for pony tails on school girls.

  If Rachel Ellen Lewis looked like a swan in a flock of pigeons when I spotted her without makeup, with a chapped nose, wearing an ensemble of pajamas and thrift store flannel, she is nothing short of super model material right now as she walks through the narrow aisle between the empty tables and avocado green Naugahyde of the Chinese Sun.

  I'd been hoping she'd let me fly her down to Vegas; put her up in a nice hotel for a few days, feed her some expensive food and take her to a few shows, impress her with flash and cash, get between her thighs, and send her back to her hotel hellhole with maybe a few grand in her pocket to keep her paid up at the Bridge Star till she can find the kind of guy that's actually looking to play knight in shining armor.

  It's the kind of offer most girls in her position would jump at.

  Not Rachel.

  We sat up late on the phone one night when I'd needed a break from the paperwork and my growing curiosity about her had driven me to call just to hear her voice and I listened to the musical tone of her sweet voice telling me she was declining my offer.

  She didn't feel comfortable coming down to Vegas, not knowing me yet, not having any guarantee about whether or not we were going to end up agreeing on an arrangement.

  I wasn't sure what I was thinking when I offered to come meet her here instead.

  I thought I was killing time, procrastinating working on the latest grant proposal maybe. Or that I needed to get another look at her, find out if she matched my memory. Maybe I hoped we'd en
d up back in her room, rolling around on a cheap mattress with broken springs and then she'd be out of my system and I'd be able to get back to work.

  I sure as hell wasn't interested in actually getting into some ridiculous agreement to be anybody's sugar daddy, that's for certain.

  The only reason I went through the process of registering with the Sugarmesweet site was so I could track Rachel down. Once I got her private contact info, I deleted my account.

  That whole sugar bowl lifestyle has never appealed to me. I've got better things to do with my family's money than pay for some chick's Botox.

  "Colter?"

  Her voice is the pure tone of fine crystal being rubbed gently by a moistened finger. The thought is inappropriately visual and goes straight to my cock, making it awkward to stand up to greet her properly.

  Instead I stumble slightly in my attempt to push my chair back and then drop my napkin off the table as I reach to shake her hand, knocking over my water glass in the process and feeling suspiciously like I'm 14 again.

  "So much for impressing you with my sophisticated Richard Gere millionaire skills," I joke as the bus boy wipes up the spilled water and brings me a new napkin.

  "That's OK," her laughter is delicate and there's only a vague trace of humor in it as she takes her seat across the table from me, "I wasn't planning on impressing you with my Julia Roberts hooker skills so now we'll be even."

  I stare at the woman intensely studying her tea-stained menu as I silently return to my seat. I take in the sight of the dark blue, turtle neck sweater dress and the understated jewelry and I remember that this is a professional woman with a college degree.

  She's not on a date. She's on a job interview.

  She's not going to swoon because I wink at her. She's not going to kiss my ass just because I'm rich. She's looking for a very specific relationship and she's not willing to compromise her values to become someone's pet-- or whore.

  It's all in her newly polished profile and it's what she told me when we started talking.

  Of course, it's also the same bullshit I hear all the time from women right before they start throwing themselves at me and my wallet.

  But not Rachel.

  She's set the bar and it's up to me to prove I can measure up.

  "The dumplings are actually really good," she tells me, looking up with a warm smile that's all full lips, blushing cheeks, and deep brown eyes that betray a glimmer of hope despite the tight posture of someone who's already prepared to be turned down for the job. "And they make a pretty mean moo shu, it's Bridgestone's best kept secret, prize-winning Chinese food in the middle of nowhere."

  "I'll have to book the banquet room for the office Christmas party," I tease, daring to flash a smile that I hope isn't threatening.

  Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second before hers fall back to her menu, but the smile that plays shyly at her lips is real.

  While the waitress takes our order, I watch the nervous movement of Rachel's fingers as they worry along the hem of the polyester napkin that remains beside her plate and I know I'm about to become a sugar daddy.

  Rachel

  Shit. I just went into straight up bitch mode over that Richard Gere comment and I think I hurt his feelings.

  The thing is, this sugar baby thing could really help me get a fresh start. I need to play the part better and that means not starting off by insulting my potential new sugar daddy before I even sit down at our first face to face meeting.

  Colter's the first guy that contacted me that didn't immediately turn out to be a total creep. He's been nothing but respectful since his first email and when we've spoken on the phone he's always given nothing but good impressions.

  Speaking of good impressions-- I steal another look at the man across the table from me and try not to be obvious about the internal swooning-- look at this guy! If being a sugar baby requires sex, then at least Colter is highly sexable...unless he's weird.

  Oh my God. What if he's weird?

  Some time after my attempt to smooth over my initial bad impression with the dumpling recommendation and before the order of dumplings arrives, Colter seems to relax and I guess I do too.

  Nothing about him seems weird.

  In fact, Colter seems normal. Well, if smokin' hot, legacy millionaire philanthropists are "normal" in your world.

  They really aren't in mine. Especially lately.

  "So sugar baby, huh?" Colter gives me a polite laugh and offers me the plate of appetizers before sliding 2 of the deep fried pot stickers onto his own plate.

  "Sugar baby." I say emphatically-- but definitely with humor.

  It's not like he doesn't already know that's what we're here to discuss. We've had a few conversations about my situation and how I ended up signing up with the Sugarmesweet website.

  "It's just hard to believe you've had so much trouble getting another job, you know? I mean, it sounds like you're highly qualified."

  "Small town drama." I shrug, "Then I lost the house so even when I found something in Reno, my credit was so jacked up I couldn't get into a place and then..."

  I shrug again, trying to come off as nonchalant about the whole ordeal.

  I'd rather not rehash it in detail here in the Chinese Sun.

  Instead, I break apart my disposable chopsticks and pick up one of the dumplings between the ends of the balsa wood sticks. I frown inwardly as I rethink dipping it directly into the little dish of sauce that the waitress set on the table between us.

  Is that OK? Was I supposed to pour some directly over my dumplings? Is it safe to assume it's meant to be shared? Is that considered double dipping? What is a guy who grew up rich going to think about my admittedly informal table etiquette?

  I dip the damn thing in the sauce like I normally would.

  If it's a deal breaker for him, then I guess it's better to find out sooner rather than later.

  He picks one of his dumplings up by the crimped end with his fingers and dunks it in the sauce after me, then pops the whole thing in his mouth.

  So that's good to know. He's also a casual eater. At least we'll be OK eating together.

  He nods in regards to my plight while he chews.

  "Would you have been able to afford a place on that salary if you'd had a co-signer?" He asks after he swallows.

  Doesn't talk with his mouth full. Also good.

  "Probably not," I admit sullenly. "At least not on a place that would have been safe."

  "So the Bridgestone Star is 'safe?' " He chuckles at the irony.

  "It's not that bad," I insist without much conviction.

  Truth is, there are plenty of shady characters that hang out around the hotel but they're all too busy trying to avoid being noticed to cause much trouble.

  So far, my neighbors have been really good to me.

  "The other long termers at the lodge have been really kind, they kinda look out for me," I say.

  Conversation falls silent momentarily while we wait for the waitress to set down the plates of food we ordered.

  "What other secrets is Bridgestone hiding from the world?" Colter wonders aloud as he digs into the world's best Kung Pao Chicken with his fork after giving his own set of chopsticks a suspicious glare.

  "I'm pretty sure the only other things this place is hiding are better left undiscovered," I answer, making a dent in the plum sauce for the moo shu.

  Colter doesn't answer for a long moment but there's something about the silence on the other side of the table that makes me think it's not because he's busy eating.

  When I look up at him, I find him contemplating me shrewdly with his sweet and sour laden fork poised in mid-air between his plate and his mouth.

  "There's at least one thing."

  The way his eyes fixate on me makes me nervous. Maybe it's the striking, cobalt blue set in the thick, black lashes. Maybe it's the set of his alarmingly square jaw and the way a tiny muscle twitches at the corner of his mouth in a determined sort of look that makes me thi
nk he's the kind of man whose mind does not change once he's made it.

  Or maybe it's something else. Something that isn't visible but is easy to see nonetheless. A heat that rolls off of him and fills my senses with the simultaneous urges to run and touch myself at the same time.

  A hard swallow works its way down my throat and I'm not sure how long I've been watching him stare at me before I realize my lips have fallen open and I'm breathing heavily through my mouth.

  Clearing my throat, I try to smile politely and twirl the long chow mein noodles around my chop sticks while squeezing my thighs together under the table to take my mind off the way everything between them suddenly feels alive and moist.

  "So are you considering offering me an arrangement then?" I query before I take the next bite.

  "No."

  His voice is every bit as confident as mine is not. The vehemence of his answer reverberates off the turquoise walls around us and rips through me like a machete.

  Pulling together my poker face as fast as possible, I nod slowly, doing everything in my power to fight the sting of tears.

  "I'm not considering making you any offers at all, Miss Lewin."

  Colter's voice carries the authority of a man who is used to being in charge. His phone is in his hand and he's already punching in numbers as he tosses his napkin on the table beside his un-used chop sticks and stands to leave.

  "I'm getting you the fuck out of here." He tells me bluntly.

  Then he's back on the phone, heading toward the door.

  "Go ahead and enjoy your lunch." He tells me on his way out, "I'll meet you back at your hotel when you're done."

  My chop sticks drop on my plate with an surprisingly loud clatter as I try to put everything together.

  Holy shit. I think I just become a sugar baby.

  Colter

  It was a decision I made in a heartbeat, without thinking it through first and now I'm tasked with figuring out the best way to help Rachel get back on her feet without confusing our relationship.