Billie - Part 1

It started, as these things often seem to, with something completely ordinary.

A hotel bar. Low lights. Polished wood. Glasses catching the amber glow from the shelves behind the bartender. That soft kind of music that seems chosen specifically, so no one has to speak too loudly.

Tom and I had dressed for dinner, but we weren't quite ready to go in yet. We had that lovely holiday feeling where time doesn't really matter, and one drink can easily become two because there is nowhere else you have to be.

I was wearing my burgundy dress. The one Tom likes because, according to him, it looks classy from a distance and dangerous up close.

His words, not mine.

Although I may have chosen it because of that comment.

We had just ordered another drink when a woman approached the small cocktail table beside us. She was lovely, dark hair, nervous eyes that suggested she was trying to be braver than she felt, wearing a flowing skirt that moved like water when she walked.

"Is this seat taken?" she asked, gesturing to the empty chair at our table. "The bar seems terribly full."

"Please," Tom said, standing slightly because of course he did. He has that old-fashioned habit when he's in a certain mood. Charming, polished, just dangerous enough. "I'm Tom, and this is Anne."

"Billie," she said, settling into the chair with a relieved sigh. "Thank you. I'm not used to being alone, and suddenly being surrounded by couples..." She laughed self-consciously. "It's a bit much."

I asked about her husband as I could see she was married. Billie replied, "He went out drinking with his mates on a boy’s night out, i.e. no wives allowed and that meant he wouldn't be back until tomorrow afternoon. He did tell me that I could entertain myself in any way I wanted."

"Well, that means it could be liberating," I said, smiling at her. "Or lonely. Depending on the night."

She met my eyes, and I saw something there. Curiosity. That moment when someone realises there may be a little more beneath the surface than they first thought.

Tom saw it too. Of course he did.

But he didn't rush. That was the thing about Tom, the thing that made him different. He could sit with a woman and simply see her. Not scan her, not assess her, but truly see. He asked Billie about her work, and when she mentioned she was a florist, he didn't just nod politely. He leaned in.

"Flowers require patience," he said, his voice warm as honey. "You can't rush a bloom. You have to create the right conditions and then... wait. Trust that beauty will emerge when it's ready."

Billie's cheeks flushed slightly. "I never thought of it that way."

"Most people don't," Tom said. "They want instant results. But the best things in life, the ones worth having, they require time. Attention. The willingness to be present."

I watched her soften under his gaze. It wasn't a line. Tom genuinely believed this. He lived it.

We started with the usual holiday questions. Where are you from? We were pleased to discover she was from Melbourne, a lovely coincidence to meet another Australian so far from home. But Tom kept drawing her out, asking about her favourite gardens, the flowers she loved most, the way the light hit petals in the early morning.

"You're a romantic," Billie said to him, her voice carrying wonder.

"I prefer to think of it as being awake," Tom replied. "Too many people sleepwalk through their lives. They miss the beauty right in front of them."

His eyes held hers just a moment longer than necessary. Not leering. Appreciating.

They talked. God, how they talked. Tom asked about her marriage, but he asked it differently than most people would. He didn't ask if she was happy. He asked what she was building together.

"We're comfortable," Billie said, and something in her tone suggested she knew that word was both compliment and criticism. "We have our routines. Our patterns. It's safe."

"Safe," Tom repeated, tasting the word. "There's value in safety. But comfort and aliveness aren't always the same thing, are they?"

Billie met his eyes, surprised again by his perception. "No," she admitted. "They're not."

Tom nodded, as if she'd confirmed something he suspected. "My mother used to say that a garden left untended doesn't die all at once. It simply... stops growing. The soil is still good. The roots are still there. But nothing new blooms."

He reached for her hand then, not to hold it possessively, but to trace the lines of her palm with his fingertip, a touch that felt like reading rather than claiming. "I think you've been tending everyone's garden but your own, Billie. And some part of you is wondering what might bloom if you gave yourself permission to find out."

She didn't pull her hand away. "Is it wrong? To want to know?"

"Wrong?" Tom smiled, warm and wicked and infinitely kind. "It's the most honest thing a person can admit. That they want to feel alive. That they're curious what else might be possible." He released her hand slowly, letting his fingers drift across her wrist before retreating. "Curiosity isn't betrayal, Billie. It's courage."

"Are you heading into dinner soon?" he asked her.

"I was thinking about it," Billie said. "Though dining alone..." She made a face.

Tom glanced towards the restaurant, then back to her.

"There's a table by the window that's just opened up," he said. "Why don't we all continue this over dinner? Three is more interesting than two, and conversation with strangers often becomes the memory you treasure most."

It was said casually, but I know Tom. There was nothing casual about it.

Billie looked at me, as if seeking confirmation that this was safe, that I wasn't threatened.

I smiled, warm, genuine, inviting.

This could be beautiful.

So, we went.

The restaurant was intimate, with candles on the tables and just enough space between diners to feel private without being hidden. Tom somehow arranged us at a round table, which meant everyone was close enough that knees and hands and glances could accidentally become part of the evening.

Except with Tom, very little is truly accidental.

He sat beside Billie.

I sat across from them, where I could watch them both.

Tom ordered wine for us, but he asked Billie what she preferred. "I don't want to assume," he said. "Your pleasure matters."

Such a simple sentence. But the way he said it, direct, unashamed, focused entirely on her, made Billie's breath catch.

Then, beneath the table, I saw it happen. Tom's hand found her knee. But it wasn't grabby or presumptuous. He simply rested it there, warm and heavy, a question more than a claim.

Billie paused. Only for half a second.

Her eyes flicked down, then back up again. She didn't pull away.

Tom's fingers moved up, slowly, deliberately. Not dramatically. Not crudely. Tom doesn't do crude. He does invitation. Suggestion. May I?

Billie's cheeks coloured slightly, and I watched her carefully. There was never any jealousy between Tom and me. I would call it being proud instead.

And then I noticed the change in Billie. There is a difference between someone being uncomfortable and someone discovering they are very, very interested.

Billie was the second one.

Tom's face remained perfectly composed. He continued their conversation about favourite books as if he weren't slowly tracing circles on her inner thigh.

Then he looked at me.

Just once.

That was all it took.

The look said, she’s lovely, isn't she? Shall we show her how it could be?

And yes, I wanted.

I reached across the table and took Billie's hand. "You have beautiful hands," I said softly. "May I see them?"

She offered them, and I turned them over, stroking her palms with my thumbs. "Soft," I murmured. "You take care of yourself."

"Thank you," she whispered, her eyes wide.

I held her hands a moment longer, then released them slowly, letting my fingers trail along her wrists. "Tom is very good at reading people," I said. "He knew within minutes that you were special."

"How could he know that?" Billie asked.

Tom answered for me, his voice low and intimate. "Because you leaned in when I spoke about patience. Because your eyes lit up when Anne asked about your work. Because you're here, alone, but you haven't retreated. You're curious. Brave. That's rare, Billie. And it's beautiful."

Billie looked at me, questioning, checking that this was allowed, that I approved.

I reached across the table and touched her cheek, just briefly, just enough to say yes, you're safe, this is welcome.

That was the moment she relaxed completely. Not because she had been worried, exactly, but because there is something beautiful about being given permission without having to ask for it.

Consent can be spoken.

It can also be a hand on your cheek across candlelight.

Tom must have felt it too, because his expression softened for a moment. Then that wicked look returned, the one that promised pleasure without demanding it.

"Shall we continue this upstairs?" he asked, his voice smooth and warm. "Anne and I have a suite. There's no pressure, of course. Just another drink, perhaps. A little game."

Billie looked at me again.

I leaned closer to her and said softly, "Tom does like to play. But he plays to make everyone win. I think you might enjoy letting him teach you."

That made her laugh.

It broke the tension in exactly the right way.

We paid the bill and discovered, with far too much delighted amusement, that Billie's room was right beside ours.

Adjacent rooms.

Pure coincidence.

Although by then the night already had that strange feeling of fate about it.

Tom opened the door to our suite and let us all step inside first. He had left the lamps low, and there was a bottle of wine on the side table from earlier. The sitting area looked warm and inviting, with a small table and three chairs. But instead of a board game, Tom produced a simple deck of cards from his jacket pocket.

"Do you play?" he asked Billie, shuffling them with practiced ease.