I cut through the garden. The party is about to start, but I like to arrive late--even when it’s my own party. Especially when it’s my own party.

My jacket is draped over my shoulder, and my tie is hanging around my neck and beneath the jacket. A button or two are undone, and I can feel the cool Seattle spring air on my chest. I’ll wait for a while by the lake, then I’ll go in.

When I get in view of the bench, I see there’s someone already sitting there. It’s a woman, and her dirty-brown hair is draped softly over her shoulders. The light breeze ruffles her hair just enough so that she doesn’t look like a statue. She’s wearing an old t-shirt and jeans, as if she just wandered in from the lake and had nothing to do with my party.

I walk right up behind her, but she doesn’t turn toward me. She must not hear me, perhaps lost in thought.

When I sit down right next to her, she startles.

“Shit!” she says, her slim hand instinctively flinging to her heart in shock.

Her chocolate-brown eyes, still gaping wide in astonishment, lock on mine. She looks...not beautiful exactly. At least not in the traditional sense of the word. Freckles dot her nose, which makes her look almost girlish.

She notices my jacket and tie and smiles. “Oh, you’re a bartender for this party, too? So that’s the uniform the guys get to wear?” She nods towards my jacket.

Her smile reveals a slightly crooked front tooth that juts out a bit more than the others, but her brilliant smile really lights up her eyes. The calm that washes over her when she realizes that I’m just a bartender, makes her somehow even more intriguing. Has she really never seen a photo of me before? I can’t count the number of times I’ve graced the covers of magazines or been the focus of the latest celebrity gossip rumors. Dusk is falling and it’s getting dark, but she should still recognize me.

“Yeah,” I lie, pointing to her t-shirt. “Where’s your uniform?”

I don’t know why I’m lying to her about who I am, but coming right out and saying, “No, actually, I’m Liam Lions,” would probably scare her off, and I--for whatever reason--want to keep talking to her.

“Oh, I’m just killing a few more minutes before I need to report,” she says. “Just chilling out here in this absolutely gorgeous garden and pretending like it’s my own backyard.”

I chuckle “That would be something, yeah?”

“Hell, yeah,” she says. “Can you imagine? You come out here with a $100 bottle of wine like it’s nothing, look out over the lake without a care in the world...even if you totally messed up everything and lost, like, $100 million that afternoon, you’re still rich at the end of the day. Not a care in the world.”

I stifle a laugh. She thinks $100 is a lot to pay for a bottle of wine? “That would be something,” I say in agreement.

People who aren’t rich never understand that it’s not as care-free of an existence as they think. I have a lot more to lose than most people do, and not just money.

“I heard Liam Lions is a jackass,” I say pointedly, grinning.

“Of course he is,” she says, without hesitation. “Imagine having a birthday party and hiring an assistant to hire people to pour drinks for you. How far removed can you get from the common man?”

“I suppose,” I say, pretending to ponder her comment, “that you could hire an assistant to manage the assistant...to hire a head bartender, who would then hire the other bartenders--”

She laughs. “Okay, fine, you got me there. My point still stands.”

Why would I hire each individual bartender when James is perfectly capable of doing it? I’m a successful businessman precisely because I make efficient use of my time and resources. Do I really care if the bartenders think I’m a jackass or not?

I glance down at my watch without moving my wrist, and I realize that she’s at least five minutes late now. I decide not to say anything. I want to her reaction when she realizes it.

“Would you get a yacht?” I ask.

“What?” she says.

“If you were a billionaire, would you buy a yacht?”

She shrugs. “It’s pointless to think about it. If I was the Queen of England, would I abolish the monarchy?”

“What?” I ask.

“Me becoming the Queen of England and needing to decide whether or not to abolish the monarchy is equally as unlikely to happen as my needing to think about whether or not I’d buy a yacht,” she says matter-of-factly.

“All right,” I say. “Let’s bring it down a notch then. If you were handed a million bucks, what would you do with it?”

A big smile lights up her face. I can’t help but notice she looks really pretty when she smiles. Despite her flawed features. “Okay,” she says. “Now we are talking. It’s not like that would ever happen either, but I can at least dream about this what-if.”

“With only a million dollars, the yacht is off the table,” I say.

“I don’t care about yachts,” she says, with a swipe of her hand. “If I had a million dollars...I think the smartest thing for me to do would be to invest it.”

I yawn.

“Come on!” she says. “It’s true.”

“Agreed,” I say. “But we’re dreaming here, not being smart.”

“Then I’d buy a really nice apartment,” she says. “Close to downtown, splurge on a two-bedroom or something roomy...”

Jesus, she really is poor.

“Nothing like this place,” she says, looking back and pointing to my house. “It would be way out of my millionaire price range. Anyway, the apartment would use up most of my cash, but I’d never have to pay rent again.”

“You’d have to pay a bunch of fees, though” I say. “It would be similar to paying rent.”

“I thought we were dreaming,” she says, shoving me by the shoulder.

She looks over at me. “Damn, you’re strong.”

I smile. “I work out.”

“Don’t know where you get time for that,” she says sarcastically. “I’m always busting my ass bartending, clawing for tips so I can pay my damn rent. That’s why I want to own the place. Even if I have a slow month, I can just eat ramen noodles, but at least I’ve still got a roof over my head.”

I glance at my watch again. She’s fifteen minutes late now. If I let her go any longer, James will probably fire her.

I bring my wrist up, and suddenly I worry she’s going to see how expensive my watch is. But then I realize she probably couldn’t tell a LeCoultre from a Rolex. Hell, she probably even thinks a Rolex is expensive.

“Shit!” she says. “What time is it?”

“It’s 9:15,” I say.

“Shit!” She jumps up off the bench like it was on fire. “We are so late!”

I pop up my collar and start to wrap my tie around it. “I’m not,” I say, smiling. “I’m already checked in with James and dressed. You’re late.”

She races down the path and disappears into the garden. I laugh as I finish doing my tie and put on my jacket.

I’ll have to call James to make sure he goes easy on her. Especially since I’m going to have a fun time going up to her later and ordering a drink--after she realizes who I am. I’m not a total asshole, though; I’ll tip generously to make up for my dishonesty.