“She’s not my woman,” Andrew argues, fierce and clear suddenly.
I hold up my palms and give him some respect. “Sure. Fine.”
He stands up from the tall stool at the long counter that separates my kitchen from the open-concept living room. The counter is one enormous piece of sliced tree, varnished and polished to a high shine, with evenly-spaced lamps that hang from the ceiling, elongated, hand-blown glass from an artisan out in Shelburne Falls near the Berkshires.
I had nothing to do with any of these choices. That’s what interior designers are for. But as Andrew stands he bangs his head on one of the glass lamp shades and it goes swinging like Jeffrey at a Little League game, up at bat and whiffing out with majestic grandeur.
I catch the globe as Andrew shakes it out of its coupling, saving it from hitting the mature wood and shattering into thousands of tiny slivers that would bedevil me for months and consign me to no bare feet.
“Nice reflexes.”
“That’s what she said.”
Without a word, Andrew staggers to the couch and stretches out. He groans, then says, “That is the most overdone joke. If another guy says that in a business meeting I’m going to zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.”
And he’s out.
If I were the warm, loving, caring kind of brother who nurtured Andrew and really wanted what was best for him, I’d rouse him and make him sleep in the guest bedroom. His neck is bent at an angle and he’s going to wake up dehydrated, with a pounding head and a nasty spasm.
Or two. I’m pretty sure that torch he’s carrying for Amanda is damn heavy.
Instead, I grab a fleece blanket from the closet and toss it over him, turning out the lights. The hanging lamp still rocks back and forth, millimeter by millimeter, the only movement in my apartment.
I finish my beer, the soundtrack of my life right now the heavy breath of Andrew in slumber. If I want to listen to someone almost snore, I’d prefer they be naked, spooned against me, generous ass a half-promise for more nookie in the morning, and protesting that she doesn’t snore as we go for round four as dawn breaks.
Instead, I get my drunk power-broker little brother blathering on about my girlfriend’s best friend and a single kiss from fourteen months ago. How is it that one woman can turn us into idiots when hundreds...er, tens...can flow through our lives without attachment?
I take stock of the night.
First, the Period Errand. Then the Asshole Boyfriend Summit.
And, finally, the Bromigod. As oh, my God, what is going on with my brother? Because what the hell was that? My night started with a group of weepy lovesick women and ended with a weepy lovesick man.
Can this day be over?
Fuck it. I declare it over, walking into my empty bedroom, stripping down naked and crawling between cold sheets that don’t make any sense.
Luckily, sleep doesn’t have to.
Chapter Thirteen
Something feels off. I sit up, moonlight streaming through the expanse of glass behind my headboard, the ticking silence of the middle of the night grey and ethereal. My mouth is dry and my skin tingles with danger.
My own home isn’t safe.
Clicking sounds in the distance pierce my closed bedroom door. I quietly open my closet and pull out the aluminum baseball bat I store in there for moments like this.
Whatever this is.
Later, I realize I should have called 911. But when you’re in the haze of being woken by a home invasion, you don’t think clearly.
Besides, evolution has primed me for this very moment. Testosterone oozes out of my pores. This is a moment men imagine from the time they’re small little beasts with superhero capes and nerf guns.
Defending our turf.
Quiet as a ninja, I walk on the balls of my feet, opening my bedroom door and proceeding down the hall. Andrew is silent, too, his feet hanging off the end of my couch, the blanket pooled on the floor beneath him. His mouth is open and he’s drooling a little, my nice leather sleek and shiny in the moonlight.
He’s useless against the seven-foot, muscled cat burglar who is obviously here to steal my soul and my valuable electronics.
My eyes dart to the door, where an inch of light from the hallway peeks in, illuminating the library table where I dump my mail.
A knee appears, with a shiny high heel at the foot.
Interesting cat burglar.
Then more knee. A thigh. Hips that make hot blood pound through me, the rest of Shannon entering the room on tiptoes. She rotates and closes the door with such precision I start to wonder if she breaks into people’s houses for a living.
I flatten myself against the wall where she can’t see me, and slowly set the baseball bat on a small wool area rug. We’re both creeping around my apartment in silence, but for very different reasons now.
She cuts behind the couch and stands in front of the breakfast bar, slipping off her trench coat.
Oh, sweet merciful universe.
She is naked except for the high heels.
Merry Christmas in August.
Those come-fuck-me pumps are candy apple red and scream out my name. No, really. I can hear them, tiny little voices that only my now-rising-to-the-occasion little head can hear. It’s like those shoes communicate on a radio frequency that my testicles can tune into.
And...I’m at attention.
What is she doing here?
“Shannon?” I whisper, stepping out into the moonlight, hoping I don’t scare her.
She startles and freezes, hand on one breast over her heart. Her hair is loose and flowing, and she’s curled it. She painted her face, eyes big and bright, lips red and stunning.
She shifts her weight to one hip, eager and a little shy, but also bold.
“Let’s make up,” she says, squaring her shoulders.
Andrew’s head pops up from the other side of the couch and he gapes at Shannon. “Dec? You hired a stripper? I knew you and Shannon were on the outs, but damn, man, you can’t just—”
“AAAAIIIIEEEEEEEE!” Shannon screams. If this whole marrying a billionaire and working in Corporate America thing doesn’t work for her, she has a future in horror films.
“Are you naked?” Andrew asks me, hair standing on end like a Yorkshire terrier that got into a fight with a glue gun. “Dude, put your junk away. I don’t need to see that,” he adds with disgust.
I stand my ground, planting my hands on my hips and making sure my junk is right there.
“My house. My junk. Don’t like it? Too bad.”
“AAAAIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE,” Shannon continues, diving behind the kitchen counter and managing to grab her trench coat at the same time. Her little red heels skitter on the marble tile like cockroaches fleeing the light.
I know I should pay attention to her but if I look at her my junk will respond. And if my junk responds, Andrew will have yet more fodder for making fun of me, and given a choice between responding to Shannon’s naked form and giving Andrew rope to hang me with, I—
Wait a minute.
What the hell am I doing?
“Now I know why Dad picked me to be CEO,” Andrew says with a snicker as he rubs his eyes and stares at my—
“Hey!” Shannon shouts, stopping her screaming. “James isn’t that shallow.”
Andrew and I just snort.
“Well, okay,” she backpedals. “But quit with the penith wars.”
“Besides,” Andrew says, standing and reaching for his belt buckle. His voice is a bit slurred. “Shannon can’t really judge who’s got the bigger one until she sees—”
“DUCK!” I shout at Shannon, who maddeningly just stands there, snorting, eyes on Andrew.
“Let the better man win,” Andrew continues.
“Keep your pants on, bro,” I say in a deadly voice. If he goes there, he’ll leave me no choice. “And you,” I say to Shannon. “Didn’t you hear me? Duck!”
“Quack quack,” she says, eyes on Andrew’s hands as he unbuckles and unbuttons.
“Shannon!”
She shrugs. In that moment, she looks exactly like her mother.
She gives me no choice. He doesn’t, either, because now I see his Calvin Klein-like form as he pulls his pants down and—
I tackle my own brother.
“Your junk is touching me!” he squeals. We’re wrestling on the ground now, the button of his jeans scraping against my arm. I grab at his belt buckle to pull his pants up.
“That’s what she said,” Shannon mumbles.
Andrew stops cold.
“No. Just....no. Can we put that joke to bed?”
“We need to put you to bed,” I growl.
“That’s not some kinky offer for a threesome, is it? Because, dude, I’m not into that—”
I jump off him and go into the kitchen for a beer or a cyanide tablet. Whichever I find first.
“Of all the times not to have a spray bottle,” she says. “You two are being ridiculous.”
“Andrew’s being drunk,” I declare, pouring myself a double shot of Pisco and giving it a quick death down my throat.
“I’m not drunk,” Andrew shouts as he grabs the television remote and tries to swipe the buttons. “Hey! What happened to my phone? It’s broken. I need to get a ride home.”
Shannon stands and pulls a phone out of her boobs. It’s like watching a magician pull a rabbit out of a hat, because she’s naked and wearing only a trench coat.
“Which driver is it tonight?” She knows how our limo service works.
“Gerald.”
“Calling now. He needs to leave.” She holds up a finger as the call goes through and within twenty seconds Gerald’s on his way. “And,” she adds, “So do I.” She reaches into her trench coat and grasps her car keys.
No.
NO.
“If we’re riding in the same limo,” Andrew says as he struggles to button up, “do you mind if we stop at that twenty-four hour Greek place? I’m starving. And my head feels like someone dropped a forklift on it.”
He slumps down on the couch and is snoring in seconds.
Shannon looks at him with a pained expression as she clutches her coat closed. Her phone has magically disappeared. Her eyes turn to me, slowly cataloguing the landscape of my body. I don’t mind. This is the first chance we’ve had to talk since Andrew so rudely interrupted us, and as she looks at me, taking in my legs, then hips, then the part that reacts to all this attention (that would be my heart, you gutter-minded naughty beast...), I remember that she started this second act of our night with the phrase “Let’s make up.”
“You came over to—” I almost say “apologize” but realize that would be a catastrophic mistake.
“To try to mend things,” she replies in a quiet voice. Distracted. She’s really watching me. I have no self-confidence issues, no self-consciousness being naked around her. Around anyone, really. You play enough sports at a prep school and in college and you get used to being nude around other people. It’s a kind of armor. Being shy gives people the impression that you have something to hide. Something to be ashamed of. Something to pick on.
I look down at my own body, eyes crawling over the same flesh she’s observing.
Nothing to be ashamed of here.
From the look on Shannon’s face, she seems to agree.
“I’m sorry,” I say with a slow sigh, realizing I’m the one who has to cross the gap. After all, she snuck into my apartment in the dead of night wearing nothing but a coat and high heels.
That’s the male equivalent of the best apology ever. She doesn’t need words.
Her eyes don’t meet mine. They’re stuck somewhere on my hips, looking at my ass.
I tighten it.
Her eyes widen, pupils dilating.
Hold on.
I thought women weren’t aroused sexually from visual cues. Has Men’s Health been lying to me all these years? Esquire, too? All those magazines I’ve been stuck reading in doctor’s offices or international business lounges with crappy wifi say the same thing: women are slower to warm up. Women aren’t aroused by images and videos. Men are programmed to be turned on by what they see, women by what they feel emotionally.
A lovely red flush covers Shannon’s face and chest as she finally drags her eyes to meet mine.
I’m about to marry an outlier.
Attagirl.
Then: Bzzzzz.
Shannon’s breasts vibrate. She reaches in and grabs her phone, holding up the screen.
“Gerald’s here.”
“Please stay,” I beg as Gerald knocks on the door.
Panic fills her face. “Shouldn’t you put on a robe?” She reaches into her coat and buttons something, then tightens the sash around her waist.
Now she looks like any other businesswoman on the street in the Financial District. Except for the sexy shoes.
I look down at my body. “Why? Gerald’s seen it.” To prove a point, I go to the front door and open it. Gerald’s standing there, face impassive.
“Evening, Mr. McCormick,” he says, looking past me. “Is your brother ready?”
Gerald doesn’t even twitch at my nakedness.
Shannon, however, grabs my arm and drags me into my bedroom.
“You can’t do that to people!” she hisses, rifling through my bathroom and coming out with a blue robe she gave me for Christmas.
“Do what?”
“Be naked in front of them.”
“You don’t like it when I’m naked in front of you?”
“Not me. Andrew. Gerald.”
“Andrew came over last night, ate period food, got drunk and cried about Amanda half the night, passed out on my couch and suggested a threesome. I can do whatever the hell I want to do in front of Andrew, Shannon.”
“But poor Gerald!” Her eyes narrow. “Wait. Period food? Cried about Amanda?”
I ignore that part. “Poor Gerald is a sculptor when he’s not driving a limo. I’ve been a model for him before.”
“Quit making stuff up!”
“I’m not. I don’t lie, Shannon.” We’re veering into very explosive territory now.
“I didn’t say you were lying. It’s just...unnerving. How you feel like you own the world.”
Ah. That’s what this is about. A flash of our very first dinner together courses through me, turning from image and memory to blood and bone.
“You’re upset with me because I feel like I have the right to have my own opinions and to be confident in them.” I don’t phrase it as a question.
“Sometimes you don’t think about how other people will feel when you—”
“Because I don’t.”
“You don’t care?”
“I don’t think about other people when I’m doing or saying something that is true to myself.”
Confusion clouds her face. “That’s so...”
I reach for her hands, my warmth in stark contrast to her chilly fingers. Maybe I can transfer some certainty along with a little heat. “It’s not that I don’t care about other people’s feelings. It’s that I don’t think about other people when I’m making a decision about who I am.”
“There’s a difference?”
Her question hangs in the air between us.
“Mr. McCormick?” Gerald calls out. “I have your brother ready to go. Is Ms. Jacoby coming as well?”
My eyes burn, matched by her intensity as we look at each other.
“Please stay,” I ask, turning away and walking out to where Gerald has Andrew drinking a cup of coffee, leaning against the wall in front of the main door.
He grunts a hello and stares at his cup.
“You need help?” I ask Gerald, eying Andrew with skepticism. He’s got more muscle on him than you’d think, and when it’s deadweight...
“No, he’s fine.” I hear Shannon’s shoes click clack on my floor behind me. Gerald eyes me in my robe, then looks at Shannon. He’s smarter than he looks, but that’s because he looks like a pile of lightly-baked bread dough shoved t
ogether to form a human being. You’d never guess a guy that big and burly has the heart of an artist in him.
“I don’t need a ride home,” Shannon says quietly, her hand pressing into my shoulder, rubbing in circles over the terrycloth robe.
I relax.
Gerald’s face changes into what passes for a smile. He looks like bread that’s split down the center and baked. “As long as you’re fine, then. And Mr. McCormick?”
Andrew and I both answer, “Yes?”
Gerald eyes Andrew up and down. “I meant Declan.” He looks at me. “We’re starting a new session for nudes next month. If you’re not traveling too much, the class would really appreciate having you model again.”
“Again?” Shannon says, clearing her throat pointedly.
Andrew’s just staring at his cup of coffee like it’s the Oracle of Delphi.
“Sure,” I answer. “Just call Grace and set it up for me.”
“Will do.” And with that, Andrew and Gerald are gone and I’m blissfully alone with a woman who is looking at me like she just caught me with lipstick on my collar and a blow up doll with painted lips.
“You’re a nude model for art classes?”
“In my spare time.” I try disarming her with my most charming smile.
I fail. “I am supposed to be your spare time. You barely have time for dinner most weeks, but you can prance around naked in front of a bunch of men and women who use their hands to recreate your ass—” She continues her nagging, but that’s all I really needed to hear.
Ah, jealousy.
It cures so many ills.
Women hate jealousy in their men. Oh, they want a touch of it—just enough to feel wanted. Special. Craved.
Men, on the other hand, love it when their women get jealous.
It means we get more sex.
Makes no sense, but there it is. As Shannon’s heated rebuke continues I try to hide my self-satisfied (she would call it smug) smile, but I fail.
“Don’t laugh at me!”
I grab the sash of her coat and yank it open, pulling wide the two sides of the coat with a snap that sends her buttons flying.
“Dec! What are you doing?”
Oh, I think it’s clear what I’m doing.
I pull her coat off, drop my robe, and pick her up in my arms.
Girl Meets Billionaire Page 149