by Julia Kent
Twenty-four new text messages. TWENTY-FOUR. Whoa. I am never that popular. Who did I blow last night?
Chapter Two
I cringe. Oh, God. What if I really did…?
Fifteen text messages are from Steve:
How long have you been dating him?
Was this a one-night stand?
Do you miss me?
I miss you.
I miss Chuckles. How is he?
Things ended badly and I think we need to talk.
Jessica was joking about that bank account thing.
I’m not into Jessica at all.
Are you exclusive with him?
How are Marie and Jason? Jason still golf on Saturday mornings?
I forgive you.
I shouldn’t have ended things like that.
I’ve changed.
You haven’t changed a bit. And I like that about you.
Please call me.
Seven text messages were from Mom:
Don’t forget condoms.
But if you do, there are worse things than getting knocked up by a billionaire. Think of the child support payments.
Your father’s having bad gas. Don’t marry a man with an irritable bowel.
But a billionaire with an irritable bowel is an exception.
Does Declan have a brother for Amy?
If you get to fly in a helicopter, have sex in it. Mile-High Club. Whee!
I am on my third Lime Rickey and your father says I need to stop thinking about billionaire grandchildren.
One is from Amanda:
Stop thinking about Steve.
One is from Declan:
I’m bringing “both” to your place on Friday. Six o’clock. See you then.
My mind scrambles to remember the day. Tuesday. It’s Tuesday. He attaches a picture of strawberries the size of my fist, dipped in chocolate. Dark and milk. But not white, which is a sign from the universe that he is The One, because white chocolate is the jackalope of chocolate.
I read all of these aloud to my pity groupies, who suddenly can’t pity poor Shannon with the sad little life. How do you respond to knowing I’m being pursued by Steve the Ladder Climber and Declan the Almost-Billionaire Hot Guy? They look confused.
I want to kill all of them except Declan. When did Chuckles become the good person in my life?
“You guys sent me these texts? Seriously?” I grouse.
Amy rushes back to the bedroom but calls out behind her, “Not me!” The espresso machine begins hissing. So does Chuckles. He gives Mom and Amanda an evil eye that makes old Italian grandmas flinch.
“I was worried about you!” Mom argues.
“You’re getting a turkey neck, Mom,” I snap.
She shrieks back, “Now you’re just being vindictive!” Chuckles lifts his palm like he’s giving me a high-five. If my mouth didn’t feel like wet sand and my head like a blow-up doll being inflated by a horny, newly released ex-con after serving twenty years, I’d high-five him right back. Then again, that didn’t go so well when Amy tried, so…
“And texting me about having a billionaire baby when I’m on a business meeting isn’t?” If I have to use much more energy to speak I’ll need more coffee.
“I was wishing you well.”
“You want designer grandchildren.”
“Is that so bad?”
Amanda is trying not to laugh, so I pick on her next. “And you! Some best friend. I refuse to hold your hand on those same-sex-marriage mortgage shops next week.”
“What the hell did I do wrong? I just told you not to be an idiot and let your squishy inner self go soft on Steve.”
“Too late,” I mutter. She gives me an eye roll that I take as a warning. A girlfriend lecture is coming soon, the kind where I just say, “I know, I know,” over and over and she tries in earnest to get me to realize that I don’t have to let him treat me like a doormat. Like the movie Groundhog Day, only I never actually learn from my mistakes.
This is why I have sworn off men.
Mom’s face goes three shades of pale. “Same sex what? Amanda, did you just say same-sex marriage? I thought Shannon was dating a billionaire now! A male one!” That look of horror Mom had earlier when I made the AARP comment pales in comparison to how she looks now.
Let me explain: for years, Mom assumed I was gay because I didn’t like makeup, didn’t date men, and because I enjoyed visiting my friends in Northampton, the current lesbian capital of the world.
The only reason she would disapprove of my being gay is that the Farmington Country Club technically has not allowed a gay wedding just yet. Which is why I will never get married there, even if I do marry a billionaire. Not because I’m gay. Because I think everyone, regardless of sexual orientation, should have an equal opportunity to be tortured by their mother into a wedding designed not to celebrate the nuptials of two people in love, but to allow the mother of the bride(s) to prance in all her glory and to scream hot-faced about the ribbons on the table centerpieces being the wrong shade of hot pink and to worry obsessively that Uncle Marty will ask the band to play “Stairway to Heaven” at the reception.
If you can survive that, you are meant for each other for eternity.
“One of the credit unions we do mystery shopping for has a bunch of evaluations where same-sex, legally married couples go into credit unions and apply for mortgages jointly. We’re evaluating for discrimination,” Amanda explains to Mom.
“With her credit score?” Mom says, pointing and laughing at me. “Shannon’s never met a credit card she didn’t like.”
That is so not true…anymore. I had my crazy credit-card spree days and I’m over that now. Loan payments on $50,000 in student debt will do that to you.
“And you have to go in and pretend to be married to each other?” Mom asks, skeptical. She squints one eye like she’s sizing us up to be measured for wedding gowns.
“Yes,” I say.
She looks at Amanda like I’m not even in the room. “Are you the man or the woman?”
“What?” Amanda and I say in unison.
“You know…tops and bottoms. Are you the top or the bottom, Amanda?” Mom looks at us like she’s asked whether we prefer pink roses or red roses, as if normal people ask whether hypothetical lesbians have a positioning preference.
“Your mother is so much better than mine,” I tell Amanda as I turn and look at her with a Please make it stop look. “She can’t even say the words ‘toilet paper’ in public conversation.”
“What does she call it?” Mom asks, fascinated.
“By the brand name, whatever she’s using,” Amanda explains.
“What does toilet paper have to do with lesbians and which one wears the strap-on?” Mom asks.
“OUT!” I bellow. “Get out of my room!”
“Why would you be offended by that, Shannon? Women use sex toys all the time, and I don’t mean just the lesbians,” Mom says.
I crawl out of bed and sit up, my head trying to secede from the rest of my body. “I really don’t want to talk about this,” I moan.
“I’ll bet if I checked your bedside drawer I’d find a stash,” Mom says. Her eyes flick over to my nightstand. I freeze.
“Don’t you dare,” I hiss.
“Moooooooom,” Amy calls out as she comes back in the room. “That’s another nine or ten therapy sessions you have to pay for if you go rifling around in Shannon’s drawer looking for rabbits and bullets.”
“What do bunnies and guns have to do with sex toys?” Mom looks at Amy like she’s crazy.
Amanda is now laughing so hard I think her intestines are twisting.
“You can go with Amanda when she does seven ‘marital aids’ shops next week,” I add, using my fingers for quote marks around “marital aids.”
“Why this?” Mom asks, mimicking me. “They are marital aids! You try sleeping with the same man for thirty-two years. It gets boring really fast. And there are only so many times you can play ‘The Pirate and
the Maiden.’”
Amanda stops laughing abruptly.
Mom pats her hand. “I would love to come with you. Do we have to act like lesbians, though? Because if I’m going to walk into a sex-toy store, I’d prefer to come out of there with something Jason would enjoy, too. He’s getting adventurous, but a double-headed dildo might make him run screaming from me.”
My stomach gurgles in the ensuing silence, turning from a light groan of hunger to a disturbing warning of pending sickness. My sprint to the bathroom makes my head pound, but the cool tile of the floor soothes me, calming me instantly.
That’s right. A mother’s hand on my clammy forehead should help, but instead she’s out there talking about my dad and sex toys while my bathroom floor gives me more comfort.
A few minutes pass and I realize I still have a job. Work calls, and while I could probably text Greg and beg off for the day, I think getting back to work is better. I drag myself into the bedroom and Mom looks me up and down, opening her mouth to say something.
Amy appears to shoo them all into the kitchen for good, the quiet click of my bedroom doorknob giving me assurance.
I don’t want to talk about last night.
I want to savor it. Not the Ice Queen part, or the Steve part, but the Declan part.
Okay, a little of the Steve part, because how awesome is it to be found in the most exclusive restaurant in Boston and 1) not be on a mystery shop and choose to eat whatever I want 2) be there with one of Boston’s most eligible bachelors and wealthiest men and 3) be found by your smug ex-boyfriend who dumped you for not being able to fit in with people like…your date?
Pretty damn awesome.
The vortex of swirling emotion inside me isn’t just hangover nausea. It’s overwhelm. Emotional overwhelm with a heaping side of disbelief. Declan McCormick wants me. He kissed me. He texted me for a date in four days. With strawberries. And chocolate. And hopefully more kisses, less Steve, and definitely no Jessica.
The only thing better than Steve finding me in Declan’s arms would have been having Jessica right next to him.
A plume of jealousy fills the air like a skunk on a spraying spree. I feel like Wolverine and take a sip of coffee to calm myself. If metal claws slid out from under my knuckles right now, I wouldn’t be surprised. This kind of jealousy is completely new for me. Uncharted territory. A wash of emotion so tidal-wave-like in its enormity that it makes my chest tighten, my heart stop beating for a split second, and my vision blur a bit.
Or maybe that’s still the hangover.
Three deep breaths and two hot sips of coffee later and I can definitively state that nope—that’s jealousy.
The memory of her hand on Declan’s arm fills me with red rage. It dissipates fast, but the lingering shock of being affected like this remains, hotter than my cup of joe and lingering like a bad houseguest.
I don’t do jealousy.
Sure you don’t, an annoying voice in my head says. And you don’t do revenge fantasies, either.
My coffee stays down through sheer force of will as a spit-take threatens my duvet cover.
I am not the revenge-fantasy type. Sure, I’ve daydreamed about Steve having huge regrets for dumping me. In my dreams I’m svelte and have been recently approached as one of the hottest up-and-coming marketing wunderkinds, the type of social media rockstar who has Seth Godin calling her for advice. Steve watches my third TED Talk on YouTube and sobs into his Harvard degree, cursing himself and the heavens for his horrible mistake in letting me go.
But I don’t have revenge fantasies. I’m above that.
Last night was so much better than any revenge script I could have written. Hell, better than any romantic comedy scriptwriters could bang out with a huge advance and Nora Ephron’s ghost coaching them while Judd Apatow gives them neck massages.
Steve caught me kissing Boston’s most eligible billionaire bachelor and—even better—a man sitting at the helm of a company so big and so powerful that Steve would happily become a, well, mystery shopper for them to get some clout. Connection.
Advantage.
Bzzzz.
I look at my phone. Steve. The level of disappointment in me that it is not Declan calling gives me pause. Big pause. Sickening pause.
I’ve fallen. Bad. Double-plus bad.
“Ignore that,” Amanda says as she opens my door and holds a steaming cup of coffee in one hand. Her makeup is all goth-like on this sunny morning and she is wearing work clothes.
“How do you know it’s not Declan?” I ask, my words fading with the just-in-time realization that she knows me too well.
“Because you look like a kid who didn’t just drop her lollipop. She dropped it into an open sewage field and fell in on top of it as well.”
“You can tell I’m bummed it’s not Declan,” I say.
She frowns in a look of confusion. “No. That’s what anyone would look like if they’re forced to interact with Steve.” She wrinkles her nose in this super-cute way that makes me want to watch her face forever. I know she’s doing it out of distaste, but she could seriously patent that and use it to act in commercials. It’s such a great encapsulation of how this all feels.
The Steve part, at least.
“Sandra Bullock,” she says under her breath, talking to herself.
“Sandra what?”
“She could play you. In a movie.”
I’m halfway through a mouthful of latte as she explains, and I spray an impressive fan of coffee all over her arm and my pillow. “Sandra Bullock could not play me in a movie!” I gasp. “Melissa McCarthy? Sure. But not Sandra Bullock!”
“Jesus, Shannon, say it! Don’t spray it!” She uses part of the duvet cover to wipe my surprise off her arm.
“Sorry. Your fault, though.”
“Mine?” The whites of her eyes seem bigger than usual as she stares me down.
“C’mon. Sandra Bullock? Might as well pick Scarlett Johansson.”
Amanda sizes me up. Her eyes linger on my hair, then travel to my neckline. I fell asleep in a weird combination of a tight workout t-shirt and extra-baggy pajama bottoms, pants so big I use an old robe sash to tie them to my waist. My hair must look like something you’d find on Courtney Love, and even in my partly hungover state I realize I smell like fear and happiness.
“Melissa McCarthy. Or Jennifer Lawrence if she put on some weight.”
“Thank you for being honest.”
“I am always honest.” She reaches out to squeeze my hand, a creepy, fake smile on her face. Then she spears the back of her hand against mine, wiping more coffee off.
“You can wear the strap-on, then,” I say.
Mom chooses this exact moment to walk in. And then my phone buzzes. She snatches it up before I can get to it.
“Restricted number!” she crows. “It’s the billionaire!”
Chapter Three
Mom holds my phone up like she’s Rafiki from The Lion King, presenting baby Simba to the tribe.
“Hakuna matata,” Amanda whispers.
“Give it to me!” I snap as Mom refuses to give it to me.
“Marie,” Amanda says in a low growl. Damn. She’s channeling Musafa. James Earl Jones couldn’t do a better job with that growl. I wonder if Amanda could do Darth Vader next.
Mom tosses the phone to me like we’re in a game of Hot Potato, and I answer the phone in such a rush I don’t give myself the time to feel anxiety or panic or to freak out like I really should because it’s Declan.
“Hi, Shannon,” Declan says. His voice pours over me like warm hot fudge. I imagine his face, all broad planes and narrow intensity, how his jaw is so lickable and his eyes make me smile when he’s focused on me. The heady scent of spice and man fills me as I pause, body shivering with the pleasure of knowing he is calling me.
He has asked me for a date. A non-business date. Not that last night was strictly business. Hah. But this time he’s clearly and openly interested in me as a woman. Not as an account or a colleague
or a marketing coordinator.
The man bought me a corsage.
And now he’s offering chocolate-dipped strawberries and a voice that sounds like hot fudge?
Make me into a Shannon sundae. With a big old banana right in the—
“Hello?” He sounds slightly puzzled, but not unsure. Whatever he’s thinking, my craziness doesn’t deter him.
“Hi,” I say, the word coming out like a happy sigh. I look up to find Mom gawking at me like she can see my ovaries twitching, and Amanda’s doing that pretend-quiet thing where she’s acting like she’s not listening.
Even Chuckles’ ears are perked.
This is what it takes to get me to stand up and walk. My feet feel like they’re floating as I press the phone to my ear and hear Declan say, “I really enjoyed last night.”
All my pain fades. The world seems brighter, suddenly, like there was a layer of fog I couldn’t quite see. It’s gone, dashed away by Declan. This phone call is the highlight of my day so far.
And if he was serious about coming over on Friday…
“What time can I pick you up? And this time, no limo. Though I wouldn’t mind watching you split your skirt up nice and high,” he murmurs. The words make me hot, a steady pulse forming in my belly, throat, and between my legs. The man could talk me into an orgasm without touching me if he keeps this up.
Chuckles wanders over and begins rubbing against my legs. He’s purring. Chuckles doesn’t purr. Declan’s vocal magic is filling the room with pheromones even neutered cats react to.
How can a mere woman like me resist?
My back is turned to Mom and Amanda, who don’t take the hint. I thrash my arm back toward them in a gesture that clearly means Get out of here and let me have my hot-fudge voice orgasm, you twits.
“Are you having a seizure?” Mom asks, alarmed.
“I think she wants us to leave, Marie,” Amanda says. She’s back on my good list. Chuckles closes his eyes and the purring goes up a notch.