Shopping for a Billionaire 2

by Julia Kent

  “Is this a bad time?’ Declan asks, a smile in his voice.

  “It’s always a bad time when my mother is in the room,” I say, my voice definitely not full of chocolate or hot fudge or anything yummy. Mine feels like broken glass and rusty nails as Mom glares at me, clearly wanting to eavesdrop.

  “And don’t let her listen outside the door!” I call back as Amanda shuts it. Mom’s groan can be heard by Declan, who gives a laugh so sensual it makes my toes curl.

  “Now, where were we?” I ask in a voice half an octave lower and, I hope, as sexy as his.

  “We were talking about how I want to come over and get to know you better, Shannon. All of you. Right now.”

  My knees go weak and a buzzing flush fills the skin around them, a wave that crests upward and makes me wet and warm again. How does he do that? I’m trying to imagine him right now. Is he wearing a suit? A t-shirt and jeans? He’s so formal and businesslike, hot and sophisticated, that I can’t picture it.

  “Right now?” I squeak out.

  “Not practical, I know,” he says, the rumble in his tone like a caress. “Friday?”

  “Friday works.” I don’t want to sound desperate, but I am free. Haven’t had a date on a Friday night in way too long. “Wear jeans,” I add.

  I drool—just a little—at the thought of him in well-worn jeans, hiking boots, and a shirt so loved that it molds to all the edges and valleys in that muscled torso and chest of his. Sunglasses and a wicked grin, with a tan that speaks of time outside and…

  “Are we giving each other wardrobe orders now?” His voice drops down into sultry territory, like his tongue is searching for a register you can only reach naked. “Because I have some preferences in that area, too.”

  If I were wearing panties right now, they would melt off. Chuckles is making love to my ankles with his fur, and I shake him off. Too much sensation. Too many innuendoes. His purring is disconcerting, because it’s almost as if he’s…happy. Which is impossible. Chuckles’ default is misery. Declan would have to be a Time Lord to be that powerful.

  “Yes?” I whisper. Preferences? Mmmmm.

  “Hiking boots. And jeans, for certain. You want to wear layers, and bring something that handles wind.” His voice becomes pragmatic. Matter of fact. Friendly and cheerful. The change jolts me.

  Wind?

  “Wait—what?” This isn’t exactly what I thought he meant when he said wardrobe preferences. I am imagining red feather-lined handcuffs and crotchless panties. Not a catalog shoot for REI.

  “I’m packing a picnic. There’s this great hiking spot in Sudbury I want to share with you.”

  Chocolate-covered strawberries don’t exactly go together with Sudbury, which is a bedroom community outside of Boston best known for producing Chris Evans. Which isn’t too bad, I guess. If Captain America can come from there, maybe I can find my own superhero on a nice walk in the woods.

  “At night?” Six p.m. doesn’t sound like an ideal time for a picnic. Maybe for mosquitoes to dine.

  Steve’s idea of a “picnic date” involved eating at an outside table at Tavern in the Square in Cambridge, so this would be my first actual picnic date. Ever.

  “There’s a meteor shower on Friday around nine. I thought it might be nice to try to catch some shooting stars.”

  “That sounds really nice,” I say, meaning it. Starbursts behind my eyes would be nice, too.

  “It will be,” he answers. We both pause. I hear him breathing, a light sound of surety that makes me feel connected. Ten seconds pass and I can feel him smiling. This is so unreal. Declan McCormick isn’t really interested in me, right? I’m klutzy Shannon, the woman he met when my hand was inside a toilet. A toilet! Yes, I had a reason for that. A good one. A professional one. But still.

  Toilet Girl.

  He’s asking Toilet Girl out on a date. An ominous feeling hits me.

  What’s wrong with him? Maybe he’s a creepy stalker type who has a toilet fetish. He made the joke back in the men’s room, but if he was projecting his actual sexual kink onto me in a test to see if I’d freak out, and I didn’t, then maybe he’s got a thing for seeing women put their hands down toilets.

  “Shannon?”

  I want to ask him. The OCD part of my brain suddenly starts the rollercoaster-on-speed loop-de-loop it does when a new, panicky idea floods my mind. All I can think is “toilet fetish” over and over, and if I don’t exorcize this somehow, I’m going to blurt out the question Do you have a thing for women with their hands in toilets?

  Not because I actually believe it, but because the part of myself that absolutely cannot believe that someone so far out of my league is attracted to me is scrambling to go back to that safe, comfortable place where my best friends are Ben and Jerry and my book boyfriend is Drew from Emma Chase’s Tangled.

  Damn it.

  Deep breaths. One. Two. Three.

  “Heavy breathing,” Declan says, shattering my concentration. “I like it.”

  Oh, God.

  Do you have a thing for women with their hands in toilets?

  My mouth opens and I’m certain those words will come out. I imagine him sitting in an old, well-worn, expensive brown leather chair, the kind with brass buttons that dot the seams, and he’s holding a brandy snifter full of the finest liquor. Declan’s wearing well-worn Levi’s and his shirt is pulled out of the waistband just enough to show an inch of perfect, muscled skin right at the navel, a thatch of hair calling out for my hand. His eyes are hooded and have a soft focus to them, the way men get when the blood rushes south and they shift.

  They really do. There’s a subtle change in them when sensuality takes over, a warm, predatory taste to their words. The air changes, crackling with sparks and fire. It’s confusing and heady all at once, because those two states shouldn’t be able to coexist.

  Yet they do. Yin and yang. Male and female.

  Stick and hole.

  “What are you wearing?” I blurt out. It’s better than Do you have a thing for women with their hands in toilets? I smack my forehead, hard, and the dull throbbing from my hangover kicks back into place.

  Someone calls my name from the other room but I ignore them. Chuckles stops rubbing against my ankles and goes to the door, pawing the bottom. No way I’m letting him out, yet. If I open the door Mom will tumble over the threshold like something out of a bad sitcom.

  “Heavy breathing, and now the What are you wearing question?” His voice rolls out like it’s on rails, sliding with throaty nonchalance through more innuendoes than I can count. A fun, humorous sound, like we’re in on a joke together.

  He can’t see that I’m dying here, gripped by a set of looping thoughts that race at breakneck speed, driven by a deep fear that this is one big cosmic mistake. I’m torn inside. The reason I mystery shop is that I’m in control. I’m there in secret, watching everyone and everything and—a little bit like a god—the only person whose experience matters in the end. My word is gold, my observations validated, and the whole process is neat. Tidy. Measurable. Documented.

  Being felt up and kissed thoroughly in a hallway at a posh restaurant by a man who is so many standard deviations of gorgeous and rich away from me that on a bell curve, he’s a million miles away, makes my mind vibrate so hard with uncertainty that it’s about to shatter.

  I make a sound that is supposed to sound like a throaty laugh but sounds more like I’m hacking up a frog’s leg.

  “Workout clothes, actually,” he answers. “No shirt, shorts, and socks and shoes. I just came in from a run. I’m sweaty as hell and sitting on my balcony, feet propped up and drinking a huge bottle of water as I watch the morning sun burn off the clouds over the bay.” That’s the longest stretch of words I’ve ever heard from him, and I’m agog.

  And drooling.

  Shirtless. Sweaty. Burning. A pulsing, throbbing sense pours down, like I’m channeling energy from my pain-filled head to my deeply turned-on nether regions, his casual way of talking about hims
elf and his life making hope take over, dialing down the racing fear inside me, slowing the rollercoaster to a halt and giving it permission to take a rest.

  “Oh,” is all I can say, the sound half gasp, half surprise. Half hope.

  “And you?” His tone is flirty.

  “Workout clothes, too.” If you count giant penguins all over my oversized flannel bottoms “workout” pants.

  “What’s your poison?” I know he means what kind of workout do I do, and my brain goes blank. Because I don’t. Work out, that is.

  Mom’s profession comes to the rescue. “Yoga,” I say, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  She’s definitely listening in, because I hear a super-loud snort from the other side of the door and she shouts, “The only downward-facing dog Shannon knows is—” and then muffled sounds of indignation.

  I really, really do not want to know the end of that sentence.

  Bzzz. Someone texts me. I ignore it.

  “Six too early for you? Will you be home from work by then?” Declan asks. I finally look at the clock. 9:12 a.m. For a second I think he means today, but he’s talking about Friday.

  “Yes. It’s...” My mind is a blur and I can’t get my tongue to work properly. “It’s perfect.”

  And then I remember, again, that today is still a work day. Uh oh. Greg doesn’t generally hold us to a tight schedule, but it’s Tuesday, and that means—

  “Weekly meeting!” Amanda shouts as she bangs on my bedroom door. “You have twenty minutes to fit in a shower. Get moving!”

  Even Declan heard that. “You need to get wet,” he says.

  Oh. Well. That did the trick.

  “Happy shower, and I’ll see you Friday.”

  Click.

  Mom and Amanda barge in. “Well?” Mom says.

  “Date. Confirmed. Friday at six. Picnic at the state park in Sudbury. He’s bringing dark- and milk-chocolate-covered strawberries,” I say. Might as well give them the specifics.

  I walk to the bathroom, but before I can get away, Mom says, “Your mouth is going to have so much fun on that date.”

  I wince. Amanda frowns.

  “You know what I mean!” Mom says in a tight voice. “Quit sexualizing everything. You people have such dirty minds.”

  “You’re the one telling me to get pregnant accidentally by a billionaire to get big child support payments and asking about lesbians and strap-ons,” I say, sarcasm dripping from my voice. “I wonder where I could have gotten it!”

  “Your father,” she says definitively. “The man never met a dirty joke he didn’t like.”

  I roll my eyes and finish my walk to the bathroom. My shower is quick, thoughts of Declan making me anticipate Friday

  Tap tap tap. Someone’s knocking on the door. “Mom!” I shout. “Can I take a shower in peace?”

  “It’s Amanda. And Amy.”

  They open the door. “We need to talk.” Steam fills the room as the hot water churns in full force. The scent of coconut and almond fills the bathroom as I shampoo quickly.

  “It can’t wait until I’m dressed and clean?”

  “No.” They say it in unison.

  “Then what?” I’m really getting sick of the invasion of privacy.

  “It’s Steve.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Texting us both,” Amy says. “And Mom. He even texted Dad.”

  “What?” That’s the 2014 equivalent of standing outside my bedroom window with a giant boombox over his head playing some old Peter Gabriel song. “He texted Dad?”

  “Dad forwarded it to me,” Amy says, reluctance in her voice. “You need to hear this.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Dear Jason,” she reads aloud. “How’s the handicap? I miss you and Marie and our dinners out. Shannon and I had a big misunderstanding but I’m hopeful we can sort this out. I would love to catch nine holes with you this week.”

  “Oh, barf,” I sputter.

  Silence.

  “What else?” I’m distracted, so I accidentally rub conditioner in my armpits instead of shower gel. Yuck.

  “He texted me and Amanda and told us we needed to help you get over this unrealistic dream you seemed to have about Declan, and that he saw you desperately throwing yourself at him.”

  My stomach actually goes concave. It feels that real, like he’s kicked me in the gut. “He said that?”

  “Snake,” Amy mutters.

  “It’s not true, Shannon,” Amanda snaps, angry at the very idea. “Don’t you dare get down because that asshole is trying to play this to his advantage.”

  She knows me so well.

  Both of them hover around me, their presence both helpful and overbearing. I know they’re right. I know it. I do. Really.

  So why is it that one cutting comment can undo hundreds of positive ones? Declan just told me he wants to see me. Likes me. Desires time with me. He flirted, he joked, he was casual and loose and we talked like people exploring each other. Testing the waters and the edges of who we are, where we intersect.

  That’s a known. His kiss. His caress. His attraction to me. Whether this goes anywhere beyond Friday, no one can take away the touch of his lips against mine. The slant of his mouth as he eagerly kissed me. The feel of his hands sliding against my skin. The power of his body crushing mine in a fevered embrace.

  That’s all fact.

  Steve’s conjecture has a kind of power, though. It’s the sneaky power of doubt. And damn if that isn’t strong enough to drive out fact, even when it’s irrational.

  Amanda and Amy look at me like they’re dealing with a fragile psych patient.

  They kind of are.

  Both of them have hive mind and just exit the bathroom as if they telepathically decided it. I finish my shower, dry off, and walk out into the bedroom.

  My phone buzzes.

  Amanda reaches for it and—

  “Snake!” she shouts.

  “I can’t ignore him forever,” I say with a sigh. Something inside tugs at me, a pull I don’t like. But it’s familiar. Maybe he really has seen the light…?

  I think of a door slamming shut. Some self-help book I read last year recommends that when an intrusive thought tries to suck your soul out of you.

  In my vision, the door slams.

  On Steve’s neck.

  Ah. That’s so much better.

  I hit “Talk” and then “End.” Closest thing to slamming that door.

  Chapter Four

  Work turns out to be nothing more than a series of details, forms, and paperwork that need to be dealt with, a ten-minute weekly meeting that mostly consists of Greg giggling with excitement and saying, “Three point seven million dollars,” over and over, the sum total of the account we now have with Anterdec, and Josh complaining about office network protocols in so much detail that I start to think he’s part robot.

  We’re sitting around the cheap plastic monstrosity that Greg calls a “conference table,” on mismatched office chairs that look like something from the set of The Andy Griffith Show. I’m slumped as low as you can go, my mind fixated on reliving every possible moment where my skin touched any part of Declan’s body. This kind of looping I could get used to—it was so much better than panicked repeat thoughts about whether I remembered to turn off the stove or freakouts that maybe I’d already been wearing a tampon when I put that new one in.

  Near-OCD is a bit like being friends with a sociopath. When it’s on your side, the world is your oyster.

  When it’s not, everything smells like rotten fish.

  “Two words,” Greg says as he closes the weekly business meeting. All four of us are crammed into his tiny little office. It’s 2:13 in the afternoon and all I can think about is getting home so I can veg out and cyber-stalk Declan. I’ve only made it to page twenty-three of my Google search. Three more days before our date, and I feel unprepared.

  Greg is standing behind his desk with a look on his face like the cat that got
the canary. He’s so happy he is scaring us a little. Greg doesn’t do happy like this.

  Something bad is about to happen. The last time he was this happy he landed a bunch of prostate exam stool kit evaluations and poor Josh…well, we had to sign a non-disclosure agreement about that set of shops, but let’s just say that stool samples and the public health department made Josh constipated from pure performance anxiety for over a week.

  Josh freezes in place and his entire body clenches. “What did you do, Greg? Because I am not pooping on a card and taking it to a doctor downtown ever again. EVER. You can’t even pay me triple or—”

  “How about company cars?” Greg turns around and looks out his window (he has a window…) and points to a shiny red sports car with a racing logo spray-wrapped all over the entire car, advertising a special tire.

  Josh’s eyes go wide and his hand instinctively touches the top of one butt cheek. “A company car? For real?”

  “For all of you!” Greg morphs into Oprah. “A car for you!” he says as he points to me. “And a car for you!” he says as he points to Amanda. The room explodes into excited shouts and lots of squealing and jumping up and down.

  “HOW?” Amanda screams.

  Greg takes a deep breath, beaming like a proud dad. He hasn’t been this happy since Amanda texted him last night and told him we landed the Anterdec account, and he texted us all a selfie this morning showing him turning the heat up to sixty.

  “Consolidated has been chosen as one of only four marketing eval companies to test drive these ‘wrapped’ ad cars for certain markets. Boston is one of them. We got four cars!”

  Josh is ogling the red sports car from the window like Amanda and I look at Chris Evans in a Captain America suit. Actually, Josh looks at him the same way. “We get that?” His arm points like it’s detached from his body. He clearly can’t believe it.

  “Yes!” Greg bellows. “A car for everyone!” Last time I saw him this excited he got us all free coffee for a year from an account. Free Habanero-flavored coffee from a failed Boston market test run, but enough chocolate powder and cream and it was acceptable. Okay, no—it wasn’t. But Greg was so proud.