Shopping for a Billionaire 2 (3 page)

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-bagg
y
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!”

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.

“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
i
n 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.