Shopping for a Billionaire's Wife (15 page)

He nods contemplatively, biting the corner of his mouth. “Good. My cover’s intact. I fooled you.”

The elevator dings. We say nothing as we ride up, my arm around his waist, his around my shoulders, the feeling complete.

We enter the suite, walking past new racks of clothing I don’t care about. Declan crashes on the bed, eyes closed, on his back, legs hanging off the edge. He kicks off his shoes.

“Be back in a minute,” I tell him, going into the bathroom. The Shannon I see in the mirror isn’t the same woman I studied yesterday morning.

How can someone change so much in just twenty-four hours?

Five minutes later, I’m done, and come into the main suite ready to—

Uh.

Sleep, apparently.

Because Declan is snoring like crazy, out cold.

A part of me wants to curl up with him. I kick off my heels and start to relax when my phone buzzes.

It’s Amanda.

Coffee?
she texts.

You two are done already?
I reply.

She just types back “...”

I answer with a question mark.

Andrew got called away on a ton of wedding media business. You guys have really dumped a lot of work on him
, she replies.

Sorry :(
, I answer.
Yes to coffee.
 

Her answer is a smiley face and an address next door. 

My phone buzzes again. It’s Mom.

I ignore it.

Tap tap tap.

“Can’t I get some peace?” I murmur, opening the door to find a uniformed hotel staff member carrying a familiar blue bag from a famous jewelry store.

He hands it to me.

Tiffany & Co.

“What’s this?”

The staff person bows and gives me a mysterious smile. “A gift from Mr. McCormick.” And with that, the quiet man with the Mediterranean accent disappears, melting into the hallway decor as if he were a Marvel comic superhero.

I open the bag, then the box. I slump against the threshold.

It’s a gorgeous silver necklace with an emerald the exact shade of Declan’s eyes.

And it’s the size of my youngest nephew’s fist.

Declan knows I don’t like lavish jewelry. The three-carat engagement ring from his mother is hard enough for me to wear. Big rocks snag on
everything
.

I know why he’s doing this. What do I do? He saw Amanda’s earrings at lunch and assumed he needed to do some grand gesture to—what? Prove his love to me? Show up his brother?

On impulse, I grab my purse and the bag, and sprint down the hallway. The man who delivered the gift jumps slightly when I tap his shoulder, but he’s the consummate professional.

“Yes, Mrs. McCormick?”

I shiver.

“Could you kindly return this to Tiffany?” I ask, shoving the box in the bag.

His eyes flicker with deep concern.

“Was there a problem with the item? Should I contact Mr. McCormick and let him take care of the issue?”

“No! No. He’s sleeping right now. We’ve had a rather, um, eventful day and a half.”

The man, whose name tag reads Luis, chuckles. He’s too well trained and cultivated to say more than that, but the truth is written all over his face.

Of course he knows what the past day and a half has been like for us.

So do two billion other people on earth who’ve been watching television. Hell, we’re a trending story on that stupid right-hand scroll on Facebook. Once you’re mentioned there, that’s it. You’re screwed.

“I just...please. Return it.” I give Luis a cultured smile, one I’ve learned to dish out when I become uncomfortable in Declan’s world. Grace suggested this as a strategy a few months ago, and damned if it doesn’t work. My usual tactic of using an avalanche of ingratiating, self-effacing words works well in my social world, but not Declan’s. 

Coolness. Being aloof. Using as few words as possible. Not over-explaining.

That’s what works here.

And it is very effective.

“I most certainly will, Mrs. McCormick. I am so sorry it wasn’t to your liking.” He retreats down a different hallway and I stand before the bank of elevators, wondering if I did the right thing.

That’s not really true. I know I did the right thing. I also know that when Declan finds out I returned his gift, we’re going to have a fight.

If my goal is to make everyone I love angry with me, then I’m succeeding.

Bzzzzz.

You coming?
Amanda asks in a text.

I push the down button and an elevator opens immediately. It’s a sign.

A latte can’t hate me.

And can’t be returned.

Chapter Eleven

“What did you do while I was asleep?” Declan asks as I return to our suite. We have a perfect view of the massive fountain downstairs, and the choreographed water show just ended. I’m a bit dazed by it, the jets skyrocketing hundreds of feet into the air, colored lights and opera music piped outside, passersby gathering on walkways and bridges to watch. 

“I went next door to the resort over there!” I say, grabbing my amazing coffee and holding it out to him. “It’s so awesome! The decor is all sleek lines, with textured walls and ceilings. The variety is spellbinding.”

He grunts. It’s a sound that says,
I heard you
.

“And the coffee is so much better than the coffee here!” I chirp.

Now
I have his attention.

“Their casino is spread out in a different formation, so you have to walk past all the patisseries, the baked goods and chocolates on display,” I add. “And they have a bunch of sunken tables and really cozy circular couches, all with a great view of the wide-open atmosphere and in welcoming, but trendy, fabrics.”

He walks over to me and picks up my latte, taking a sip. His eyebrow goes up.

“Go on,” he says, the words slow and deliberate. It’s the most focus I’ve gotten from him all day, and it’s exciting to have a real conversation with him. Everything in Vegas is so fake, so ostentatious and over the top that conversations fall into two camps: how to do something wasteful and how to do something even more wasteful.

“I got this mind-blowing coffee at this shop called Grind It Fresh! and a chocolate French macaron that I would marry, if it were legal to wed an almond-flour confection,” I joke.

He doesn’t smile.

“Amanda and I spent about two hours just hanging out over there, and the place was so relaxing and inviting that I bought lunch in the sushi bar and grabbed another coffee on the way back here.” I take my Grind It Fresh! coffee back from him, and hold it up as an example. The logo is a picture of a coffee bean being loaded into a wood chipper, with a starburst coming out of the end. 

When our eyes meet, it’s like I kicked him in the gut. He’s gone green, and—is his upper lip
trembling
? 

“What’s wrong?” I cry out in alarm. “Are you sick?”

“Maybe,” he whimpers, running his fingers through his hair, eyes wild and pained. He has his typical afternoon stubble, but he runs his hand through his hair, peaks of dark standing up straight. The groomed brow hunches down over troubled eyes and a clamminess inhabits his hand as I hold it. 

“What did I say? What did I do?” I’m thrown into overdrive at this sudden change in Declan. 

“Shannon.” My name sounds like the last gasp from a dying man. “Shannon, are you
mystery shopping
the resort next door?” 

I freeze.

“What?” Peals of laughter pour out of me, more from relief than humor. “What? No. No, no, of course not. I would never take an assignment from Greg on our honeymoon! I don’t even work for him any more!” That’s all this is? Whew. 

“Not officially, no. But you just read off a laundry list of how my carefully-designed resort doesn’t measure up to the place next door.” His breathing is erratic and his voice is choked, like he’s trying not to cry. 

There is genuine hurt in his voice.

This is a side of Declan I’ve never seen.

“That’s not what I—I never meant to compare in a—it’s just that the coffee at Grind It Fresh! is so good over there!” 

He closes his eyes and groans, like I sucker-punched him in the throat.

Sitting at the end of the bed, Declan drops his head into his hands and takes deep breaths. Do I need to get him a paper bag? Is he hyperventilating? I drop to my knees in front of him and put my hands on his thighs.

“Your coffee here at Litraeon is good. Really. It’s
great
.”

“Stop lying to me.”

“No, I’m—I’m not lying.”

I’m
totally
lying.

“You can’t get the coffee just right every time. Everyone has moments where they don’t perform. It’s okay. It happens,” I soothe. 

“You’re acting like my resort’s failure to live up to next door is akin to erectile dysfunction.”

“I am not!”

I totally am, though. Oops.

But a great cup of coffee is like great sex. Once you’ve had it, going back to mediocre feels like a punishment.

And it goes down smooth. 

“Promise me one thing,” he says, grasping my hands. Our eyes meet.

Are those tears in his eyes? Actual tears? Is Declan
crying
because I like the resort next door better than the Anterdec property? I can’t really confess that right now, but....

“Anything,” I swear. 

“Don’t go next door again.”

My heart seizes. I can’t help but look at the cup of coffee. The thought of no more Grind It Fresh! makes me reel. 

Noooooooo. Anything but that.

When I look at him, though, I realize I have no choice. I have to be faithful. I can’t stray.

Plastering on a fake smile, I nod. “Of course I won’t.”

“We can make this place better!” he insists, standing up so fast I fall backwards on my butt. Thank God I’m not clutching my coffee, though, because it would have spilled. 

Eyes lingering over the white cup with the beautiful black logo, I realize this is it. My final latte from Grind It Fresh! I won’t get another chance like this.

I have to make it last.

A lifetime. This latte is my
Bridges of Madison County
. I’m Meryl Streep and those perfect shots of espresso are Clint Eastwood, never to be seen again after experiencing the throes of ecstasy. Hold on, though. Clint Eastwood? Nooooo. Too old. 

Er, Scott Eastwood? Mmmmm, Scott Eastwood in the shower scene in
The Longest Ride
.

Hey. Wait a minute. Someone always dies in a Nicholas Sparks story. I’d better stop there. Then again, if I have to give up Grind It Fresh! forever, it’s a kind of death. 

The death of caffeine love. 

Declan is the Nicholas Sparks of coffee.

“I’ll find out who their supplier is and we’ll start buying their coffee. And I can have our human resources recruiters snipe their baristas!” The green gill look is gone, replaced by a man with a mission. 

A tendril of hope springs up from the dark, scorched earth of my coffee-loving soul.

“You will?” I peep.

“Yes. Anything for you, Shannon.”

Anything but letting me walk five hundred feet to buy a twelve-dollar coffee nirvana from the competition, that is.

He smacks his palms on his upper thighs. “There. That’s settled. Litraeon will improve. In fact, I am going to give you a new project at Anterdec.”

“What’s that?”

“Mystery shopping this property. Not you, of course. But let’s get a team going. Hire Greg or that competitor, you know. What’s their name?”

“Fokused Shoprite. ”

“Right. Fokused Shoprite.” 

“Don’t you dare hire Foked!” I say sharply.

He looks stunned. “What? Did you just say—
what
?”  

I giggle. Can’t help it. Our stupid nickname for our nemesis is about as mature as a twelve-year-old boy, but whatever.

“Why not hire them?” Declan pries. 

“Because, because—they’re our competitor!”

“
Greg’s
competitor,” he reminds me. “And besides, we hire the best. Our loyalty is to the product or service that excels. Nothing less.”

I stare at my coffee and start to say something.

This is one of those moments, right? A juncture. A fork in the road. I can be right, or we can have harmony. I can speak up, or we can have peace. Whatever I do now doesn’t have to set the course for our entire relationship.

But if I point out Declan’s hypocrisy, I’m pretty sure it’ll trigger a fight I don’t really want to deal with right now.

Can I live without great coffee and a better resort experience? Sure.

Marriage involves sacrifice, right? Relationships are built on compromise. Negotiation. Agreement.

I can totally do this.

This will be a breeze.

* * *

I last twelve hours.

I would make the worst CIA agent in the world, because I crack easy. Two shots of espresso in steamed organic whole milk breaks me.

Damn you, Grind It Fresh! I wish I knew how to quit you.

After room service for dinner and a long, slow lovemaking session with Declan that distracts me, sates me, and still leaves me a bundle of jangling nerves about the wedding details left unresolved, I wake up with the sunrise and just stare out over the city, the mountains in the background snow-capped and serene.

Tap tap tap.

I stand up from the desk and tiptoe to the suite’s main door, glancing at Dec as I walk by. He’s so peaceful, his dark hair pressed against his slightly sweaty brow, eyes closed in slumber, his bare chest begging for a lick.

But best of all, he’s asleep.

And won’t see me coffee-cheat on him.

“I feel like a drug mule,” Amanda whispers as she knocks softly on our hotel suite door. 

“You are a goddess,” I hiss, taking the Latte of Heaven out of the tray she holds with two more cups in it.

She giggles. “This just gave me an excuse to run out and get a breve. I need a break. Parts of me are chafing so badly I think I’ll need skin grafts.”

“Doesn’t Andrew mind?”

“We just add more lube.”

“TMI! I meant about your going to the resort next door and getting their coffee at Grind It Fresh!”