Shopping for a Billionaire's Wife (27 page)

His gives me a ragged look so raw that I know I hit the nerve I’m aiming for.

“Quit deflecting your own power issues onto me!” I continue. “You and Andrew compete because you feel like you don’t have as much power as you should—so go out and find it! Find your own damn power, Declan, but quit acting like I’m screwed up because I’m having a hard time adjusting to a life that I didn’t realize I was signing up for.” 

My legs unstick, and I storm to the door, opening it.

“Where are you going?” His question is menacing, laden with a threat that says I don’t have the right to leave, with that golden authority I admire in him, until moments like this.

“Out. For coffee,” I add, turning around. “NEXT DOOR! I’m going to go find my self-worth one damn latte at a time!”

And with that, I slam the door.

With all the power I can muster.

* * *

“I don’t understand,” Mom says as I sob into a Grind It Fresh! triple breve with cinnamon and ground Madagascar vanilla beans sprinkled on the New Zealand whipped cream top. “You got into a fight because you
don’t
want goats to go to African villages?”

I texted Amanda in the elevator, and she came rushing over to Grind It Fresh! to commiserate. Sadly, Mom saw her as she walked past the poker table where Mom’s been butchering hands. She followed. Amanda was too worried to notice the tail.

My ability to process anything is hampered by the massive fight I just had with my almost-husband.

“I can’t!” I huff, looking at Amanda, who translates my words into Momspeak.

“They got into a fight because Declan is using Shannon as a pawn in his fight for dominance with Andrew.”

“Oh. Now I understand. Just say ‘it’s because they’re men,’ honey—that’s shorthand.” Mom takes a drink of her half-caf mocha and sighs. “This coffee is bliss.” She gives me an evaluative look. “Does this mean you and Declan broke up? Because if so, I might need to text someone at the networks.”

“You’re feeding information to the press?”

“James says Anterdec’s getting a ton of interest and new financial boosts from all the news about the runaway bride! I knew my plan was genius.”

“
Your
plan?” Amanda and I say in unison.

“Well,” she falters, going silent. I can only imagine what she’s been feeding the press. As long as it’s not Minion boobs, we’re good.

“He was really angry.”

“So were you,” Amanda points out. “And rightly so! I think the whole Andrew-Declan one-upmanship contest is getting out of hand. Did I tell you he’s taking me on a helicopter tour of the Grand Canyon and afterwards we’re going to Mexico to see the solar panels he’s donating to schools on coffee farms?”

“Oh, come on!” I groan. “They’re competing to see who can be more philanthropic? As if that’s the measure of who is the better man? Giving to charity doesn’t count if you’re doing it to win a contest.”

“It’s better than the giant jewels they’ve been giving us.”

Mom’s eyes narrow to slits. “Giant jewels?”

“Right,” I say flatly, drinking more.

“That’s not a euphemism for their penises, right?”

“MOM!”

“MARIE!”

“You know,” I point out, “
you
weren’t originally invited for coffee with us.” 

“I wasn’t invited to Vegas, either,” she says, forlorn, her lower lip starting to tremble. Dad’s story about Grandma Celeste feels like someone dropped a chunk of concrete on my heart from a Mass Pike overpass.

“Do you understand why Shannon and Declan escaped the wedding, Marie?” Amanda asks, her voice going low, her hand on Mom’s free hand on the table.

“Because I invited Jessica Coffin.”

“And why did you invite Jessica Coffin?”

“Because she controls the society pages and trends for Boston.”

“And why was it important to have the wedding in those—”

I brush my hand against Amanda’s knee and give her a look. “I can take it from here,” I say.

She blinks rapidly, but recedes. “You sure? You were ready to drown her in whale sperm the other day.” 

The waitress happens to deliver a new round of lattes and French macarons at that exact moment and gives us a freaked-out look, hurrying off after emptying her tray.

“I’m sure.”

Amanda gives me a big hug and whispers, “It’ll be fine.”

“I know. I’ll call you if I need help moving the body.”

She looks at Marie and laughs. “No,” she says, turning back to me. “I mean with Declan. I’ve never met two people more perfect for each other, and he loves you like crazy. Andrew says so.”

“I think you and Andrew are pretty close in the ‘perfect for each other’ department.”

“We don’t have the history you and Dec have. Go talk to him. Work it out.”

“We will. I just—I need time. Space.”

“I’ve got this, Amanda,” Mom says. “Don’t worry. Shannon’s got her mommy now and everything’s going to be just fine.”

Don’t leave me
, I mouth.

As Amanda gives me an apologetic look, her eyes dart over my shoulder and narrow suddenly, telescoping like a big game hunter spotting a target. Amanda’s head turns, her hair brushing against her jaw, those big, round brown eyes turning into evaluative slits.

“No. It can’t be,” she whispers.

“What?” I crane around to look.

“Don’t look!”

I twist back around and accidentally dump my latte into Mom’s lap.

Mom screams.

“You’re drawing attention to us!” Amanda hisses.

“Shannon just burned my cooch!” Mom shouts.

So much for being covert.

The cafe manager rushes over with a wet washcloth, a thousand apologies, and offers to clean everything up and bring us a new round of coffees.

In the meantime, a slim woman in a sleeveless dress the color of a sunflower
click clack
s her way across the floor, her features coming into focus as she nears.

Or, I should say, fokus.

“Kari Whitevelt?” I squeak. She’s Amanda’s equal at Greg’s main mystery-shopping business competitor, Fokused Shoprite. 

That’s right.

She’s Foked.

“What are you doing in Las Vegas?” she grills Amanda, who stands her ground and gives Kari a Cheshire Cat grin.

“We’re here on business.”

Kari has long, wavy blonde hair and bright, whisky-colored eyes. She has a wide face but sharp bones that stretch nicely when she smiles. I would never in a million years admit this to Amanda, but...I like Kari.

I’ve worked with Kari.

Because Anterdec hires Fokused for some market testing we do.

Amanda has no idea, and somehow—I need to keep it that way.

With a broken heart and a hoo-haw-injured mother with a drama queen complex.

“My poor vulva,” Mom whines as the coffee manager delivers the new drinks, a tray of French macarons in a variety of flavors that are arranged like a double rainbow, and a gift card for $100 for Mom.

“You, too?” the employee, Jonah T. (according to his name tag), commiserates. “Mine breaks all the time.”

I look at Jonah speculatively.

“What model do you drive?” he asks Mom. “Mine’s an S60.”

“Mine is a pink Cadillac,” she croons. “Best ride you could ever imagine.” 

Jonah’s perplexed suddenly, and I can’t blame the poor guy.

“I thought we were talking about Volvos,” he says, backing up and giving me a confused smile.

“One of you is.” I give him a head shake that is the universal gesture for
Don’t even try to talk to the crazy lady
. Las Vegas resort employees are fluent in Head Shake, and Jonah scampers off.

Meanwhile, Kari and Amanda’s prickly conversation has turned to outright suspicion and accusation.

“Are you trying to snipe the wedding chapel accounts?” I hear Kari snap at Amanda.

What wedding chapel account?
I wonder. Greg doesn’t take too many accounts that require extensive travel.

Amanda is trying to freak Kari out, I see, because she replies in a smooth tone. “You know we can’t talk about it even if we are, Kari. Client confidentiality.”

Kari reddens, and then damn—she notices me.

“Shannon!” Kari is a hugger. By the time she rocks me left and right a few times, I have established that I was a metronome in a previous life. I keep ticking for ten beats or so after she lets go of me. 

Amanda’s narrow gaze turns me into an injured mother lion with three cubs. I can see her imagining my pelt on her living room floor. “How do you two know each other? Kari didn’t start working for Foked until after you left for Anterdec.”

Kari reddens at the word
Foked
, but c’mon. They have to know we’re
that
juvenile.

“Good thing you left Constipated Value-flop, Shannon. Anterdec is such a great company. And congratulations on your weird wedding fiasco. I wish I had been there, but I was here on assignment and—” 

Amanda does, in fact, look constipated right now. I have to give Kari that.

“How do you know each other?” Amanda asks again, drawing out each word.

“The wedding account!” I blurt out. “You know, the one we can’t talk about.” I over-enunciate those last words, sounding like a preschool teacher with nineteen shots of Novocain in her mouth, and wish this day would just end.

“Shannon?” Mom asks. “Can coffee infect a tattoo? Because last night your dad and I got a little drunk, and now—” She points to her nether regions. 

Kari makes a face of disgust.

Saved by Mom.

“It’s been charming,” Kari says, looking at Mom the way one would watch a rabid raccoon, “but I have to go get married eleven more times in the next three days so I can do my job.” She smirks at Amanda. “Have fun!” 

And with that, Kari is gone.

Amanda is about to kill me.

“You’re hiring Fokused Shoprite, aren’t you? You’re mystery-shopping-cheating on me.”

“Not you, too!” I throw my hands in the air. “I give up.” Between fighting with Declan an hour ago, my mother’s crotch emergency, and Kari’s sudden appearance, I blurt out something that is about as inopportune as you can get. 

“Anterdec is buying Greg’s company anyhow, so you won’t be competing with Foked soon.”

See? I’m clearly half Marie.

“WHAT?” Amanda bellows. “Andrew never said a word!”

“It’s not like you two were even talking to each other before the wedding.” I snort. “And now that you’ve made up, I’ll bet talking about Greg’s company isn’t top of your list of Things To Do In Vegas.” 

She gives me a patented Chuckles look.

“It’s not final,” I continue. “It’s why Greg’s been so busy. He has a ton of business details and his wife’s cancer and...”

My head begins to spin.

“Can we,” I beg, “put this topic in the Cone of Silence?”

“Fine,” Mom sighs. “I won’t talk about my tattoo.” 

“I wasn’t talking to you, Mom,” I snap, pleading with Amanda with my eyes. “But yeah—Cone of Silence
for sure
on your crotch tattoo.” 

“All right,” Amanda says reluctantly, “but I can’t stay quiet for long.”

“I know.”

“You kept this from me? And what about my job?”

“If you want to keep it, sleeping with the CEO of your acquisition company might help,” I joke.

“Don’t tell that to Josh,” she growls.

At first, I welcomed this distraction. Drained suddenly of the will to talk or think or argue or do anything other than drink coffee, I slump down into a chair and start to whimper softly to myself.

“Sorry,” Amanda says. “You’re worse off than I am. You and Declan need to patch things up.” 

“I know.”

“You have to actually talk it out,” Amanda says in a hushed voice. “It’s time.” 

“Why do all the feelings have to happen at the same time?”

“Because life doesn’t make sense.”

“Not fair.”

“You’re just figuring this out now?” 

“I’m a slow learner.”

She snorts. “You’re anything
but
.”

I start to shake. My hands can’t wrap quite right around the white paper coffee cup, and the logo blurs before my eyes.

“What have I done?” Declan’s back in that hotel room where I left him behind an angrily-slammed door, and all I can feel is a white-hot abyss of pain, a hollow point in an arrow that’s stabbed my heart. I did that. I stormed out and left. 

I take a sip of my latte.

“It can be undone. You just need to make up with him.”

“And with me,” Mom says, her lips pressed together, eyes filled with hope.

“Why is exercising my own power so fraught with misunderstandings?” I ask Amanda.

“I think that’s called growing up,” she says.

“It sucks.”

Mom grins. “No kidding. Wait until you’re in your forties, like me, and you realize no one’s really an adult.”

“You’re in your fifties, Mom.”

“Shhhhhhhh.” She looks around, frantic, like someone we know will hear me. I hate to break it to her, but no one she’s trying to impress gives a crap, and to a twenty-something person, the difference between someone in their forties and fifties is negligible. 

You’re all
old
.

“That is the most unnecessary lie in the world, Mom.”

“There are plenty that are worse,” she counters.

Amanda gives me a hug and whispers, “You can do this.”

“I know. I’m just so tired.” 

Her sympathetic smile is the last image I have before she leaves, because I close my eyes and put my forehead on the back of my hands, resting on the table.

“You used to do that when you were a little girl and overwhelmed.”

“I’m a big girl now, and I still do it.”

“You must be so tired.” 

I look up. Mom gives me a close-mouthed smile, her eyes jumping from me, to her cup, to her fingernails.

“Yes.”

“Some of that is my fault.”

“Some?”

“Not all of it.”

“A lot of it, Mom.”

“I’m sorry.” The expected waterfall of words doesn’t come. Mom’s simple apology stands on its own, like a messenger sent ahead of the troops.

“I’m so sorry,” she says again. Her shaky breath adds to the sincerity. “I can’t explain it. I won’t even try. Your father had a long talk with me and now I understand better what I did to you and Declan.”