by Penny Reid
My reflection smiles back at me, cheeks pink and eyes as glowing as polished amber. Mrs. Declan McCormick. Shannon Jacoby McCormick.
Declan’s wife.
I grab the bottle of eye make-up remover and smear some on a tissue, working the mascara off. It’s that new kind, where you use three different gels and one tube of loose fibers that look like ground up cockroach legs and then some pixie dust made from an eleventh century druid’s secret alchemist’s box.
But I end up with eyelashes that make me look like a character in a Hayao Miyazaki movie, so it’s worth it.
One eye done, I move on to the other eye and really goop on the eye makeup remover. My ring glitters in the light and I can’t stop smiling. I just can’t. The ring is perfect, no matter where it’s been.
And this ring has been places...
As I finish my second eye, a chunk of mascara is stubborn. More eye makeup remover and a lot of rubbing and it’s free. Whew. I reach for more tissues, wipe my eyes, and then wipe the extra off my hands.
The ring slips off as I’m cleaning my palm, flying high in an eerily familiar arc as I scream “Noooooooooooooooooo” like I’m in slow motion, the platinum circle plunking into the toilet and rotating, diamond down, weighted by three carats of holy shit.
“Shannon? You okay?” Declan calls out. I ignore him.
The toilet has automatic flush. If I don’t get there in time—
My hand goes straight in the water and my fingers are slippery with that waterproof eye makeup remover petroleum product crap that I curse a thousand times as I try to get the ring. I feel like the Gollum. My precious.
My precious......
I did not endure #Poopwatch for three days, defile a French fry tray, and endure countless poop jokes from every man I know between the ages of six and fifty-three (which is every man I know) to have the ring going down the sewer pipes and into the Hudson River because I was removing makeup.
The irony of that is not lost on me.
The door bursts open and Declan is standing there, completely naked, a fine and glorious specimen of a man. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorway, hot, sculpted ass propping him.
“You lied,” is all he says as my fingers work to find the ring.
“Huh?” My brain halts but those fingers are determined.
“You said you didn’t have a hand-in-the-toilet fetish. Is this a joke?” he says, laughing. “Playing a little prank? Reliving how we met?”
When he laughs, things...bounce. It’s distracting. It’s incredibly droolworthy, too. The ring I’m scrambling to grab is a symbol of his commitment to let me touch the bouncy stuff whenever I want.
C’mon ring. Don’t fail me now.
His face changes when I don’t answer and he stands up, walking to the toilet, staring down. “No phone?”
I shake my head.
“No vibrator?”
I shake my head.
“No fetal pink pig?”
I shake my head.
“Then what’s so important that you would—oh, don’t you dare tell me you dropped the Goddamn ring in there!” Declan bellows.
He really does know me a little too well.
And just then, the toilet flushes automatically.
He takes one more step and he’s looking down at my arm directly, fist in the bottom of the bowl as the water gurgles and swirls around me. The water sprays up and a thin mist of—yes—toilet water covers my makeupless face.
He mutters something under his breath in Russian, some kind of curse words. It turns me on. I really don’t want to be turned on while I have my hand in a toilet. The brain makes strange associations and I’d rather not have my erotic dreams for the next few months involve this scenario.
Again.
The flush fades and we’re left in silence, me with a disgusting, germy face and my arm still so deep in the toilet I might as well be helping a cow give birth.
“You do have the ring,” he says slowly, eyes narrowing as he crouches next to me. The light layer of dark hair all over his muscled thighs makes me want to be naked and dirty with him. I can’t help myself.
A different kind of dirty...
I slowly pull my hand out of the toilet, fist tight, and reach out within inches of his face. Unfurling my fingers one by one, his creased brow relaxes.
The light bounces off the three-carat diamond.
And the, uh, droplets of germ-filled water.
His nostrils twitch and one side of his mouth twists up in a smile as he says, “Toilet Girl.”
“Hot Guy,” I say back, eyes racing over him as he laughs. Oh, please, keep laughing. I love the view.
“You are crazy, Shannon.”
“That’s why you love me,” I say as I stand and wash my hands.
“I love you because you stick your hand down toilet bowls?”
“No, you love me because I’m willing to stick my hand down toilet bowls.”
He’s looking at me with the same expression he reserves for my mother. “Parse that one out. Does not compute.”
“Why do you love me?” I ask, throwing the question back at him.
“Why do I breathe?”
Oh, this man.
He bends over and turns on the water for the bathtub, the pounding sound filling the tiny room. The faucet is as strong as a firehose. The rich really do live different lives. They even have different plumbing.
I slide the ring back on my finger and breathe a sigh of relief.
His arms envelop me and our nude skin touches everywhere it can.
“I’m covered in toilet water,” I protest as he comes in for a kiss.
“Not the first time.” He kisses me even as I cringe. It’s not a very good kiss.
“Dec—who was that on the phone?”
“Grace.”
“Everything okay?”
“It was about your mom.”
I sigh. “What’s she done now?”
“She wants Grace to start ordering McCormick tartan plaid for the dozen kilt tuxedoes. And she’d like to commandeer Air Force One.”
I close my eyes and bite my lip, the rush of the inevitable filling my cotton-headed brain. “This is how she’s starting?” I ask in disbelief. “Ten minutes after I call her?”
“You expected less? She’ll ask Robert Kraft for Gillette Stadium for the rehearsal party next.” He bends slightly, hand in the water. His arm hooks behind my knees and I’m in his arms, then unceremoniously tossed into the half-full tub like it’s Spring Break and we’re poolside in Cancun.
I scream with laughter and shock as the water assaults me. Declan follows it, hungry hands and mouth everywhere.
Bzzzz.
“Don’t answer that!” we shout in unison.
And we don’t.
Hours later, Declan orders room service and I finally get my coffee. Caffeine deprivation leaves me wondering which is worse: the pounding in my head or the pounding in my—
On the tray there is a pot of coffee and a dozen chocolate covered strawberries, half milk chocolate, half dark.
And, oddly enough, a bowl of chocolate-covered pretzels mixed with cheese curls.
Declan walks into the bathroom with the room service cart as I survey it and give him a questioning look. He drops the robe he threw on hastily and stands there, offering me a cup of coffee while my pruney toes turn the hot water back on.
Look at him.
Really look at him.
Is this bathroom aesthetically pleasing?
Oh, yeah.
- THE END -
THANK YOU so much for reading Shopping for a Billionaire’s Fiancée.
If this is your first Shopping series book, welcome! You have so many other books ahead of you, so sink into the crazy, loving fun of this world.
You can either go back to Shopping for a Billionaire, or jump ahead to Shopping for a CEO, Andrew and Amanda’s story...
Wondering if Amanda and Andrew have something going on?
> Oh, yeah....
Read ➜ Shopping for a CEO!
I'm thrilled to be the maid of honor in my friend's wedding, but the best man, Andrew McCormick, is a chauvinistic pig with a God complex.
And I can't stop kissing him in closets.
(Don't ask.)
He's the brother of the groom and the CEO of my biggest mystery shopping account, but suddenly he's refusing to be in the wedding. He won't talk about it. Won't see reason.
He's such a man.
And he still won't stop kissing me in random closets.
(Thank goodness.)
I'm a fixer. That's what I do. I can fix anything if given the chance. But when the game is fixed there's only so much I can do.
The ball's in his court now.
Game on.
Read ➜ Shopping for a CEO
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Sweet on the Greek
Just for Him Book Three
Talia Hibbert
This soccer star is determined to win… his woman’s heart.
For millionaire footballer Nikolas Christou, one look is all it takes. The minute he sees Aria Granger, he’s a goner. Playboy Nik knows lust—intimately—but his need for Aria goes far beyond that. Of course, the plus-sized beauty isn’t interested in romance… but Nik isn’t interested in giving up.
Aria Granger has sworn off relationships for her own good. After all, her ex nearly murdered her best friend, so clearly her taste is questionable. When charming, gorgeous Nik bounds into her life, Aria can't decide if he's as innocent as he seems... or if her bullsh*t-ometer is broken.
The super-sweet sports star claims he needs a fake girlfriend to protect him from 'misunderstandings'. And Aria, with her tattoos, piercings and dangerous scowl, fits the bill. But there's no way a guy as handsome as Nik can be that bad at handling relationships. Can he?
Please be aware: this book contains topics that could potentially trigger certain audiences, including:
- discussion of stalking, attempted murder, and associated trauma
- depictions of counselling
- depictions of excessive alcohol use
- discussion of drugs
- biphobia (challenged on the page)
Prologue
December 2017
Dr. Browne leant back in his seat, pen and notepad at the ready. He looked at Aria and said, “Why don’t you tell me about what happened in November?”
She shrugged and gazed around the room, stalling. Putting off the inevitable moment when she’d blurt everything out in embarrassing detail. Aria Granger usually didn’t have trouble keeping her mouth shut—far from it—but therapy was really loosening her up. She didn’t like it at all.
Her gaze settled on the desk to her left, a few metres away from the cozy sitting area they currently occupied. The sofa she sat on was squishy and plush and welcoming as hell, but the desk was all business. Browne had one of those odd ornaments that moved; a row of metal balls hanging from a frame, where one ball would swing into the next, and so on. Fancy having a thing like that. She’d only ever seen them on TV.
“Aria?” he prompted gently. He was being very... not quiet, but soft. As if she were a nervous pet, tame, but currently unsettled. He was careful not to scare her, confident that she’d come to him soon.
“November,” she said slowly, if only to stop him talking. She couldn’t bear that tone in a man’s voice. “November… well. I finally got a tattoo on my shin. I’d been thinking about it for ages, and I’m kind of running out of space for big pieces. But the idea of a needle on my shin—it proper set me wrong. Know what I mean? Shins are funny things, aren’t they? I don’t even like touching my own shins. Goes right through me.”
He watched her with the appearance of patience. She felt slightly guilty. She’d told Jenny that she’d take this seriously—and Theo, bless his heart, was paying by the hour. Not that he couldn’t afford it, but still.
“I managed, in the end,” she said. “My boss did it for me, Tara. She’s got a light touch, so it wasn’t that bad. Wasn’t good, but it wasn’t bad. That’s usually the way, isn’t it? You build things up in your mind, and then everything turns out fine.”
Dr. Browne scrawled a few words onto his notepad. Or maybe it was a few sentences. Maybe he’d scribbled down the hook to Independent Women—she had no idea, because she couldn’t read upside down and even if she could, his handwriting was an absolute state.
What could he have to say right now, anyway? Client is a dizzy cow? Or maybe, Client thinks she’s slick but I’m on to her. She was probably better off not knowing. Curiosity killed the cat and all that. Only, she found it hard to leave things unknown, these days. Really hard. Unanswered questions made her itch. And that wasn’t healthy at all, now was it?
With a sigh, Aria started again. “In November, my best friend was kidnapped.”
He nodded. Maybe he already knew. Was Jenny seeing this guy too? Or would that be unethical—like, a conflict, or a confidentiality issue, or something? She had no idea. She’d Google it.
“Tell me about that,” he prompted.
Talk about opening a can of worms. “Alright. I had this boyfriend—Simon. He was okay. He met Jen a few times—she was my roommate, you see. We’re like sisters, have been forever. Anyway, it’s a long story but... he’d been stalking her for a while, and he got with me for greater access to her. I had no idea, like none—I mean, obviously, but you know. Wow. I was fucking oblivious. So eventually, he goes right off the deep end and kidnaps her. There was a big police stand-off and everything, I was there. He was going to kill her. He held a gun to her head.”
Dr. Browne offered Aria a wad of tissues, his moustache quivering sympathetically. She accepted them slowly, because she was confused. Then she noticed the hot trickle of tears rolling down her cheek. Oh, dear. Her eyeliner was probably done for.
She patted at her eyes awkwardly. What she really wanted to do was blow her nose, hard, but it would be all snotty and messy and she’d need a thousand more tissues. Nose blowing was one of those things that didn’t mean much but felt oddly private. She willed the snot to dry up on its own somehow.
“So, everything turned out kind of alright—I mean, Jenny’s fine and Simon’s...” she swallowed. “Dealt with. Or whatever. Everyone’s back to normal. Actually, Jen’s great. She’s engaged, isn’t that fabulous? I’m planning the wedding. It’s quite soon. I’m rushed off my feet, to be honest. I’ve never planned a wedding before, but if I left it to her she’d turn up at the registry office in an ivory pinafore or some such nonsense. She doesn’t like a fuss. But I think she deserves a fuss.”
“I see. Quite a whirlwind, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but I think they’re really in love.”
“Oh, no,” Dr. Browne said. “I meant the kidnapping and associated events. It must have come as a huge shock. For someone you cared about, this Simon, to— ”
Aria couldn’t let the good doctor finish a sentence like that, because she might come over all anxious. Or furious. Or nauseous. Difficult to predict, these days. If it wasn’t guilt churning her gut, it was disgust turning her blood to ice. Best to cut off this line of inquiry completely.
“It wasn’t that serious,” she said. Her voice was just right: calm, almost blasé. “I was upset about Jenny, obviously, but I didn’t give a fu—sorry. I didn’t care about Simon, not like that.”
Dr. Browne looked calm and blank, which meant he didn’t believe her at all. “I understand. But for an intimate relationship to end in such a manner...”
“It’s not like I was in love with him or anything,” she said quickly. Which wasn’t strictly true—but Aria was starting to think her love didn’t mean much, anyway. “I barely even liked him. He gave me what I needed without too much trouble. He seemed harmless and he didn’t want too much from me.”
Here came guilt, her new best friend, bubbling up her throat like sour vomit. S
he dug her nails into her palm, relying on the pain to protect her from actual vomit. The doctor probably thought she’d meant sex, when she said he gave me what I needed. And Aria did love sex. But what she needed—what she lost her head over, again and again—was affection.
And wasn’t that pathetic? She’d put her best friend’s life in danger because she was desperate for someone to love her.
Ah, she was so sick of being sick of herself.
Dr. Browne gave her a carefully non-judgmental look and asked, “Do you often enter into relationships with people you don’t like?”
Aria shrugged. “Sure. Just like everyone else.”
“Everyone else?”
“Yeah. You talk to your colleagues every day, your neighbours, your mother-in-law or whoever. You spend time together, exchange words, affect each other’s energy—that’s a relationship. And the whole time you hate each other’s guts, or at least find each other really fucking irritating, but it doesn’t matter. Because this isn’t preschool and building relationships is about more than just liking somebody. So yeah, I sleep with guys I don’t like. Sometimes they give the best orgasms.”
Dr. Browne nodded. He shuffled his papers. Then he said, “I can see that you have a history of depression.”
Aria gave him a winning smile. “Doesn’t everyone?”
He didn’t smile back. “How have you been feeling in the weeks since these events?”
“Fine,” she said. He didn’t reply. “I mean it. Really. I know when things are getting bad, and I’m okay right now.” Because usually, when she was low, flirting made her feel better for a little while. But recently, flirting—or anything vaguely romantic—made her want to scratch her own skin off. Maybe something was wrong with her, but it was definitely something new.
