“Hey! Put me down! We’re talking! I have more to say—”
I cut her off with a kiss, then throw her on the bed.
“You can’t just—”
Another kiss. She moans, that kitten-like little sound so sexy in the back of her throat. She starts to kick her heels off and I break away.
“Leave them on. Consider it my birthday gift.”
“But I have a birthday present for you!”
“This is all I need.” And it’s true. She knows I don’t like making a big deal out of birthdays. The fact that she accepts that and doesn’t force it is part of why we’re such a good fit.
She kisses me this time, then pauses as if she’s thought of something.
“What?” I ask, my fingers fully engaged in brilliant make up sex. The rest of my body is about to follow.
“I’m, um....you know. It’s the end of that time of the month.”
“Never stopped me before.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Shannon, there is nothing about your body that I mind.”
And then I show her how true that is.
“You could model with me,” I inform her in the morning as we wake up with bed head and hot abs. The slopes and valleys of her body deserve to be permanently preserved for antiquity. For future generations to gasp and admire. She’s warm and soft and best of all—mine.
She snorts. “I’m about as likely to do that as I am to learn how to ski.”
“You don’t know how to ski?”
“I like having intact knees and living without a traumatic brain injury. I’m weird that way.”
“Marie and Jason never took you?”
She gets quiet, a lazy finger making trails over my chest. “It’s expensive. Amy was on the school ski club, but no. Not me. We didn’t have the money back then. I tried once, with Steve. I’m still in therapy to get over it,” she jokes.
Steve. The Ex. Just who I want to have mentioned while we’re naked in bed.
“Besides, I’m a natural klutz.”
“You’re really not,” I stress. “No one who can use a tongue, lips, two hands, a nipple and a toe like you did last night, all at the same time, can be accused of having poor coordination of any kind whatsoever.” Her comment about money makes me resolve to have Grace book us for a series of ski weekends in Stowe at a place with good lessons, an oversized hot tub, a giant stone fireplace and room service. Shannon might even make it to the slopes for an hour a day.
She slaps my chest and tweaks my nipple before she’s off, ass all I can see, and then she’s gone.
“What are you doing?”
“Making coffee.”
It’s like I’ve been handed someone else’s good karma.
I slide my arms behind my head and stare at the ceiling fan, running through the day’s events. Tonight is it. Greg’s supposed to have set everything up, and we go to Le Portmanteau, but Shannon hasn’t said a word. As soon as she heads out for work I’ll give him a call.
Carrying two mugs full of steaming coffee, Shannon comes back into the room with a funny look on her face.
“So, about tonight. Are you free?”
This is taking an interesting turn.
I sit up and take the cup she offers me. Propping a bunch of pillows against the headboard, I pat the empty space next to me. She nestles in and we sit like an old married couple, starting the day with a leisurely cup of coffee and an awkwardly uncomfortable conversation about—
“—and Greg needs me to do that mystery shop.”
Our future.
“He what?” I ask, pretending to be angry. She brought this up the other day, the same day our dads decided to turn into pro wrestlers, but I feign ignorance.
“I know,” she soothes. “I know he promised and I promised I wouldn’t do any more mystery shops for him, but this is the one I mentioned earlier. Le Portmanteau.”
“I had children pee on me so I could get that promise,” I remind her. Last Christmas Shannon stepped in to cover for her sister, Carol, as a mall Santa’s elf. Greg had an emergency and roped me into playing Santa for an hour and a half. I’m still having flashbacks after having Shannon’s cat, Chuckles, claw my thighs while wearing a reindeer costume and getting into a fistfight with a Russian mobster.
Yeah. It was as weird as it sounds.
Worst of all, I still get #HOTSANTA messages on Twitter and a steady stream of pictures sent to me of various people in elf costumes.
Most of which involve candy canes in places you do not want to see.
“I know you did,” she says, contrite. “But Greg already set it up.”
“Have fun,” I say, taking a deliberate sip of my coffee.
“Oh, um...I thought you’d go with me.”
“Why would I want to do that? You need help counting the level of paint discoloration on the doorjambs of the coat room?” Mystery shoppers actually do this kind of crap. I only know because Shannon’s explained it to me a thousand times.
“I need help eating a delicious meal!”
A meal I’m paying for.
With my life.
I sigh, a sound of frustration that appears to be convincing enough to make her look at me with such earnest persuasion. “Please? It’ll be fun. And for once, I’ll be the one treating you to an outrageously overpriced meal. Greg says we can get two bottles of wine off the menu and they have to be priced over $100 each!”
Greg is a dead man.
I need to talk to Andrew about having Anterdec just acquire Consolidated Eval-shop so we can stop dealing with all of this mystery shop bullshit. Make him an offer he can’t refuse.
“Declan?” Shannon’s wide, warm eyes catch mine and I sink into them, her body lush and all mine. She has no idea that tonight is a set up. That I have all the food planned down to the flavored mint toothpicks. That a piece of tiramisu will be delivered with my mom’s ring resting at the bottom of a glass of Champagne.
And that by this time tomorrow morning she will be the confirmed future Mrs. Declan McCormick.
I can’t keep up the charade.
“Okay. Fine,” I say, pretending to concede. “But this is it. No more mystery shops.”
“Agreed!”
“And I need another cup of coffee,” I mutter. Might as well milk this for all it’s worth.
“I was thinking I might find another way to help you wake up,” she says as her head disappears underneath the sheet.
So much good karma. So much. I must have saved thousands of children or built a hospital in my last life.
I’m coming back as a rat in my next life, aren’t I?
Better enjoy this one while it lasts.
Shannon makes sure I do.
Chapter Fourteen
The Proposal
Le Portmanteau is designed to make you feel just a little bit like a country bumpkin, even if you’re a Parisian sophisticate with a world palate and the budget of a sheik.
That’s why it’s Jessica Coffin’s favorite restaurant, if you believe her Twitter feed.
Not that I read her feed. That’s Grace’s job. I just get executive briefings now.
Grace made sure Jessica is not here tonight. Having her make a sudden appearance the night I propose to Shannon would not just be catastrophic, it might land my future fiancée in a jail cell for a night.
Which would put a slight damper on our celebration.
Self-preservation has many incarnations.
While I had already cleared my day well in advance, knowing and preparing the perfect proposal, Shannon is running late. I’m standing here in the waiting area tapping my toes like a kid at his first formal dance with a date who’s about to stand him up, but he doesn’t know it yet.
But Shannon won’t no-show.
Right?
Of course not. Women don’t wake you up like that in the morning and then leave you hanging twelve hours later.
Besides, four syllables guarantee she’s coming:
tiramisu
<
br /> There is something magical about that dessert. It’s like saying the word “breasts” in the company of straight men. “Tiramisu” is a siren call to women.
She’ll be here.
I’m on my phone, checking for client email, when the phone rings. Not with a text, but an actual call. That means it’s either Grace or Dad, because everyone else texts.
This is a number I don’t recognize.
“Hello?”
“Declan McCormick?”
“Yes.”
A relieved sigh. “Ah. This is Chandra Mobu, from Le Portmanteau.”
I look around, but the only person who works here is speaking with a couple who walked in and are expecting a table without reservations. Amateurs. I—er, Grace—booked four months ago.
“Yes?”
“Giuseppe was the person who arranged your proposal tonight, and he’s not here.”
A cold rush fills my veins. “Excuse me?”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. McCormick. I’m stepping in to help, and Giuseppe gave me your instructions. He caught the chicken pox from his grandson, and—”
What’s up with all these cases of adult chicken pox? First Angelina Jolie, now Giuseppe? Why is chicken pox suddenly ruining some of the most important events in the world?
“Do you have all of my instructions?” I demand, clipped and tight. One problem with relying on other people to help you: they’re human. It’s an inherent weakness and it’s unfailingly annoying. “The toothpicks, the ring, the tiramisu, the Champagne, the—”
“I assure you, we have his directions, and we will make certain this is a proposal you will never forget, and one with great fanfare and excitement.”
“Damn right.” I shut off the phone and take a deep breath, fists tight, jaw ready to cut glass. The jeweler’s box rubs against my thigh, heavy and light as can be.
Like my heart.
Shannon picks that very moment to walk in.
Somehow, she manages to change time itself. All of the air in the room halts its circulation, crowding around her as she looks at me with an apologetic smile. Her hair brushes against her shoulders, hips moving like she’s on a runway and I’m the only person in the audience watching her.
Two hands start clapping inside my chest. My throat goes dry. My entire existence revolves around the fact that she is here, right now, and I am about to ask her to share the rest of her life with me. To love me and believe in me and make children with me. To grow old together if we’re lucky, and to ache with the pain of loss if we’re not.
I need her to be the center of my universe because, frankly, I don’t have a choice. She’s it, whether she says yes tonight or not.
Please say yes.
Because she has no idea what’s about to happen, she’s remarkably normal, putting her arms around me and stretching up to plant a quick kiss on my lips. “Hi, honey! I’m so sorry I’m late. We had a problem with that new online accounting marketing campaign, and the client was horrendous. As if it’s my fault the spokeswoman they chose for the ads turns out to have nude photos of her circulating all over because her psycho Romanian ex-”
She stops talking and looks at me in alarm. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re gray. And not as in Christian Grey.”
“I’m fine.”
“Declan, you look like the poster child for how to spot a heart attack.” She pulls me back to the chair I was just sitting in.
“I’m fine.” My hands feel like ice cubes and there’s a lump in my throat the size of China. This is real. This is happening. My confidence is gone. It vanished without a trace. This internal case of the nerves isn’t because I’m worried she’ll say ‘no.’
It’s because I realize she’s about to say ‘yes.’ The magnitude of my love for her can’t be captured in a number, nor an exponent, nor by any known mathematical equation. It’s wider than the galaxy and bigger than any known dimension.
The enormity of who we are and how we’re about to join is so vast. I didn’t know I could feel this much love for someone.
For her.
“Put your head between your knees.”
“I’d rather put my head between your knees.”
She gives me a surveying look. “All right. You must be fine if you’re making sex jokes.”
“That wasn’t a joke.”
She sniffs and sighs. “You’ve clearly recovered.”
“I was never not fine.”
“Excuse me for worrying you might be having a heart attack.”
I kiss her cheek and snuggle up. “Thank you.”
“Because that would totally blow my cover for this mystery shop,” she hisses.
I feel so loved.
Just then, someone who sounds exactly like Chandra Mobu appears, a petite, dark-haired woman with kind, sharp eyes and a grey streak through long hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“May I help you?” she asks, pointedly not looking at me. I’d warned Giuseppe not to tip Shannon off with any behavior she might detect as abnormal.
My being the color of industrial waste when she walked in doesn’t count.
Nearly forgetting the ruse, I start to respond when Shannon elbows me and says, “Yes. We have a reservation.”
“What’s the name?”
“Jacoby.”
Soon she’ll just say McCormick. A hot rush of blood pours through me.
My head dips and I can’t suppress a smile. Here we go. That’s better. This is who I am. Grounded. Calm. Focused.
Utterly sure.
“Mr. and Mrs. Jacoby? Right this way,” Chandra says with a gracious smile and a mischievous charm. There goes my jaw again, tight as a drum. Mr. Jacoby my ass.
Shannon just snickers and links her arm in mine as we enter the dining room.
Le Portmanteau is as different from The Fort as can be. There’s a reason I asked Greg to use this restaurant for this ruse: the last place anyone would ever expect to see me is here. I’m a nobody, because this place isn’t our competitor. They’re sleek Scandinavian lines, all grey and white with flashes of primary colors, like a Gubi showroom with an incredible menu, while The Fort is Teddy Roosevelt’s Delmonico’s steak house for the twenty-first century.
We’re seated, and I pull Shannon’s chair for her. She’s always a little surprised when I do this, even though we’ve been together for a year and a half. It’s engrained in me; Mom made me take classes in comportment and manners. I can dance a waltz, find the fish fork, and help an old lady cross the street in ninety seconds or less.
And I speak Russian.
I’m a regular catch.
Shannon’s seated and waiting for me to sit, so I do, directly to her left. My mind feels like it’s three seconds behind my body.
“Wine? Shall I send the sommelier?” Chandra asks me.
With eyebrows raised, Shannon looks at her and says, “I’d love that. Thank you.”
Chandra leaves and just as she’s out of earshot, Shannon whispers, “Can you believe that?”
“What?”
“The sexism.”
My mind turns into slices of Swiss cheese being carved by toddlers with pinking shears.
“The huh?”
“The sexism! Asking you about the wine. It’s so mid-twentieth century.” She looks around the half-empty dining area. We’re seated right by the huge window that overlooks the ocean, the bay calm and tranquil. As dusk kicks in, the waves lap at the shore and it all feels very—
“Unbelievable,” Shannon chokes out.
I’m starting to agree.
“That’s going in my eval.”
Let me pause here for a moment and admit that it never occurred to me, in any of my nineteen visions for how my proposal would unfold, that Shannon would actually do the mystery shop. I used it as a convenient way to get her here and surprise her.
But for her to be here and take the evaluation seriously is not even in my mental playbook for how this all happens. In my mi
nd we talk, we laugh, we enjoy a bottle or three of wine and a lovely meal, then dessert and Champagne are served with a ring as the coup de grace.
Instead, she’s talking about—
“And can you check the men’s bathrooms? I’ll go if you don’t want to deal with it,” she adds, reaching for her bread plate and the herbed butter. “But this isn’t a bagel shop.”
Just then, the sommelier appears. Shannon asks him a few questions about white wines while I silently turn into the Hulk inside my skin.
My rapidly graying skin.
The ring is digging into my thigh so I shift a little, nudging against Shannon’s knee. Her eyes dart round the room, take in the gorgeous view, and then rest on me.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.”
“Thank you for coming here tonight. I know it’s the last thing on earth you want to do.” Her hand comes to rest on my thigh, dangerously close to the ring.
I shift away.
She looks hurt. “I—did I—what’s going on?” she asks in a quiet voice.
Saved by the wine steward. The sommelier starts the wine parade with me. Shannon glowers. Wine is poured and soon we have a bigger mess than perceived sexism at a luxury restaurant.
“Why don’t you want me to touch you?” she asks as I guzzle my white wine like it’s cough syrup and I have TB.
“I do,” I protest, pouring myself another glass.
“Then,” she croons as her hand goes right back where it was, “why did you flinch?”
I move away. “Because I don’t appreciate being objectified and treated like a piece of meat.”
“Since when?” she says, a little too loudly and with great incredulity.
“If you can find sexism in a restaurant I can find it in our relationship.” I reach under the table and slide the ring so it’s squeezed between my legs.
Great. Nothing like feeling like a drag queen with a bad tuck on the night you’re about to propose to your girlfriend.
Who is looking at you like you belong on top of her old Turdmobile.
I take her hand and put it back. “There. Happy?” My fake grin isn’t helping.
“Declan, what is going on?” she asks suspiciously. “You don’t look well, you seem nervous, and you don’t want me to be intimate with you.” She swallows, hard, then sits up straight and tall. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
Girl Meets Billionaire Page 150
