Girl Meets Billionaire

by Aubrey, Brenna

  “Like what?” Man, this wine is good. I think I’ll buy the vineyard. Right now. I’ll grab a helicopter and go to Napa. Immediately.

  “Are you...unhappy?”

  Just then, the server appears, full of hope and promise and a melodic recitation of the chef’s specials. I swear it’s a performance worth of a poetry slam, in verse. Is that iambic pentameter I hear? A bit of Olde English thrown in for good measure?

  Shannon listens politely and orders a salad and fish.

  Oh, shit.

  I order a thick porterhouse and as the server leaves, ready myself to grovel.

  “Can we start over?” I ask just as Shannon stands. “Where are you going?” I ask. Have I blown it so badly she’s leaving? And how did I mess this up? One small issue and another small issue and suddenly she’s hurt and pissed. It’s like—

  Like when I dumped her.

  Oh, man.

  “Shannon, please come back. Let me explain. I’m just really overwhelmed and once you know everything you’ll understand.”

  I’m not doing myself any favors with my word choices. That sounded like my dad trying to explain why Mistress #1 got Mistress #2’s roses and note.

  She glares. “I need to go check the bathrooms.” Before she leaves she grabs her wine glass and guzzles it like a hockey player mainlining electrolytes between plays.

  I watch her receding form as it turns down a white hallway, disappearing like my hope for a perfect proposal.

  Chandra walks past me and quietly says, “I hope everything is going as planned, Mr. McCormick.”

  “Not quite,” I reply through gritted teeth. I hand her the ring as discreetly as possible. I have to give her credit; she palms it like a pickpocket from “Oliver Twist”, so smooth it’s as if we never touched.

  “Our staff is on it. After your meal we will have the tiramisu and Champagne ready. The string quartet should arrive any minute and will come out as scheduled.”

  Cheesy, right? I know. But that’s how this works.

  “Thank you,” I say as she nods and disappears, gliding away.

  Shannon’s on her way back, a too-calm look on her face.

  “What was that about?” she asks me as I stand and hold her chair for her, pushing her in.

  “Nothing. Just checking to see if everything is fine,” I explain.

  “Fine,” she says. There’s a bite to her words. I put my hand on her knee and while she stiffens, she doesn’t move.

  “Shannon, can we hit the rewind button? I wasn’t myself when we arrived, and I’m really looking forward to this evening.”

  “Since when do you look forward to a mystery shop?”

  Oops.

  “Since it means having hours alone with you.”

  Her face softens, eyes turning dreamy. “Really?”

  “Always.”

  Bzzz.

  My chest vibrates, the effect like a defibrillator, making me jump. I pull out my phone.

  Grace.

  I stand and hold one finger up to Shannon, who gives me a withering look, the sweet, loving smile fading fast.

  “This is not a good time,” I grunt into the phone.

  “I know, Declan, and I am so, so sorry, but some guy named Giuseppe keeps calling. Says he needs to talk to you.”

  Chandra walks by and gives me a surreptitious thumbs’ up. “Oh, him. It’s fine, Grace. I don’t need to talk to him. Everything’s under control.”

  “You sure? Because he’s calling from the restaurant where you’re proposing and he’s insisting it’s important.”

  What could a guy stuck at home with chicken pox need to tell me? “It’s all good. No worries.”

  “Okay. I’ll pass on the message. And Declan?”

  “Yes?”

  “You picked a great one.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And happy birthday. How cute that you picked the same day. Smart move. This will make it hard to forget this day.”

  I try to process a reply, but Grace is off the phone before I can. I’d completely forgotten about my birthday in the planning for this proposal.

  Our salads were delivered in those handful of seconds I was on the phone, and Shannon is daintily taking bites that make her look disturbingly like Jessica Coffin.

  “You need to leave?” she asks in a resigned tone.

  “No.” I sit back down and stuff lettuce in my mouth. It might as well be embalming fluid.

  She gives me a weak smile. “Good.” As she pulls her phone out of her purse, Chandra comes over to the table, making Shannon freeze. I know she’s going for her app, hoping to answer some questions from this pseudo mystery shop.

  “I hope the food is pleasant?” Chandra asks.

  “Great Romaine,” I mutter. “The best. Ever.”

  Shannon’s glare could perform Lasik surgery on me from two hundred feet.

  Chandra nods and walks over to another table, working the room.

  “I do not like that woman,” Shannon says, stabbing a tomato viciously like it’s Chandra’s eyeball.

  Entrees appear, freshly ground pepper is offered, and soon we’re in peace, Shannon tapping away on a screen as her fish becomes a smelly piece of rubber. My steak tastes like I’m nibbling on someone’s calf, and my stomach is doing the two-step.

  And then it hits me.

  I can call this off.

  Not the marriage itself, but this ill-fated proposal. In business meetings I’m never afraid to hit the pause button or withdraw a proposal altogether to go back to the drawing board and regroup. Maybe—just maybe—that’s the best approach here.

  Whatever choice I make needs to happen fast if I’m stopping all this, because the gears are in motion. Musicians, tiramisu, ring, Champagne...

  Little breathy sounds are coming out of Shannon. She takes two bites of her fish and sighs. Not being a mind reader, all I can do is reach for her hand and take it in both of mine, caressing the soft skin, hoping she’ll let me make all of this right.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally says.

  Wasn’t expecting that. But never look an unsolicited gift apology in the mouth.

  “Okay,” I say, not sure where this is going.

  “I’m just so stressed with work, and I know you hate doing mystery shops with me, and—”

  The waiter arrives with the tiramisu and a bottle of Champagne.

  Chandra’s nowhere to be seen.

  Guess calling it off isn’t an option now, is it?

  Shannon’s eyes light up, then die, like a Blue Tip match being struck and snuffed out. “What’s all this? I didn’t order dessert yet.”

  “Compliments of the house,” the server explains.

  She gives me a look that says Have I been busted? Part of her pride with mystery shopping is that she’s undetectable to staff. Being skillful with her evaluations is critical. She looks crestfallen as the piece of tiramisu bigger than my brother’s ego is plated in front of her.

  Just what every man wants when he’s proposing—for his beloved to look like her childhood pet got hit by a car.

  Two Champagne flutes come out from behind a server and a cork pops.

  Hold on.

  SCREECH. Slam on the brakes.

  The ring is supposed to be in the Champagne before they serve it.

  The glug glug glug of alcohol pouring from the bottle into the glasses echoes in my mind as I search visually for my mother’s ring. It’s not exactly a small bauble, so it should be here.

  It should be here.

  “Enjoy your dessert,” the server says, giving me a wink when Shannon’s head is tipped down.

  Where is the ring?

  Where is the fucking ring?

  “Do you think they’ve guessed?” she says in a panicked voice, picking up her fork.

  “Guessed what?”

  She throws her non-fork hand in the air in frustration. “That I’m evaluating them? No restaurant has ever just spontaneously offered me Champagne and tiramisu!” She pauses to thin
k. “Maybe they recognized you?”

  The truth is right there. My mouth is full of it. The authentic, verifiable fact that this is all a set up for her benefit—for our benefit—is crouching on my tongue, ready to be unfurled and explained, described and confessed. It coils, waiting for a signal from my brain, hesitating until I decide it’s time to say what I need to say.

  In hindsight, ten seconds could have made the difference between a delightfully tender proposal and one that ends in blood, pain and humiliation.

  I’m a decisive guy.

  But not this time.

  She carves out a large bite from one corner of her piece of tiramisu, the custard and ladyfinger concoction asymmetrical on the fork, a little too suspicious. Because it’s dusk, the only light in the room is candlelight and overhead, dim bulbs designed to give an aesthetic that shouts romance.

  Her lips encase the sweet treat and she lifts her full glass of water, taking a big swallow just as her eyes bug out of her head.

  I think I just found the ring.

  Shannon leaps to her feet, the fork clattering to the ground, her water glass falling as she drops it and clutches her throat.

  “Unng! Unng!” is all she can say. A cold wave of horror takes over my body, as if I’ve been flung into the ocean off a cliff and tossed by a thirty-foot wave.

  Chandra appears suddenly and shouts in a commanding voice, “Someone call 911! We need a doctor! Heimlich!”

  Two busboys pound through the kitchen’s doors but before they can get to us, my arms are around Shannon. I’m behind her, pelvis against her ass, hands forming the carefully folded fist under her sternum.

  She’s barely breathing. Her grunts become more frantic, her fingernails clawing at her throat. I can’t see her eyes and frankly, I don’t want to right now. If I see the glow of who she is begin to fade as this unfolds badly, I can’t do what I’m about to do.

  In a split second I become two Declans. It’s the third time in my life I’ve had this happen. My second with Shannon. The day she was stung I divided into two distinct realities, each able to watch the other, like viewing a film.

  One Declan lifts her into me, ready to thrust up and dislodge the ring. She makes an unholy sound and tenses.

  No air.

  C’mon c’mon c’mon.

  I envision the ring in her throat, willing it to loosen and shoot out of her mouth. Jesus Christ come on come on come ON, and just as I’m about to perform the Heimlich, she stops me.

  A thin hiss of air comes out of her but she’s desperate, leaning over the table, hands on the edge as a man my father’s age rushes over, followed by a petite woman with greying hair.

  “I’m a doctor and my wife is a nurse,” the man says, looking at Shannon’s face. “I hear air, but the obstruction’s still there. Don’t do the Heimlich yet.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “What’s in there? A piece of meat?” the nurse asks.

  “No,” I say, the words surreal. “It’s an engagement ring.”

  Shannon looks up, eyes feral. She points to her throat, then to her left hand’s ring finger.

  I nod.

  The nurse looks at Shannon’s plate, the glasses on the table, the setting. “It was in the Champagne?”

  “No. The tiramisu, apparently.”

  Sirens wind up in the distance.

  Shannon grabs my throat. Her throat labors to get air into her. The doctor checks her other hand, examining her fingernails. She sounds like she’s breathing through a straw. Tears pour down her face and she looks half mad.

  I did this to her.

  Me.

  Not a bee.

  And no EpiPen is going to fix this.

  Then the thin hiss comes to a brutal stop.

  The doctor opens her mouth and looks in. “The ring is caught and it’s blocking air flow.” He holds Shannon’s face in his hands, forcing her eyes to look at him. “Cough.”

  “Unng.”

  The hissing begins. The sound is like a baby’s first cry to my ears. Relief floods me.

  Chandra appears and says, “The paramedics are in the building and on their way up.”

  “How big is the ring?” the doctor asks.

  “Three carats.”

  Two audible whistles come from the other diners.

  “I think the ring is caught in such a way that as it moves, she gets some air flow from the band itself,” he explains. “The problem is that the ring could cause damage to the esophagus. We need to get her to a hospital immediately.”

  Shannon’s frantic hand finds mine. Her lips are tinged with purple. But she’s breathing.

  The elevator doors open and clattering in the foyer makes me turn and look. In walks a team of paramedics, one carrying a big tank of oxygen. The doctor visibly relaxes.

  His wife rubs Shannon’s shoulder. “It’ll be okay. You’re going to be fine.” She looks at me. “Why was the ring in the tiramisu?”

  “That is a good question,” I growl. “It was supposed to be in the Champagne, where she could see it! Not buried under a bunch of cream and rum-soaked ladyfingers.”

  Shannon can’t even look at me. A paramedic straps an oxygen mask over her head and starts murmuring something to her in calm, dulcet tones. I should be comforting her. I should be fixing this.

  I should have never put her in this position in the first place.

  Chandra stands by, wringing her hands, and I march over to her. “Why the hell was the ring in her food?”

  She looks shocked. “Those were your written instructions. The ones Giuseppe gave us! We thought it was unconventional, but you asked that we follow his specifications.”

  “I never wanted the ring in her tiramisu!”

  “Waste of perfectly good tiramisu,” some woman’s voice says from a distant table.

  Grace’s call about Giuseppe sends a chill down my back. Damn. That must be what this was about.

  The paramedics hustle Shannon out to the foyer. I follow, Chandra at my heels and apologizing profusely. I cut her off with a comment that we’ll deal with this later, and then Shannon disappears into a crowd of first responders, leaving me to merge my two selves back into one again and follow her to the hospital.

  The string quartet appears, the violinist playing the carefully-arranged song “Such Great Heights,” the one that reminds me so much of us. Her eyes go feral as she watches the tuxedoed string player dip his bow in confusion, his note going flat as the elevator doors close.

  Perfect.

  Just perfect.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Emergency Room...

  “I got your text!” Amanda says in a hushed tone as she pulls back the curtain to Shannon’s little room in the ER. The thin hissing sound has been steady now for the past hour, but Shannon’s lips and fingernails are a light shade of purple that fills me with unending fear.

  “Thanks for coming,”

  “She swallowed the ring?” Amanda asks in a tone of voice that somehow manages to bridge incredulity and defeatism. Not many people can pull that off.

  “Ung ung ung,” Shannon says, giving Amanda raised eyebrows and a sad look. I think she’s saying I am here but it’s hard to tell given her ability to use only one syllable.

  “Sorry.” Amanda can speak Ring, apparently, and looks at Shannon. “You swallowed it?”

  Shannon nods sadly.

  “It’s seriously stuck in your throat?”

  Shannon widens her eyes and manages to say duh without saying the word.

  “Why on earth would you do this to her!” Amanda says to me savagely.

  Here it comes.

  “This was never part of the plan, Amanda. The ring was supposed to be in the Champagne.”

  “How original.”

  Shannon folds her arms over her chest and she and Amanda share a knowing look.

  “The tiramisu was a breakdown in communication.”

  “How do you get from a ring in a glass to a ring in a layered dessert made of orgasmic per
fection?” she asks. Shannon’s eyes widen and if she could speak, she’d say, I know, right?

  “Once we get the ring out of Shannon I’ll deal with that. Right now we’re more concerned about her oxygenation than on pointing fingers of blame.”

  Speaking of blame, in walks my brother. “Dude, I cannot believe you get her to swallow and it’s a—Oh.” He’s texting as he talks to me, eyes down, until he looks up and bangs into Amanda’s backside.

  “Sorry. I—”

  They both freeze. He doesn’t even look at her, can’t even see her face because he’s behind her, but he inhales deeply, eyes closing, and says quietly, “Amanda?”

  Who knew eyeballs had that much white on them? Amanda’s (ample) chest begins to rise and fall like a drunk frat boy playing with a shake weight.

  “Andrew,” she says in a deadly voice.

  My brother turns on his heel and walks right out of the room, head down, pretending to text. Amanda spins around, too, and follows him, calling back, “I’ll get Shannon a latte and be back in a minute.”

  “That was weird,” I say to Shannon.

  She looks around the bed furtively, then motions to me, pretending to write.

  Ah. Pen and paper. I reach for my phone, open a notes app, and hand it to her.

  What are those two doing? she types.

  “Hell if I know.”

  Follow them.

  “I’d rather drink battery acid than see what they’re about to do, Shannon.”

  Don’t make jokes about burning throats, she writes.

  Damn.

  Does he like her? she types.

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Why doesn’t he ask her out? she writes.

  I take the phone from her, read the question, and then look at her. She’s so pale, her face covered with an oxygen mask. She’s hissing like Darth Vader and wearing a pulse ox monitor.

  “Honey. Shannon,” I say, sitting on the bed next to her, careful not to disturb the tubes. “Andrew and Amanda’s screwed up relationship really, really shouldn’t be the center of your attention right now.”

  Tears fill her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, baby. I am so, so sorry,” I say, finally able to give her the quiet devotion she deserves. “I am an idiot.”

  She just nods assent.