Shopping for a Billionaire's Honeymoon

by Julia Kent

  Shannon’s family is more enmeshed than an octopus caught in a tuna net, so getting it right is a matter of degrees of strangulation. They don’t know how to let each other breathe alone. Maybe this is part of the answer to Shannon’s worries about money. I shouldn’t take it personally – and I don’t.

  Okay. I do. A little.

  I’ve grown up with everything I’ve ever needed. Wanted. More like whatever my father wanted for me. I can understand being upset over $700,000 like Marie is, but Shannon’s ludicrous idea that she needs to work because buying Grind It Fresh! might put us so close to the financial edge is...

  Insulting.

  She doesn’t mean it to be, but it is. I don’t get it. Her family is a strange bag of mixed signals. Jason refuses to let me pick up the tab on the rare occasions that we go out to dinner with Shannon’s parents, and yet he let me pay for extra speech therapy for our nephew, Tyler.

  All their debt could be wiped away with a check from me. Trust me, I know it could. I tried. Right before the wedding, when Marie was at her worst, I tried to bribe her.

  Yeah, I admit it. Wouldn’t you?

  I offered to pay off their mortgage and all their other debt if she’d lay off. Back off.

  Even Marie refused. Spouted nonsense about pride and not letting me take over the family and how just because I had gobs of money didn’t mean I could throw it around. How family was more important.

  And then she proceeded to buy $5,000 worth of tartan ribbon and charge it to Anterdec.

  It’s all another lie, isn’t it? Family matters most, but when I – a new member of their family – tries to help (set aside my motive for a second), I’m rebuffed. And now I have Shannon questioning whether I’m competent enough to manage money for us.

  Bzzzz.

  And that? My phone?

  The biggest lie of all is that answering that is important.

  Or that it ever was.

  A light little sniff, then a long sigh, comes from Shannon. She really is sleeping. Taking my chance, I grab the phone (which I didn’t shut off, as Abigail the attendant asked) and get out of my seat, ignoring the Seatbelt On sign.

  My plane. My choice.

  I’ll forgive the $700,000 if you have a girl, the text says.

  I know that isn’t Grace talking.

  I have two grandsons. I don’t need a third.

  Oh, Jesus Christ, I type back.

  He counts. He was a boy, she texts back.

  Marie, I’m blocking you, I reply.

  Not you too! Shannon already did! she answers.

  I look at Shannon and smile. I knew I married a smart woman. She must get her intelligence from Jason’s side of the family.

  Our reproductive efforts are none of your business, Marie. Shannon blocked you for a reason, I reply.

  Because you made her!!!!!!!!!! Marie texts back.

  ? I reply. She doesn’t even deserve actual words at this point. Just punctuation marks.

  She told me you made her. She said you were being an alphahole, she replies.

  Huh. Autocorrect must have really mangled whatever word it turned into “alphahole.”

  :) I type back.

  Close enough. Someone needs to make a smirk emoticon.

  That’s not funny, Declan! Her text has emojis I’ve never seen before. One of them looks exactly like the Turdmobile.

  Blocking you is funny, Marie.

  And then I block her.

  And laugh.

  Chapter 4

  Shannon

  “This is going to be great,” Declan says out of the corner of his mouth, hand on the small of my back, sliding to my hip and up my torso, the promise of sex in his touch as he brushes against the bottom curve of my breast. “A week of nothing but sex and time with you.”

  “And sex,” I whisper back.

  “And time with you.” He kisses my cheek.

  And sex.

  Finally. Our real honeymoon. One hundred sixty-eight hours of one hundred percent focus on each other.

  “Mr. McCormick!” A line of twenty hula dancers in traditional dress are lined up to form an aisle as we descend the stairs from the corporate jet, with two businesswomen in suits flanking them.

  “Ms. Spandau?” Declan asks. “Good to see you again.” Ms. Spandau wears a perfectly-tailored pale cream suit that hugs her curves like a two year old seeing her mommy for the first time in a week. With five-inch heels that show off calves with muscles that curl into an upside-down heart, and a bright, wide smile that acts like a second sun, Ms. Spandau intimidates me.

  Especially because I have a raging case of sex head, I tore my panties putting them on, and I think my shirt’s inside out.

  “I want to assure you that we’ve taken all appropriate measures to shield you,” she says to Declan, her face filled with that tightness workers get when they’re preemptively cushioning the blow they have to deliver to their boss.

  “Aloha,” the other suited woman says, slipping a lei over my head, making it so I can’t hear Declan’s response. These aren’t those cheesy leis you get in bulk at the dollar store. Oh, no. They’re real, made of carnations, orchids, and other flowers I can’t identify, and woven together with an artistry that speaks to expertise. The thoughtfulness and luxury make me feel welcome instantly.

  “Shield?” Declan asks, giving her the blank stare he’s practically patented, wrapping one arm around my waist possessively.

  Ms. Landau opens her mouth to respond. The other woman smiles at me. As she slips the lei over my head, I hear a buzzing sound in my ear. I falter, one of the flowers caressing my cheek, like silk and butter combined.

  Bzzz.

  And then her fingernail brushes over my ear and I feel a horrific pinch.

  Bzzz.

  “Bee!” I scream.

  The next ten seconds pass in slow motion, the tick-tock of my mind’s eye like a dented gong being pelted in a hailstorm.

  One: I rip the cord of flowers off me.

  Two: A bee lands on my ear.

  Three: Declan reaches into his breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out an EpiPen.

  Four: The bee flies off me, but lands on the lei, which bounces off Ms. Spandau and back in my face.

  Five: I enter a portal into hell.

  Six: The lei ricochets off me, onto Declan’s foot, while the bee dive-bombs me.

  Seven: I thought Hawaii didn’t have bees? Mom told me that. I’m going to kill Mom if I survive this. She said volcanic ash was Kryptonite to bees.

  Eight: I should have asked Pam for the truth.

  Nine: Declan bends down, pulling me with him.

  Ten: His palm glides up my leg, yanking my skirt to my hips, silky smooth fingers over the globe of my ass cheek, up to my hip. He wants to make love now? Here? Look, buddy...

  And at the eleventh second, I find myself across Declan’s knee, panty-covered ass exposed, the EpiPen in his hand, injected into my thigh.

  With twenty hula dancers gaping at me.

  Aloha.

  “This place is great! Did you know how great it would be? I never knew how beautiful the ocean is here in Hawaii. And volcanoes! Oh, my God, the volcanoes! They’re so tall! And the rocks are jagged and black, with the sky so blue. Wow, Declan, look at the mints they give you on the pillow here. They’re so big and flat!” I rip open the wrapper and shove the gooey chocolate-coated peppermint into my mouth, talking around it. “Can we get more of these? Of course we can! I’m Mrs. McCormick! I freaking own this place! At least for a little bit longer, right, hubby?”

  Adrenaline is a wonder drug. Adrenaline is my new best friend. Sorry, Amanda! You’re number two now. Get it? number two? Poop? The Turdmobile? HAHAHAHAHAHA.

  I didn’t get stung. Poor Ms. Spandau has a swollen eyelid from taking the hit, but I survived unscathed.

  Except for the EpiPen injection.

  Declan turned me into Speed Racer, Hammy the Squirrel, and the female version of the Flash with one well-executed allergy rescue
.

  Declan watches me, nodding lightly, his eyes filled with a mixture of appraisal and concern.

  “Yes.” He picks up the phone, murmurs into it, and sets the handset down.

  “Yes to what? Yes to getting more mints? Yes to the volcanoes being so amazing?” I race across the room to our patio, the railing separating our private space from the soft sand, and squeal, “I can’t believe I’m in Hawaii! You brought me here! I’m halfway across the world from everything I’ve ever known and you’ve made all my dreams come true!” I fling my arms into the air and do my best Kate Winslet Titanic imitation, except there’s no wind, no Jack behind me, and leaning on the railing makes me pitch forward and almost fall over.

  Declan makes a strange grunting noise in the back of his throat as he grabs the waistband of my skirt and rights me.

  “Can we go hiking? Look at that hiker up there! He’s wearing blue. I want to wear blue. Blue blue blue. You ever notice how that word stops making sense if you say it enough times in a row? Blue blue blue blue blue.” I point to the black cliffs on a volcano behind us. “I want to do that.”

  “Shannon, he’s rock climbing.”

  “That sounds like fun! Let’s go. Right now.” I grab his hand and yank him toward the door.

  “We can’t go rock climbing. The resort doctor barely cleared you for coming back to the room. You need rest.”

  “Rest? Rest? Pfft. Who can rest when the world is so new and inviting and free and ahhhhhhhh!”

  “Shannon,” he says in a low sigh.

  “Penis!”

  “What?”

  “Penis penis penis penis penis. See? It sounds weird, too, if you repeat it enough. Any word does. Why haven’t I noticed that before? Penis feels really funny in my mouth.” I open my jaw as much as possible and mouth the word over and over.

  Declan reaches for the paper the clinic doctor gave us. Once we ascertained that I wasn’t in mortal danger, that Ms. Spandau isn’t allergic to bees, and that Declan blew his adrenaline wad on my ass for nothing, a quick once-over from the resort’s MD cleared me.

  To be fair, Dec did the right thing. The doctor praised him.

  But no good deed goes unpunished.

  “How to counteract the effects of adrenaline injection,” he mutters to himself, frowning. “Hmm. Nothing here.” He picks up his phone and taps.

  “Who are you calling?”

  He gives me one finger.

  I bite it. Hard.

  “SHANNON!” he booms, pulling away, shaking it like a thermometer. Deep tooth marks mar his second knuckle.

  “You taste good.” I smack my lips. “Like a salt lick. Lick lick lick. Ever notice how stupid that word sounds if you say it enough? Lick lick lick lick lick...”

  I suddenly realize that I can touch the tip of my tongue to my nose. Never been able to do that before.

  “Eck! Eck! Eee uht I an ooo ih I ung?” I grunt, trying to get his attention. Adrenaline must make your tongue longer. They should sell it in sex toy stores.

  WOO HOO!

  He gives me a scowl as he talks on the phone. “Grace? I need you to find out how to counteract the effects of adrenaline injection.” He pauses. “Yes, that’s what I said.” Pause. “No, it’s Shannon.” Pause. “She’s fine.” Pause. “Well, fine might be an exaggeration. She’s in no medical danger, but...” He drops his voice to a husky murmur.

  I unpack everything in our bags in thirty seconds, then spot the coffee maker.

  “Oooohhh, coffee.”

  He grabs my arm. Kinda firmly. Like, really firmly. “Caffeine is the last thing you need.”

  “But I am a caffeine empress! The Queen of Kona! That would make a great marketing campaign, wouldn’t it, Dec? See, I can work on our honeymoon, too. I am a wealth of ideas.”

  He rubs his hand across his eyes and looks up to the ceiling, as if praying.

  I start undressing, stripped naked in seconds.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Putting on hiking clothes.”

  “Shannon, can you wait a minute? I’m on the phone with Grace.”

  “Nope.” I slide on knee-length Lycra sports pants and slip my arms into a purple V-neck shirt.

  “Grace? What? Nothing? No advice on counteracting an EpiPen when it wasn’t needed? No, we asked the doctor. Really. Damn. Thanks.” He slides the phone into his pocket and plants his hands on his hips, staring at me.

  I imitate him.

  “Did you know that putting your hands on your waist like that for twenty seconds or more actually increases testosterone levels in the blood?” I tell him. “And if you do this—” I raise my hands in the air like a runner crossing the finish line, victorious—“it increases testosterone even more?”

  “I did not know that. Where did you learn that?”

  “Pam.”

  “Of course.”

  “Not from my mother!” I laugh. He flinches. “She’s the one who told me swallowing semen clears up acne!”

  Huh. Didn’t know Declan had that many muscles in his face. If he squints any harder he’ll turn into a shrunken head.

  I start jogging in place. “Let’s go! I’ve always wanted to be one of those people who run on the beach. Let’s be that couple, Declan! Let’s run free!”

  “You forgot to put on a sports bra, honey.”

  I look down and nearly take out one of my eyes.

  I stop jogging.

  “Oops. Knew I forgot something.”

  I strip off my shirt.

  Declan grins, closing the gap between us, hands on my breasts. “Now that’s more like it,” he says in a low voice.

  “Take off your clothes,” I order, moving to the closet.

  “Aye, aye, Captain!”

  I fling his workout clothes at him.

  He’s still undoing his tie and gives me a puzzled look. “What’s that?”

  “Workout clothes! Remember?” I grab my sports bra and put it on. “We’re going to be beach runners! Beach beach beach beach beach!”

  He looks at my chest. “Your bra is on backwards.”

  I look down. The elastic racerback jersey runs between my breasts, which poke out on either side like headlights. My chest looks like twin botflies on steroids.

  I wriggle back out of it and turn it around.

  “Better?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “C’mon!” My purple Lycra shirt is on in seconds. “Let’s go!”

  “Shannon.” He’s not even out of his business clothes, fingers pausing at the final shirt button.

  “What?”

  “You’re going to crash soon.”

  “Crash? Fuck no!”

  He startles.

  “What? I can say that word.”

  “You never say it.”

  “Fuck.” I then repeat it twelve times until I sound like a chicken.

  And then I do the chicken dance. Three times. I sing the whole song, too, which surprises me because who knew I had it memorized?

  He rolls his eyes, but does link arms with mine during the accordion solo as we do-si-do.

  “Never say never. I can say whatever I want. Macarena’s next. Bet I know all the words!”

  He stops the square dance and resumes his testosterone-increasing stance.

  “Honey, the doctor said the adrenaline surge you’re going through will end shortly. You didn’t get stung, so the EpiPen affects you differently. You’ll get the shakes and need rest. We can’t—”

  I sprint for the beach, his voice in the background, shouting my name.

  I become the wind.

  “Your mints are here!” he calls out.

  I halt.

  I reverse course.

  Mints? Screw the wind.

  Yum.

  I get back to the open wall and find him standing there, in shirtsleeves and suit pants, holding a basket filled with mints, wearing a look of evaluative contemplation that makes me feel like a lab specimen. A hotel worker is next to him, grinning in that fake cus
tomer service way that makes me think the guy secretly runs one of those “Customers We’d Like To Smother In Our Sleep” blogs.

  The kind I used to read for fun. And write for.

  I open five mints at once and mumble “thank you.”

  “Is there anything else, Mr. McCormick?” The hotel staff person looks at us with bright, cheery eyes, like a killer clown before the machete appears. His name tag says Frank.

  “Yes! A latte,” I chirp. Might as well be caffeinated if I’m about to be murdered by a deranged juggalo.

  “Decaf,” Declan whispers to the guy.

  “Decaf? No!” I squeal. “What a waste! Drinking decaf coffee is like going to a sex toy shop and the only item you buy is a copy of People Magazine!”

  Mr. Frank Bright Eyes looks panicked.

  Declan waves the guy off and pulls me into his arms. My mouth is sticky and my hands are full of multiple mints in various states of unwrapping.

  “You’re squishing my mints,” I mutter into his chest. He’s undone enough shirt buttons that my lips press against the dark hair that’s sprinkled across his pecs.

  “That’s a new euphemism for breasts.”

  “No, really. The chocolate is melting in my hands, which are pressed against your belly button.”

  “You can lick it off later.”

  “That’s a waste of really, really good chocolate.”

  His abs tighten. He takes a deep breath.

  “Shannon. Shannon,” he stresses, his arms caging me, bands of steel that don’t care if the mints melt everywhere. I’m a live wire and he’s grounding me. “You just went through a huge shock. I’ve told hotel staff to clear the area of all flower blossoms. They’re preparing an interior room for us to avoid any more bee incidents.”

  “No! I want to be on the beach! I researched this! The chance of a bee on the beach is super slim. No, Declan! I didn’t get stung. I want the outdoor room! I don’t want my damn allergy to ruin everything!” My hands turn viscous and sticky. I start to cry.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, soothing me with a hand that strokes my hair.

  “It’s not fair,” I sob.

  “I know. That bee came damn close.”

  “I’m not upset about the bee.”

  “Then what?”

  “All this great chocolate just melted into your belt buckle.”