Shopping for a Billionaire's Honeymoon

by Julia Kent

  He lets out an exasperated sigh.

  And then I begin to shake.

  “Here it comes,” he says in a resigned tone, pulling back. He looks down at his waistline. “It looks like a honeymoon Rorschach test,” he notes.

  I just cry. All my energy, all the zing, has turned against me. The adrenaline has become a traitor, now making me feel anxious, tired and wired, like I need to crawl out of my skin, power wash it, and put it back on. His hands go to his hips and I put my sticky, chocolate-coated palms on my cheeks and sob.

  “Shannon?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Let’s go to bed.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m sticky and the mints are gone and I’m a mess and you’re stuck with me and you married a freak and the bee almost stung me and what am I going to—”

  And just like that, every ounce of energy disappears from me, like common sense fleeing my mother at a rummage sale in a wealthy Wellesley neighborhood church.

  I stumble to the bed, stretch out—

  And the world disappears.

  Declan

  If this billionaire thing doesn’t work out, I have a future as an EpiPen injector.

  Not that I have to worry. The billionaire thing is guaranteed.

  Shannon drops like a balloon filled with helium, let go and allowed to wind down in a big, open room. The nonstop chatter slows, giving me more time to process the fact that she looks and acts like Marie when she’s high on adrenaline. Their hair color is completely different, and while the shape of Shannon’s eyes are like her mother’s, and the babbling makes the DNA trail obvious, different speech patterns and mannerisms make them so different.

  Her steady breathing allows me to breathe. To drop my shoulders. To unclench my fists.

  To drop my guard, just a little.

  That was close.

  Too damn close.

  No, she wasn’t stung. But sheer luck stopped that from happening.

  I don’t operate on luck.

  Empires aren’t built on luck.

  People don’t magically live by relying on luck.

  But it certainly doesn’t hurt.

  My palms are on my hips, fingertips sticky from chocolate, my navel coated in mint smears. I reach down with my index finger and swipe some chocolate off my abs, licking it.

  Not bad.

  I let out a long sound, a sigh that turns into a growl, the last hour seeking solitude through exhalation, the emergency evacuating my body the only way it knows how. If Shannon weren’t in such a strange state, I’d go for a long run on the beach, but I need to stay and watch her, even just for the next hour or so.

  My hands shake and I rake one through my hair. It gets caught, a few strands plucking like broken guitar strings.

  I look at my hand.

  Chocolate.

  My phone rings. An actual ring and not a bzzz, which means Grace is calling me.

  “Grace?” I keep my voice low, not wanting to rouse Shannon, who is snoring steadily now, mouth open, chocolate-smeared face staining the bedsheets.

  She’s still the most beautiful woman I know.

  “I did damage control with Blanton Jean-Pierre Koshigiri, who says his friends call him Skipper.”

  “Okay. Skipper. Got it.”

  “But you can call him Mr. Koshigiri.”

  “Haha.”

  “That wasn’t a joke, Declan. That’s a direct quote from him.”

  I sigh. It’s a different sound than the one I made a moment ago. “Let’s fix this, Grace.”

  “On it already. Turns out he’s a huge Yes fan.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” She laughs at her own joke.

  “You know what this means,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Yep. If Andrew weren’t in Vegas trying to figure out who he married, I’d get him to troubleshoot for you. Doesn’t he own some rare vinyl from the group?”

  “Yes.”

  She laughs again.

  “Can you check with auction houses and get something rare from them? Something Skipper doesn’t already own?”

  “That’s Mr. Koshigiri to you, Declan.”

  “I’m not in the mood, Grace.”

  “Well, I’m a few weeks away from retirement, so I’m going to have fun, Declan.”

  “Shannon was nearly stung by a bee an hour ago, Grace.”

  I can feel her posture change over the phone. “I thought you said earlier she was okay.”

  The bedcovers rustle as Shannon rolls over onto her back, chocolate in the valley between her breasts, a weird snorting sound making her choke. She lets out a long sigh in her sleep and her face goes slack.

  “‘Okay’ might not quite describe her.”

  “She’s all right?” Grace’s voice goes tight and tidy, ready for action.

  Ready to fix it all.

  “She’s fine. Crazy, but fine.”

  “That pretty much describes Shannon in a nutshell, Dec,” she says in a warm, motherly voice. “Add in the word ‘loving’ and you’ve got the three legs of the stool that is your wife.”

  Your wife. The fading sun shines through just enough to catch my wedding ring and blind me.

  “You would know,” I choke out. “You’ve got one, too.” Grace is gay. Came out years ago, Married a rugby-playing woman in her seventies about five years ago.

  “Mine’s crazy in a different way. Just ran another Tough Mudder.” Grace made a series of tsk tsk tsk sounds. “But she doesn’t have a bee allergy and I don’t have your history. How are you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Cut the bullshit with me, Declan. I know you better than that.”

  She does. No one else does.

  Other than Shannon.

  “I’m -- ” I blow out a long breath, at a loss for words. “I’m overwhelmed.”

  “You should be. You have quite the panicked staff at Grind It Fresh!”

  “What?”

  “They’re worried you’re cleaning house.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because when your father and brother acquire companies, that’s what they do most of the time.”

  I pause for a few seconds. “Is that why the HR people keep texting me? And the Fair trade coordinator is on my ass about details I don’t need to know yet? They’re overdoing it to prove themselves?”

  “Maybe you’ve brought it on yourself. Food for thought.”

  “Right. That’s all manageable. It’s the rest that’s overwhelming. Dad won’t stop texting me.”

  “Not surprised.”

  “Marie, too.”

  “I’m shocked!” she says in a mocking tone, then laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that makes me think of my teen years. Off to my left, Shannon stirs, curling her legs in. I take the bedspread and pull it over her, turning her into a human burrito.

  “She wants Jason’s winnings.” Grace knows all about what happened at our resort last night.

  “Who wouldn’t? But your father and your mother-in-law need to back off. I’ll run interference for you.”

  “You know any good hitmen?”

  “I don’t think it’s gone quite that far yet.”

  “That’s not a ‘no.’”

  “I plead the Fifth. A good admin knows someone who knows someone for every situation.”

  “And that is exactly why you’re coming with me to Grind It Fresh!”

  She groans. “I can tell you’ve recovered just fine from Shannon’s bee emergency. Goodbye, Dec -- ”

  “Wait! I need diamonds.”

  “Diamonds?”

  “Diamonds. They fix everything. I need to make it up to Shannon.”

  “Make up what?”

  “Ignoring her on our honeymoon.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Between the call with Koshigiri, my father and her mother, I’ve been ignoring her.”

  “I’m sure she understands about Marie and James.�
��

  “She doesn’t know about them.”

  Silence.

  “You are starting off your marriage by keeping secrets from your wife?”

  “Excuse me?” Her tone makes me hold the phone away from my ear.

  “You’re lying to her about why you’re on the phone all the time?”

  “She thinks I’m working. It’s no big deal.”

  “Are you sleeping with her?”

  “GRACE!”

  “It’s a reasonable question, Declan. Fifty percent of all couples don’t consummate the marriage on their wedding night.”

  “Did you get that statistic from Pam?”

  “No. From personal experience. When Jeannie and I got married, we were so exhausted we -- ”

  “NO! I mean, yes! Yes, we consummated – I am ending this conversation, Grace.”

  “Before you end it, what kind of diamonds?”

  “Big ones.”

  “How big?”

  “Studs. Earrings.”

  “Big studs for Shannon. Got it.”

  Click.

  Chapter 5

  Shannon

  My face is stuck to the pillow. The room smells like a salty Altoid mint. I feel curiously spicy. My hands are pressed between my knees and every muscle is tense and liquid at the same time.

  And someone is pulling my hair in the least erotic way ever.

  I sit bolt upright. The pillow tries to come with me.

  “Dec?” I croak out. A huge breeze lifts the billowing curtains on the side of the room that’s open and facing the ocean.

  “Shannon?” His voice is soft with concern. I hear a shh shh sound as he walks across the room, and then a green bottle, slick with condensation, is thrust into my hand.

  “Drink some water. The doctor said you need to hydrate and eat protein.”

  I dutifully sip. It’s sparkling water, and the bubbles swell at the back of my throat, but I gag it down. Two more sips and I find myself frantically chugging it, parched.

  “What happened?”

  “The EpiPen adrenaline got to you. You crashed.”

  “How long was I asleep?” I look outside. It’s dark.

  “Five hours.”

  “Five hours?”

  “You’re jet-lagged, too.”

  I notice a blue glow in the distance behind him. “Have you been working?”

  He doesn’t even look embarrassed. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I wasn’t tired.” He brushes his fingertips along my jaw line, pressing hard, then pulling back. He pops his index finger into his mouth and smiles. “You taste good.”

  I reach up. My face is a wall of goo.

  “Oh, God,” I groan. “I must look awful.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “You’re just saying that because you have no choice. You married me.” I look at my left hand. My fingers are filthy with chocolate around my wedding ring. “You’re stuck with me, so you make the best of it.”

  He moves closer, his body heat preceding him. The air is full and warm, like a lover’s embrace. He’s dressed in a lightweight blue shirt and a tight t-shirt, barefoot and casual. No suit. I like it.

  He pulls me in for a sweet kiss.

  No. Really. A very, very sweet kiss.

  I laugh in the middle of it.

  His tongue parts my lips, sweeping along the bottom. We taste like cocoa and peppermint, like salt and sleep, and soon I stop laughing, drawn to the divine between us, his hands under my shirt, mine pulling on the thick hair at the nape of his neck, and he’s moving me onto my back, the pillow finding its place as we warm together, melting.

  Literally melting the sticky confection that covers me.

  And now him.

  “You’re not only stuck with me, you’re stuck to me,” I whisper-giggle. He smells fresh, like soap and shaving cream, and when I run my fingers through his air, it’s barely damp.

  He answers with a kiss.

  “You didn’t – my mother doesn’t know about the EpiPen incident, right?” I ask, suddenly filled with the tornado of details that whirls within after a long, unexpected nap.

  “You think I would voluntarily contact your mother?”

  I punch him lightly in the arm. “Hey.”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “Good. The last thing I need is for Mom to steal an Anterdec jet and appear on the beach while we’re swimming.”

  “Say that three times and it might happen,” Dec says in a low voice of warning. “Don’t tempt fate.”

  I bite my lips. He laughs, a rumbling, loose sound that makes me melt.

  “We need a shower,” I say suggestively, heat pooling between my legs, the exhaustion of moments ago dissipating. I’m hollow and full, emerging from a drained nightmare of adrenaline and I need to reboot, recharge.

  “I’ll lick you clean.” His voice is rough and low, filled with a promise that’s almost a threat.

  I shiver as he dips his head down, biting my shirt, suckling. The sound drives me crazy, the feather-light flick of his tongue across my aching nipple forging anticipation in every inch of my tingling skin. He has all of me, rapt with attention, the Pacific breeze accompanying him.

  Tap tap tap.

  I jolt.

  He doesn’t stop, his maddening tongue playing favorites, hand sliding my shirt up to reveal my navel, his mouth covering it, tongue teasing the soft center.

  Tap tap tap.

  “Is someone at the door?” I whisper.

  “Ignore it.”

  Knock knock knock. “Mr. McCormick?”

  With a frustrated sigh that borders on a charge, Declan grudgingly gets off me, walking to the door, flinging it open. I scurry to cover myself. Looking down, I see there’s no way to make myself presentable, so fleeing to hide in the bathroom is my only option.

  “We are so deeply gratified that you’ve chosen our resort for your honeymoon. Our staff has been instructed to give you and Mrs. McCormick the absolute best possible service,” says an obsequious voice, a man with a slight accent. I can’t quite pinpoint it, but I suspect if I peeked, he’d be Japanese.

  “Thank you.” Dec has an accent, too. It’s called Frustrated Hard-on.

  “We begin with an assortment of tropical fruits from our own organic farm here on the island,” he says. I hear the squeak of a room service cart, then a massive cloud of ripe fruit and coconut fills the air, my nostrils widening with interest. My mouth starts to water.

  “We appreciate it, Mr....” Declan’s being polite. Barely.

  “Miyadori.”

  See? I was right.

  “Mr. Miyadori, the attention to detail is most impressive.”

  “We are gratified to serve, Mr. McCormick.”

  “But.”

  I can hear the guy’s face fall.

  “My wife and I would like privacy above all.”

  “Of course! I assure you that you will not be interrupted by the press.”

  “The press? Did you say the press?” Declan’s voice goes low with tension.

  “Yes, sir. The paparazzi have been stalking the resort since they learned of your plans to honeymoon here.”

  I go numb.

  “How did they learn—oh, God,” Dec snaps. “Shannon!” While I know he’s not mad at me, I get that shame flush, the kind that makes me pause, inventorying myself. Nope. I’m clear.

  My heart slows back down and I poke my head out the door. “Yes?”

  Mr. Miyadori spots me and bows grandly.

  Do I curtsy? Not sure what to do here. I bow, but stumble, and end up face down on the tile floor, my hands leaving a thick brown swoosh on the clean tile.

  Mr. Miyadori rushes to my aid, Dec on his heels.

  “Oh, my goodness, Mrs. McCormick!” Mr. Miyadori is about two inches shorter than me, and I probably outweigh him by eighty...er, fifty pounds. He is elegant and slim, wrinkled and well preserved, and he has the instant charm of a man who puts people at ease for a living.


  On top of that, the man wears a white linen suit. You have to be damn confident to do that.

  “May I help you? Have you had an...accident?” He looks at all the places on my body where chocolate lives.

  I look down.

  Both of my nipples are soaking wet from chocolate and Declan’s attention moments ago.

  I cross my arms over the obvious.

  “I’m fine. Just fell asleep with pillow mints.”

  His eyebrows go up, the only sign of judgment in him. “They are our special secret. I will have a case delivered to your home in Boston.”

  I smile. “You’re my new best friend, Mr. Miyadori.”

  “Monthly,” he adds, bowing.

  Declan scowls.

  “The press? Shannon, did your mom tip them off?”

  “Why would you assume that? It’s more likely to be your dad! He thinks all the free PR from the wedding fiasco is great, remember? And by the way, he asked me the other day how I felt about having a camera crew at our first child’s birth.”

  “Funny,” Dec says, his eyes disturbed. “Your mom asked me the same thing.”

  My uterus ducks for cover.

  “I do not know, Mr. and Mrs. McCormick, who told the press about you. I assure you that none of my staff would ever breach security. But they do indeed know. We’ve placed you in your oceanside villa under an assumed name.”

  “Which is?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Raleigh!”

  I start gasping. Dec gives me a frown, and then his face slowly turns red.

  “What?” I cry out. “Why that name?” My ex-boyfriend Steve’s last name is Raleigh.

  “One of the managers suggested we pick a bland, neutral name and happens to have a son who attends a university in North Carolina.” He tilts his head, trying to understand our distress. “Is there a problem?”

  “Pick a different name,” Declan orders through clenched teeth.

  “Would you like to choose? I will make an immediate order and inform the staff.”

  “Can’t be Jacoby,” I muse. “And certainly not Coffin.”

  “Tapas,” Declan announces.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Tapas?” I chortle, the sound like tiny bubbles in my throat.

  “Make it so,” he dictates to Mr. Miyadori, who nods and leaves, departing with apologies and assurances that all form a blur in our minds.

  “Mrs. Raleigh!” I whoop.