by Julia Kent
A prickly heat begins where my heart lives. She’s not talking about me and Declan. She’s talking about her.
And someone other than my dad.
“How do you know this, Mom?” I whisper. Nothing else matters right now. Her eyes are filled with pain and memory, and she opens her mouth to respond, time moving slower than normal.
Tap tap tap. “Shannon?” It’s Declan’s voice now.
Damn. “Almost ready!” I say so brightly I could light Los Angeles at night through sheer cheeriness.
Mom’s face goes back to neutral. What just passed between us feels too important not to talk about, and yet…
I grab my purse and check for everything I need. Wallet, cash, makeup, EpiPen—
“You have your EpiPens?” she asks, as if reading my mind.
I pull both of them out of my purse and wave them like magic wands. Which they kind of are.
“Yep. One in case and one as backup.”
Worry flickers in her eyes. “Don’t stray too far from a path. You know what happened last time you were stung.”
I’m highly allergic, as we learned in kindergarten when I stepped on a bee and my foot blew up. I’ve been stung twice since then, and the last time the anaphylactic reaction was bad enough to cause throat swelling.
“It’ll be dusk soon. Not much chance.”
“But still.” Her voice shifts to a register that makes my heart ache. I remember how terrified she was for the two bee stings she was there for. The third happened three years ago when I was still in college, and while the paramedics were fast and acted effectively, it was harrowing and horrifying.
I’m careful, though. Determined, methodical, and I know exactly what to do down to the letter. If stung, call 911. Then swallow Benadryl. Inject myself with an EpiPen. Get to safety quickly. Receive medical attention. That’s it.
Oh. And pray.
I’ve been trained on EpiPen use. I take first-aid classes and CPR classes every year. I’ve watched videos over and over on treating anaphylactic reactions to bee stings, and I’ve been lectured by countless doctors. Mom and Dad had a 504 plan for me in school—like a special plan for kids with medical issues that might interfere with schooling—and while life doesn’t offer adults 504 plans, I have had to develop one in my own mind.
“I am fine, Mom.”
“You’ve never been the outdoorsy type. I don’t understand why he can’t just take you to that lovely restaurant at the top of Prudential building.”
I do not confess that I haven’t told Declan about my allergies. Who throws that out after being asked on a date? Third date. Deadly allergies are definitely third-date material.
“I’ll be fine.” My voice has an edge. I can feel it as the words come out. It’s threatening to cut me. I have to get out of here.
Alarm speeds through her face as she looks at me. Really looks at me. “Of course you will.” She straightens her shoulders. “You’ll be fine. It’s your father I have to worry about. Do you have any idea what he must be going through out there, talking to a billionaire while wearing flannel pajama pants with penguins all over them?”
Bzzzzz. My phone and Mom’s phone buzz at the exact same time with a text.
It’s Steve’s mother’s phone, which is still in my contacts list. “I know that’s not Monica, because Monica can barely dial a mobile phone, much less figure out how to text. Leave me alone, Steve!” I mutter.
I read the text:
Dinner. Tomorrow night. You and me. I’m buying. :) Steve
“Say yes,” Mom says. I look up, expecting her to be reading over my shoulder, but she’s looking at her own phone. Then I realize Steve has copied my MOM into the same text message.
“He invited you, too?”
“No. He started looping me in to your texts to make sure I tell you to answer him.”
I have seven thousand ways to respond to that, most of which involve throwing something at his smug face. But then I realize that if I don’t see him, this will never end. It’s easier to have a farewell dinner than to keep ignoring him.
Fine. I text back. Make reservations at the same restaurant we were at yesterday. Seven. KTHXBYE!
I do that for two reasons. 1) He hates to spend money. Too bad. 2) He hates textspeak.
Okay, maybe for a third…because a part of me does want to see him.
“Shannon,” Declan says from behind the door. “If this is a bad night…”
I grab the doorknob like it’s a life preserver and yank it open.
There’s Dad, wearing my penguin pants, looking about as comfortable as Steve at a monster truck pull. Declan is the picture of calm and cool, unruffled and in the moment, though he seems primed, ready to move on and get the hell out of here.
Me too. Not the calm part, but the leaving part.
I pull Dad aside. “May I have a word?” Declan’s eyes scan my body as I try to catch his gaze to communicate that I’m happy to see him and that I’ll be with him in a minute. I fail because Declan’s too busy staring at my ass. Then my boobs. Back to my ass.
Men.
“Earlier in the week, when I went out with Declan, she shouted about prom and kissing through the open window. Please don’t let her do that when we leave. Please.” I keep my voice low. Declan leaves a decent distance between us, but I think he can hear.
I’m trying not to snicker at my dad’s outfit. He can tell.
“I promise,” Dad says, but he’s uncertain. Then his eyes light up. “I could keep her distracted, though.”
“Yes!”
“But…” He waggles his eyebrows like there’s a bug crawling on them. It’s weird enough that I cock my head and study him.
“Are you having a stroke?” I ask. I’ve read that people over fifty are more prone to get them.
“No!”
“Then what’s this?” I imitate him.
He bursts out laughing, tipping his head back. Declan looks at me with a quizzical look. I shake my head lightly and mouth, I’ll tell you later.
“That’s an old man trying to tell you I could distract your mother by attacking her,” Dad explains.
“Ewww.” I look at my open bedroom door. “Just do it in Amy’s room, okay?” I want to be able to sleep in my bed without having to call a priest to do a sexorcism.
He pulls his head back as if struck, then says sternly, “We would never have sex in your or Amy’s bed!”
“Good.”
“Only on your kitchen table,” Mom calls out.
“MOM!” Amy shouts.
“I kid!” Mom shudders. “I would never touch your father with dead mouse germs all over him.” She eyes him, leaning against my kitchen counter, two penguins trapped under his hip as he sips a cup of coffee. “Then again, he’s kind of cute in those jammy bottoms.”
Chapter Ten
Declan’s eyes lock with mine.
My mind goes quiet. The shift is so fast that it leaves a sort of ringing in my consciousness, like there’s an echo of the hustle-bustle of the craziness that just came to an abrupt halt. Like ringing a gong and hearing the lingering peal minutes later. It can’t be real, yet your mind invents it.
The clarity feels false, even though it isn’t. His eyes, though, tell me that it’s very much real. He smiles when he sees me, the grin a full expression of pleasure. There’s no leer, nothing suggestive, and it’s not one bit sultry.
It’s the smile of a guy who is happy to see me.
“You’re clothed,” he points out. “You look nice.”
“And she doesn’t look nice unclothed?” Mom asks with a tone of offense in her voice.
I blink rapidly. “I know what he means, Mom. He saw me with just my bra—” I say, rushing to fill the awkwardness.
Declan cuts me off, his words overpowering mine with a steady firmness that makes me go silent even though I’ve not been asked. “She looks beautiful all the time.” His tone makes Mom pause and blush, as if she’s the one in the wrong. Commanding and absolutely
certain of his own words, Declan is poised, confident, strong—
And wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Faded Levi’s that look like he was poured into them, with a silky cotton t-shirt the color of soft moss. Like me, he has a shirt tied around his waist, except his is a flannel tartan plaid. He’s wearing hiking boots that look well-used.
L.L. Bean could put him in a catalog and see a spike in sales. Women would lick the pages. Rugged sensuality oozes off him as he stares at me, though his words were for Mom.
Even Dad stands still with anticipation, waiting for Declan’s cue.
Mom clears her throat, thinking she should speak. “Of course she is.”
“You two need to get going,” Dad says. I realize the washing machine is on. He must be washing his jeans. “We’ll be there for a while.”
Mom’s just staring at Declan. He is focused on me. Chuckles is staring at the trash can, where Amy set the half-devoured mouse corpse on top of a precariously full pile of garbage.
“Let’s go,” I declare, grabbing Declan’s hand. It’s warm and soft and as his fingers squeeze mine a rush of heat fills me from head to toe.
But mostly right smack in my center.
I pull him down my front steps, which are so much easier to navigate in hiking boots, then stop. The only car that could possibly be his is a gleaming black SUV with a hood ornament that is code for luxury.
“This is mine. Climb on in,” he says, reluctantly letting go of my hand and unlocking the vehicle. The aroma of his cologne and well-kept leather waft out as I open the door, and when I slide into the passenger seat it’s like riding on a stick of soft butter. Why can’t they make panties out of this kind of upholstery?
“Nice,” I say, meaning it. The dashboard looks like something out of the movie Serenity, with more gadgets than I knew existed.
Declan catches me gawking and says, “It gets me where I need to go.”
“What’s your other car? The TARDIS?”
He laughs. That was a test. Any man who doesn’t know his basic Doctor Who lingo isn’t getting to first base with me.
Oh. Wait. He already has…
He starts the car, puts it in reverse, then pauses. Putting it back in park, he turns to me, his strong hand moving from the gearshift to my shoulder. Warm eyes meet mine and he says:
“Your dad was interesting. Is having a dead mouse drop in between us like that some sort of sign? Is it your family’s version of a horse head in my bed?”
I can’t laugh. Can’t scream, can’t cry, can’t anything. “That’s a mating ritual,” I finally squeak out.
He cocks one eyebrow and my lady parts all faint from sheer overwhelm.
“Did I pass?” His slow smile makes me melt.
“My cat coughed up the mouse right before you arrived,” I confess.
“Your sister told me.” He laughs. “I seem to bring some kind of trouble whenever I’m around you.”
My turn to raise an eyebrow, because—huh? He’s taking this on? I’m the one who has a dark cloud of surreal weirdness hovering over her. And I don’t mean my mother.
“It’s not you. It’s me,” I say.
“Don’t you need to save that line for when we break up?”
“We’re not together—” He cuts me off with a kiss that makes my toes curl, then pulls back, his palm caressing my jaw, thumb rubbing against the exact spot where my pulse was jamming like a reggae band.
“Let’s go drink wine in the woods and gorge on chocolate-covered strawberries,” he says, pulling away. He throws the car in reverse and begins to pull out of the spot.
“Are you sure you’re not part female?” I joke.
His eyes are dark and smoky, with a possessiveness I now know I’m not imagining. A raw attraction makes the air between us seem electrified. The car comes to a halt and he’s on me, mouth and hands everywhere, the interior space of the SUV narrowing to a pinprick, as if all time and space were in his palms, the soft skin of his mouth, the eager need of his tongue. My hands sink into his hair, roam down his neck and over his shoulders, our mouths and arms and legs searching for some truth we need to take a lot of time to find.
“Apparently I have something to prove,” he says, breathing hard against my ear, my fingers pausing at his waist, wanting to pull his shirt up so I can touch his hot skin. His chest rises and falls, pushing into my own yielding flesh as I burn with need for him. If I weren’t sitting in the passenger seat of a car my legs would wrap around his waist of their own volition and I’d violate public indecency laws right here in my own driveway, stripping us both naked and steaming the windows.
“You do?” is all I can manage to say.
“I’m all man, Shannon. Let’s make sure you know it by the time the night is over.” His eyes bore into mine. He is the only thing in the world right now. A thin sheen of sweat covers me, making his body slide against mine, our shirts tangled along with our limbs. My nipples tingle and I feel a direct line between every molecule in the space between us and my giant, throbbing self.
I can feel how much man he is.
I reach for him, pulling his head to mine, my own boldness a swift surprise. He doesn’t need to prove one damn thing to me.
“Just kiss me like that again,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer with words.
Continued in Shopping for a Billionaire 3…
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Other Books by Julia Kent
Suggested Reading Order
Her First Billionaire—FREE
Her Second Billionaire
Her Two Billionaires
Her Two Billionaires and a Baby
Her Billionaires: Boxed Set
It’s Complicated
Random Acts of Crazy
Random Acts of Trust
“Share Me” in Spring Fling: A New Adult Anthology
Maliciously Obedient
Suspiciously Obedient
Deliciously Obedient (the trilogy is done!)
About the Author
Text JKentBooks to 77948 and get a text message on release dates!
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Julia Kent turned to writing contemporary romance after deciding that life is too short not to have fun. She writes romantic comedy with an edge, and new adult books that push contemporary boundaries. From billionaires to BBWs to rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every book she writes, but unlike Trevor from Random Acts of Crazy, she has never kissed a chicken.
She loves to hear from her readers by email at [email protected], on Twitter @jkentauthor, and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/jkentauthor
Visit her blog at jkentauthor.blogspot.com
