Shopping for a Billionaire 3
Page 7
Declan’s face goes tight and angry. “Not only is he an asshole, he’s a dangerous little shit. Leaving you in a medical crisis.” With a hand so tight I’m afraid he’ll shatter his wine goblet, he grabs the wine and drinks it all down in a series of fast gulps that make his neck stretch, muscles on display.
“You learn a lot about people in a crisis.”
Chapter Eight
My words hang there as he stares at me a few beats longer than normal. My heart is throbbing about two feet lower on my body, our eyes connecting for seconds longer than they should, the air warm and charged.
“You learn everything you need to know,” he declares.
“Then you now know that I will turn you into a Viagra eater in a crisis.”
He wants to laugh but doesn’t let himself. “I think, in a true emergency, that you click out of this insecure mode you live in and the core person inside picks up.”
I lean forward on my elbow, pushing my plate away, and reach for my wine. Two sips later and I ask, “Tell me more about this core.” My actual core pulses from down below, wanting him to touch it. I could give him GPS coordinates at this point. Hell, I could take my leftover food on my plate and create a food sculpture map to help him.
“You first. Tell me what you think about me.” What guy does this? HUH?
“What I think about you? You’re a superman, Declan. You’re Hot Guy. I’m Toilet Girl. I’m wondering why”—I gesture around the room—“you picked me.”
“Tsk tsk,” he chides. “That’s not what I asked.”
“Okay, what I think about you.”
“What you think about me. Not what you think about ‘Declan McCormick.’” Yes, he uses finger quotes. “What you think about me.” His eyes are soulful. Serious. Contemplative and evaluative. He’s asking a very different question in those eyes than he’s saying with his mouth.
“You. Just…you. Not the image. The man.”
His lids close and he lets out a long sigh. “Yes.”
“I think you’re an enigma because I don’t know you that well.” His eyes fly open. “And yet I feel like I’ve known your forever.” He reaches for my hand and I grasp his, hard.
“I feel the closest I’ve ever felt to being myself when I’m with you. Whoever that is. You don’t judge me. You don’t shame me or act like I’m the outsider in everything. You don’t use sarcasm like it’s a tool or a weapon, and you speak so plainly and clearly it’s like you’ve invented a new language.”
The room goes still. The lighthouse light stops. We’re lit by candle and the flicker makes shadows shimmer across his face in a pattern that burns into my memory as it unfolds. I will never forget this moment until the day I die, which will hopefully be when we are in our nineties, in bed after making love, and holding hands.
“You’re this bad-boy billionaire—” He starts to protest and I hold up a hand, brushing my fingers against his lips. “That’s what your image says. Billionaire. You’re the jet-setting Boston Magazine society pages poster boy whose father built a crazy-massive empire. You’re one of the Bachelor Brothers everyone talks about. You and Andrew and Terrance are all over the local blogs, the free grocery-store newspapers, the Boston Globe, all the magazines. Women like Jessica Coffin want to marry you and have posh little babies and host Beacon Hill ballroom parties in your townhomes with the warped eighteenth century glass windows. The ones the rest of us only see from the outside in the summer when we can scrape together enough money to afford to take a long ride on a Duck Tour.”
He chuckles against my hand, then kisses my palm, pressing it against his face.
“Go on.”
“You want more?”
“Hell yes, I want more.”
“No.” His eyes widen a bit with surprise. I’ve challenged him. He doesn’t smile, but the eyes stay intrigued. “Your turn,” I add.
A long pause. Too long. The room feels so small, so warm as I’m under his scrutiny, my request feeling like a gauntlet thrown on the ground too hard.
And then:
“You make me think about my life beyond the date, the kiss, the sex, the ride home.”
He stands abruptly, eyes filled with more emotion that I can’t interpret. In a flash, I’m in his arms, his mouth on mine, the taste of wine on his lips, his tongue, making my head spin even more. My hands slip around his waist and untuck his shirt, reaching up to feel his bare skin.
Declan pulls back, our mouths an inch from each other. “When I look at you I can see my future roll out in one long laugh, like a red carpet of fun and intelligence and hope. A ripple of joy that stretches into the horizon until it disappears. Not because it ceases to exist, but because it’s infinite.”
My heart presses directly against his, and the two beat in sync. Our foreheads touch and his eyes blur as my vision goes hazy. I close my eyes, his words, oh, those words…
“I know who I am in the world, Shannon. I don’t need you to define me. What I need from you is what I can’t find on my own. And right here”—he lifts my chin, his eyes loving and warm—“right here.” His hand slides between us and settles on my heart. “Is where you redefine me.”
He kisses me gently.
A slow shake of his head makes me blink over and over, signals confusing and overwhelming. My knees tingle and his arms are the only thing pinning me to earth. “I don’t talk like this with the women I date. I’m not even quite sure where these words are coming from.” He smiles like he’s asking me to translate, but my heart is on edge, waiting for me. “My heart, I guess.”
Mine stands up like it’s doing the wave in a giant stadium filled with all the heartbreak I’ve experienced until now. And yes, it feels like it fills a stadium.
“I don’t feel this way with the women I date. But you’re nothing like the typical women in my life, and this is anything but a typical relationship.”
Our kiss deepens and I reach down, cupping his tight ass. Which buzzes suddenly. I jump and move my hand away.
He sighs. “I’ve been ignoring that for the past twenty minutes, but…”
I pull the phone out of his back pocket and give him an extra squeeze. He groans. I shrug. He looks at his phone and groans extra loud.
“Damn it. I have to call Grace.”
“I understand. She’s the ‘Other Woman.’” My turn to use finger quotes. They feel as stupid as they seem.
He cocks one eyebrow and stares me down.
“I’m joking.”
“I know you are, because Grace is old enough to be my grandmother and is married to a rugby player.”
I laugh. “He’d kill you if you made a move.”
“She.”
“She what?”
“Grace’s wife. Seventy-three-year-old female rugby player.”
Leaving me with that interesting tidbit, he turns away and speaks into the phone. I take the opportunity to check my own phone.
Twenty-seven messages. Nine from Steve:
What the hell, Shannon?
He’s such an asshole.
Are you safe?
I think he’s an emotional abuser.
Your car’s still here.
Should I call the police?
I texted your mother.
Thank him for paying.
Ask him what he thinks about Canford Industries and whether it’s a good stock buy.
Delete. I repeat it nine times. Go ahead, Steve. Call the police. The fact that you texted my mother means…
Yep.
Nine messages from her:
You ditched Steve for Declan? Good girl. Aim higher. Shall I start booking a spring 2015 spot at Farmington?
I don’t even read the other eight. Delete times nine.
Eight from Amanda:
Your mother is texting me. You ditched Steve?
Is Declan being emotionally abusive? Steve’s saying yes.
Steve is on Twitter creating hashtags about you.
Huh? I stop reading and call her, furious.
“Steve’s been calling and texting your mom and me about how Declan appeared and made you leave. How scared and vulnerable you looked. How he thinks you’re being emotionally abused.”
I just had the most mind-blowing sex of my life while straddling Declan in a limo and I have to deal with an ex who is acting like a middle school gossip girl?
“He WHAT?” I ask. A little too loudly, too, because Declan frowns and walks toward me.
“What’s wrong?” Declan asks. I can’t wiggle out of this one.
“Nothing,” I say with a chirp. I’m turning into Amanda. There’s no way I’m telling her what Declan just said to me, his heartfelt confession, because I can’t even wrap my head and heart around the words. He said everything I feel, except with clarity. When I think the same words they just come out like unintelligible babble. “Just a…work problem.”
“Not with an Anterdec property?”
“No, no…just a pest control issue,” I hiss. I motion for him to go back to his call and suddenly, the room feels cold. Broken. Lost.
Or maybe it’s just me.
I hear a decidedly masculine voice on the other end of Declan’s call, the dissonance between my assumption it was Grace and the male voice confusing. “Declan?” the voice says. “Just because you don’t like what I have to say about her doesn’t mean you should ignore me.”
I know that voice. It’s James, his father.
Declan frowns at his screen and shows me his back. Hmmm. “Her”? Does his father not like me? Or are they talking about some other woman? Of course they are. I’m being silly and self-centered. Why would James McCormick 1) not like me? That’s akin to not liking a golden retriever. I’m the epitome of nice and 2) even bother with me. He only noticed me because Declan pointed me out in that business meeting a few weeks ago, and almost bailed on a business trip to swing by my office, and saved my life…
Hmmm.
“Steve’s crazy, Shannon, and we know it. Don’t worry. Your mom thinks you’re a feminist hero, though, for going on one date and leaving with another guy.” Amanda’s voice slices through my rapid-fire thoughts.
“I wasn’t on a date with Steve! I’d rather get a Brazilian wax with battery acid.”
“Ouch,” she says in unison with Declan, who is now off the phone and behind me, all heat and muscle bearing down, moving with a slight rhythm that tells me exactly what—and who—is coming next.
“Gotta go, Amanda. We’re in a lighthouse in the harbor and Declan’s about to—”
Click.
“About to…?” He kisses my shoulder, taking the phone out of my hand as his thumb presses the “Power” button. His chest is hot against my back and as he leans around me to set down my phone on the table, I realize his shirt’s unbuttoned. Bare skin warms my cotton shirt and he turns me to face him.
I look at the L-shaped couches across the room, the flicker of fire in the glass door of the wood stove making the velvet seem so soft, so welcoming.
Like Declan’s hands as he lifts my shirt for what feels like the umpteenth time this evening.
“You,” he says with a growl as he reveals my bra, “are so hot.”
“I’m Toilet Girl.”
“You’re Hot Girl.”
“That’s your title.”
“I’m Hot Girl?” He takes my hand and puts it at his waistband as he undoes his belt. He has a point.
“I retract that statement.”
“This isn’t a newspaper article. You’re not a reporter.” His voice holds a smile. “Unless you’re undercover and investigating me.”
“I’m only dating you for the account,” I joke. “Nothing more. No Woodward and Bernstein. No deep cover.”
“If you’re only dating me for the account, then you nailed it two dates ago,” he whispers as he unclasps my bra. The shiver that runs through me vibrates into the scarred wood floor, carrying out into the ocean’s waves, triggering a tsunami somewhere in the Azores islands.
“Then why am I here?”
His mouth stops me from saying more, slanting against mine, his arms strong and lifting me to tiptoes. My bare breasts press against the heat of his pecs and the push of his abs against my belly makes me feel more intimate than when he was inside me, in the limo.
“Let me show you exactly why you’re here, Shannon.”
And he does.
Chapter Nine
“Your medical emergency made the local Patch news!” Mom shouts from the kitchen. Mom begged and begged and begged and guilted and blackmailed me into coming to one of her yoga classes, and then she snuck into my phone and texted Declan, pretending to be me, and he’s here.
Here. Standing in my childhood home drinking orange spice tea and wearing workout clothes that make me feel feral.
“Great. Just what we need. Notoriety from a news site that covers misspelled store signs and duck crossings with as much space as they cover fatal car accidents and government corruption,” Declan mutters.
“What did they say, Mom?” I ask, forcing myself to be polite. I’m drinking chamomile tea and it’s not relaxing me. You could pump Zen Tea into me via IV and it wouldn’t work. My heart is the sound of one hand clapping, flailing in the wind, trying to find something to rest against.
Watching Declan sit on our sunken sofa, perched with perfect posture and powerful legs encased in lycra stretch fabric, confuses the hell out of the wiring in my brain.
“And Jessica Coffin mentioned you!”
Declan groans, then covers it with a sip. His eyes take in the room. Mom has a thing for thrift shopping, even though Dad complains that we can afford to buy new, as long as it’s at a discount warehouse. Born and raised in New England, Mom’s Yankee sensibilities tell her she can’t dare to buy a new dresser even though she spends $60 a week on mani-pedis. The incongruity has been long pointed out to her, like explaining that driving seventeen miles to go to a different grocery store to save $1.70 on apples isn’t worth it.
“She says, ‘Buzz buzz sting sting run run stupid stupid.’”
“What, no ‘oink oink’?” Declan smacks my knee, hard, and gives me a glare that says, You’re ridiculous and Stop it and then his look says I want to make love right here on the couch in front of your mother.
And then he kisses me so hard even Mom goes silent.
“So,” she interrupts, her voice high and reedy, “we need to get going. Downward Facing Dog is for yoga class, not on my nice Bauhaus sofa.”
Declan ignores her and smiles against my mouth. Aha. I’m sensing a trend. He loves to smile while kissing me while defying the people most interested in controlling me. Hmmm. I should think that one through, but the flutter of his fingers against my breast makes me think I’m about to pop my Bauhaus sofa cherry and then my sex starts doing jumping jacks and shouting, Control me! Control me!
“I’m going to class! Need to be there early!” Mom’s shaky voice carries through the room at a distance.
Declan’s hand leaves my breast and he waves silently, mouth a bit busy. I hear the click of the front door as it shuts and he pulls away, smile intact.
“Mission accomplished.”
My face falls. “That was your mission? To drive my mom away? I can do that by pretending to be a Republican.”
His face becomes a stone mask. “I’m a Republican.”
I punch his shoulder lightly and laugh. “You almost had me there.”
The expression doesn’t change.
Oh, hell no. Even Steve was a Democrat. Most of the time.
“What are you?” he asks.
“I’m a Stewartarian.”
“You worship The Daily
Show?”
“It’s like my daily mass.” My heart is hammering. I hate politics. I don’t even really have a party. In Massachusetts almost everyone I know is a Democrat, and if they’re not, they’re originally from New Hampshire or Maine. So…
“Are you one of those screechy liberals who crams your morals down other people’s throats because you you view the world through a rigid ideological lens and can’t bear to see other people making different choices?” he asks.
“You sound like Rush Limbaugh!” I squeak.
He’s laughing, though. “Replace ‘liberals’ with ‘conservatives’ and you get the same end.” He chuckles quietly, then caresses my face. “I don’t care what you believe, as long as I can have a rational conversation with you.”
“The only topic where reason goes out the window is cilantro.”
“Cilantro?”
“Tastes like soap.”
“Same here.”
“Oh my God! It’s true love!” I clap my hand over my mouth as if that will shove the words back in.
The grin he gives me changes as his eyes shift to something behind me. The clock. “We’re going to be late.”
Breathe, Shannon. Breathe. Let respiration restart so you don’t pass out on top of blurting out that you’re in love with him already. It’s only been a month. Who falls in love in a month? People on LastShot.com, where you openly confess to having STD lesions, and gamers, that’s who.
“And,” he says as we stand, stopping me from grabbing a kitchen knife and carving out my vocal cords, “nothing says true love like Mexican food that tastes like laundry detergent.”
* * *
One of Mom’s friends from college moved in a few towns over and took an old chicken coop on her property and turned it into a yoga studio. Yep—chicken coop. Except this is like a chicken spa, and if any actual chickens ever set foot in here I think they’d face twenty-five screaming women all searching for their pillow-sized Vera Bradley bags to bash the poor creatures to death.