Shopping for a CEO (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 7)

by Julia Kent

  “You kissed me!”

  “And when we kissed,” he says, eyebrows raised, as if settling this point once and for all, “I got something far more forbidden than I realized I was getting when I went for that simple taste of you.”

  Forbidden?

  “What’s that?”

  He studies me, as if sizing me up, trying to determine whether he should tell me what’s next. Or not. Finally, his face changes through a series of three or four emotions, most of them involving some variation of deliberation.

  And then:

  “You didn’t fit in a box.”

  “I fit in a closet.”

  He doesn’t laugh.

  “You intrigued me.”

  “Not enough to call me after that kiss, though.”

  He shakes his head. My heart plummets.

  “No, Amanda. The opposite. You intrigued me too much.”

  I get the sense that the word ‘intrigued’ means something else.

  “You mean I scared you.”

  His eyes flash with emotion I can’t read.

  “Yes.”

  Men like Andrew McCormick don’t do this. They don’t lay their emotions out on the table like this. Why is he doing this?

  “Then why did you kiss me again? And again. And again again—”

  “I don’t know.”

  “C’mon.” The driver takes us onto the Mass Pike, lights flying by like spaceships. Little orbs shooting past us, filled with people oblivious to the quantum shift taking place inside this tiny space. “You always know. You’re a CEO. You compartmentalize. You execute. You decide. You act. You can’t tell me that the great wunderkind Andrew Mc—”

  He’s on me before I can take a breath to continue speaking, his body so big and bold, so impulsive and unrelenting. The limo becomes its own dimension, his hands seeking to hold all of me as we tumble into some new plane of awareness that doesn’t factor into any life we’ve known until this moment. His mouth finds mine, hands under my suit jacket, palm cupping the lines of my breasts, my waist, my hips, and he’s tasting me again, this time with an urgent need that comes from an honesty I don’t think he’s felt permission to express in a very long time.

  If ever.

  I break the kiss. His breath is hot against my lips, my chest pushing up as I inhale, trying to synthesize the tactile feel of him in my personal space as the rate of intimacy between us increases at the speed of light.

  “What are we doing?” I ask, buying a moment of clarity as I inhale, shaky and shocked. I have never wanted anyone more than I want him right now. This sensation is wholly foreign and delightfully enchanting.

  “Whatever it is, let’s do more of it.”

  The reconnection of his mouth against mine, of the sensual weight of him on me in this small space as my legs pull up, closing all gaps between us, feels simultaneously pure and naughty, innocent and illicit, virginal and promiscuous. Once the boundary between our bodies is breached, we navigate every inch with negotiations brokered in sighs and bites, in tongue strokes and caresses, with touch and without words.

  My skin rises an inch above my body with a pounding flush that can only be satisfied by no remedy other than his hands, his mouth, his skin, his attentiveness.

  More of his skin.

  The limo slows, the driver painstaking in his glide to a spot on a city street that is both familiar and daunting.

  And then the limo halts entirely.

  Andrew sighs, the sound like a churning ocean before a sea storm. His mouth kisses my ear and he murmurs. “We’re here. Dinner.”

  Oh. Right. Dinner.

  Date. Public. Food. Single words are all I can muster in my mind. Words like hair. Lipstick. Legs. Skirt.

  Throb.

  Pulse.

  Desire.

  Ache.

  Andrew.

  If he asked me, right now, to skip dinner, I would. One offer. One question is all it would take. I’m past the point of worrying about what he thinks of me. Long gone are the days of sobbing over ice cream and Thai food at Shannon and Amy’s apartment back in the suburbs. I’m here to get something out of this whateveryoucallit between us, and it’s dawning on me that he is, too.

  And it’s not just kisses in closets.

  This is not “just” anything.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Andrew sits up and adjusts all sorts of parts of himself, from his shirt tails to his jacket to other pieces that need to be put in place in order to make a public appearance. His hand stays on my knee, like a claiming.

  And those eyes watch me.

  “Hungry?” he asks, dimples firmly in place as he smiles.

  I bite my lips and exhale, a little sound of frustration making the back of my throat vibrate.

  “You could say that.”

  We’re in front of a series of brick buildings that look like converted lofts and businesses. As Andrew opens his door, a blast of warm night air fills the limo. April in Boston is a crapshoot. You never know if you’ll get a balmy breeze or need your down winter coat.

  Salty air, carrying the ocean on it, fills the small space. Aha. I know where we are.

  The Seaport district. Congress Street.

  I look outside and my eyes adjust. We’re just at the curb, not even in a parking spot or an underground garage. The driver simply pulled over and we’re blocking traffic.

  My door opens. I reach up to touch my hair, then my lips. I must look frightfully disheveled, bright red lipstick smeared across my lips, hair thoroughly mussed.

  The second I climb out of this limo it’ll be obvious what Andrew and I have been doing. The thought makes me smile.

  Andrew reaches one strong hand for me and I take it, lifting up into the dark night, his palm splayed at the small of my back without interruption. He seems incapable of not touching me now.

  “Is my lipstick smeared?” I whisper, the intimacy of such a simple question feeling both natural and out of place. I’m living in two different realities right now, second by second, as time flows and I am with him.

  There is this dream world, where Andrew McCormick is kissing me. And then there’s reality, where I am waiting sorrowfully to wake up.

  “Does it matter?”

  The limo takes off like a silent jet, disappearing down Congress Street as Andrew guides me up a set of stairs. There is no sign. No obvious door. We might as well be headed into a nondescript, restored historical building that houses tech start-ups rather than a restaurant.

  “Where are we?” I ask as I fumble around in my purse, looking for a hand mirror or a compact.

  “You’ll see.”

  As he holds open a door, I see a small brass plaque, so subtle I would never have noticed it if I weren’t on guard, nerves firing at random intervals as every cell in my body is alert and ripe.

  The plaque has the name of the most exclusive new restaurant in town on it, complete with the chef’s name.

  “We’re eating here?”

  “You’ve been here before?”

  I shake my head, my fingers closing on my compact. I’ve heard about it. This is the apocryphal restaurant that the celebrity chef created for friends, family, and few of her closest Boston billionaires.

  When I look in the mirror, my lipstick’s half gone. Where did it go?

  Andrew looks down at me and I find my answer.

  “You look good in red,” I say, pulling on his arm. He gives me a puzzled look and I reach up, using my thumb to wipe some of the lipstick off his mouth and show him.

  He laughs, then reaches into his suit jacket for a handkerchief, removing the evidence of our limo encounter. At least, the visible evidence.

  I look at my reflection and he gently takes his handkerchief and presses it into my hand. Our eyes lock.

  “I must be a mess,” I say, suddenly self-conscious, dabbing at my smeared makeup.

  “You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs, bending down, so close his words send shivers down my spine. “And you’re even more beau
tiful when you’re a mess, because I know I made you that way.”

  No man has ever talked to me like this. I’ve never even imagined conversations like this, the kind that cut to the chase. He’s so direct, so virile and masculine, filed with the warrior’s gaze and the lover’s tenderness as he stands there beside me, just...there.

  He’s finally here. It only took him two years.

  And I don’t know what to do with him now that he’s decided to show up.

  Andrew takes me to a tiny elevator. It’s quite literally just a door, and if I didn’t see him wave a small card, like a hotel key, in front of a little circle, I’d think the elevator appeared via magic.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “A secret door.” We enter it and the elevator lifts us up at a snail’s pace.

  “How do I know you’re not really some kinky billionaire who’s taking me to an illicit sex club and I’m about to disappear into an underground world of sexual torture?” I tease.

  “I typically save that for the third date,” he answers.

  The elevator halts and opens onto a rooftop garden. As we step out, I murmur, “Then I have something to look forward to.”

  The smile he gives me makes my toes curl. A maître d’ appears in a suit tailored so well he looks like he just flew in from Milan.

  “Mr. McCormick. Ms. Warrick. Welcome.”

  How does he know my name? Probably the same magic that allows limo drivers to effortlessly glide through the streets of Boston, that gives Andrew cards he can wave in front of sensors to open doors no one else can see, that gives him access not only to luxury, but to the convenience of shaping the entire structure of his life around getting from Point A to Point B with as little friction as possible.

  That is the power of money. It’s not about buying things. It’s about gaining access to shortcuts the 99% can’t even fathom. And that buys you an advantage. The McCormick men don’t just live in a different economic class—they quite literally function in a completely different world.

  One that Andrew has just invited me to visit.

  As we’re walked to a small table, surrounded by large candles in shimmering glass olive jars the size of toddlers, I realize we are one of only four tables in the entire restaurant. Each has its own pergola, wine grape vines snaking through the wooden slats above us, entwined with strings of pale white lights that give the rooftop an ethereal sense of being a world apart.

  Which is pitch perfect for how every second with Andrew feels.

  His hand takes mine, fingers slipping into the grooves between my own, palms pressed together like hearts trying to find a common rhythm. Soon we’re seated, and as I settle in to my spot I look up, then gasp.

  The view of the ocean stretches on into the night, inky and rolling, offering endless possibilities and terrifying enormity.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, completely smitten with the view.

  He looks over his shoulder, as if the panoramic scene behind him were nothing. “Oh. Yeah.”

  And for him, it probably is nothing. Shannon’s talked about the everyday luxuries Declan takes for granted, from having groceries delivered and stocked to never touching a cleaning supply or a broom. How he has tailors who come to his office. Dry cleaning picked up dirty and brought back and hung in his closet, neat as a pin.

  How the limo driver just delivers him where he needs to go and appears when called. His schedule is managed by people who work for him and he never makes a single logistical arrangement. The McCormick men live a life crafted not so much by whim, she says, but by choice. Other people make their lives run like a well-oiled machine so that they are never, ever inconvenienced by the small tasks in life that trip the rest of us up.

  Their lives are fixed by people like me.

  Wine appears with a first course of grilled octopus and chive aioli that almost tastes as good as Andrew’s kisses.

  Almost.

  We’re quiet. He holds one of my hands. We don’t really talk for the first few minutes. We don’t need to. Either this is super awkward and I’m too clueless to realize it, or we’re seamlessly fitting together in a way that is far too easy.

  The spectrum is maddeningly long here, and the pendulum has more than enough room to swing in whatever direction fate chooses.

  I finish my first glass of wine. Andrew stands and removes his jacket, sliding his arms out of the sleeves and rotating, his form on display. Minutes ago, that body was atop mine, pinning me in place against leather and lust. I enjoy the display, watching the lean stretch of his forearms, the subtle bulge of biceps as they twist and he slips the jacket over the back of his chair, the curve of his legs as he resumes his seat, moving the chair closer to the table, then reaching once more for my hand.

  “Nice view,” I say.

  “You already said that,” he replies as he glances over his shoulder.

  “I wasn’t talking about the ocean.”

  A gleam in his eyes makes me glad for the boldness of a glass of wine and my own relief at finally having his undivided attention. Maybe I’m being too forward. Perhaps this is far less than I think it is, and I’m making it into more.

  I don’t care.

  Guys like Andrew McCormick don’t exist in my world. Not as dating partners. Men like Ron and Jordan are what’s out there in my life partner pool, and not only is there no comparison—zero—the fact is that none of that matters.

  I spent the last two years waiting for Andrew to make a move I’d given up on ever experiencing. And now here he is, holding my hand and pouring me wine on a private rooftop garden at one of the most exclusive, elite restaurants in the country and I’ll be damned if I let this slip out of my hands.

  “What are we doing?” he asks, echoing my earlier question.

  “You tell me.” Please, tell me, Andrew.

  “We’re getting to know each other.”

  “We’ve known each other for nearly two years.” Two long years.

  “I know quite a bit about you,” he says with an alluring grin.

  “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  “Shannon spilled all your secrets.”

  I snort inelegantly. Is there an elegant way to snort, though?

  “Right. Not falling for that, bud. Shannon would never, ever spill my secrets. Besides, I don’t have any.”

  “Everyone has secrets.”

  “Not me. I’m an open book.”

  He gives me a skeptical look and asks, “What’s your greatest fear?”

  That this isn’t real.

  I can’t tell him that, so instead I tell him my second greatest fear.

  “Being naked in public.”

  His grin widens. “Has this been an issue for you in the past?”

  “Only in my nightmares.”

  “Or my dreams.”

  Did the temperature just rise by ten degrees out here?

  A small beet salad with goat cheese and fennel is served, interrupting us and giving me a chance to catch my breath.

  “But seriously,” I say between bites.

  “I was being serious.”

  “You have dreams about my being naked in public?”

  “All the time. Except for the public part.”

  “You could have said something sooner.”

  “I’m saying it now.”

  What else can I do but laugh and pivot?

  “What’s your greatest fear?”

  His face goes somber so quickly that I realize my very awful misstep immediately.

  “I’m sorry,” I rasp. “I know what it is, and I shouldn’t have asked that.”

  He flinches. “You know my greatest fear? How could you know?”

  “It’s wasps, right?”

  Of course it is. Between Shannon’s allergy and the story about how Andrew, Declan and Terry’s mom died, and Declan’s impossible choice, how could I not know? Andrew is deathly allergic to wasp stings. Shannon is deathly allergic to bee stings. It’s a weird confluence of events that found Shannon a
nd Declan together, and if I weren’t her best friend I would think it was nuts.

  But love doesn’t care about crazy. It’s random that way.

  Andrew’s head is dipped down, just enough that the strings of lights above us make shadows that cover his face. His hand holding the salad fork is suspended above his plate, arm bent at the elbow, a light breeze blowing the cloth of his shirt to the side. He’s blinking furiously and breathing with great care, as if gentling himself.

  And then he says, “Yes. That’s right.”

  Except it feels like he’s lying by omission.

  A million questions pour into my head as I struggle to correct my misstep. I feel so foolish. So sickeningly stupid. Here I go again, ruining what has, so far, been the best night of my life.

  I need to fix this.

  I need to fix this now.

  “What’s your favorite food?” The words come out of me just as the server clears the plates and a woman in a chef’s uniform appears from the shadows. She’s tall and lean, elegant in a way that only a European woman can be, with a self-possession that makes me feel like I’m twelve.

  “Señor McCormick, so good to see you,” she says with a light Spanish accent. Her cheekbones are high and her face long, eyes deeply sunken with a well-painted face and the bone structure of a woman who knows herself all too well. Her hair is streaked with lines of grey that American women in their fifties would dye but she sports proudly.

  Andrew stands and kisses her on both cheeks, his movements elegant and possessed. He’s so young. Just twenty-nine, and yet here he is, kissing a woman I’ve seen on television for more than ten years and who chats with him—in Spanish—as if they’re old friends.

  He switches to English. “May I introduce Amanda Warrick? Amanda, meet—”

  “I know who you are,” I gush. I’ve never met a celebrity chef before. Consuela Arroyo is surprisingly pleasant, her face breaking into a warm grin as she reaches for me. Her cool, dry hands reach up to cup my cheeks and plant one kiss on each side. I flail, not quite knowing how to greet her back, and roll my jaw bone against hers, wincing as my shiner scrapes against her cheekbone. This double-cheek-kiss thing makes me feel like an awkward teen at my first school dance.