Girl Meets Billionaire

by Brenna Aubrey et al.

  “Help yourself.”

  “Fucking Amanda.”

  “You are?”

  “No,” he says, so upset he’s shaking. Either that, or he’s such an alcoholic that delirium tremens have kicked in. Given his youth and overall vitality, I think it’s the former.

  “What was going on between you two at the hospital?”

  His ears turn pink and he chugs the entire mug of abominable coffee in one big gulp.

  “That bad?”

  “That good.”

  “That’s worth pursuing.”

  “That needs to be forgotten.”

  “Why?”

  He looks at me like I have two heads. “Why? When did you start asking all these touchy-feely questions? Because. That’s why. Because.”

  “You sound like Dad.”

  “I take that as a compliment. Dad’s good at compartmentalizing. Great at business. Has a healthy relationship with the ladies.”

  “He dates zygotes.”

  “At least zygotes can’t talk.”

  “Jesus, Andrew, why all the anger? Why don’t you just sit down with Amanda and have a mature conversation about whatever conflicts you have?”

  He frowns and looks me up and down. “You grow a new X chromosome I don’t know about? Where’s this coming from?”

  I cross my arms and lean against the counter, drinking my non-alcoholic coffee. “Nothing wrong with talking about feelings. Real men can do it, too.”

  “Real men don’t have feelings. We have penises with needs. That’s our version of emotions.”

  “Oh, you must really win over the ladies with lines like that.”

  “My bed’s warm enough.”

  “Could be warmer with Amanda in it.”

  Pink ears. “Shut up.”

  “Fine. I’ll shut up. Let’s talk about making me CEO, then.”

  He makes a nasty sound in the back of his throat. “Dad would never, ever consider it. Besides, I’d fight you for it. And win.”

  I look at him. Really look at him.

  He’s terrified.

  And he’s right. He would fight me for it and win. Not because I wouldn’t be the natural successor to Anterdec after Dad retires (which is his euphemism for dies).

  But because I want something more than what Dad and Andrew have in their life. Being a CEO isn’t part of that more.

  Terror is what happens to people who start to let their inner selves shine through. Who let themselves hope. Who open themselves to the possibility that real, raw, dirty, messy love is out there and that it’s worth it.

  Andrew’s scared shitless, and he should be.

  The day Shannon walked into that meeting eighteen months ago and Toilet Girl turned out to be real I was scared shitless, too.

  And that’s exactly why I pursued her.

  Business challenges involve the thrill of the chase. The brute negotiations where power, in the form of money, changes hands. The merger of two businesses, the acquisition of a smaller company by a larger entity, and the give and take of one-upmanship that defines the capitalist system.

  I’m good at those power struggles. Andrew is great at them. Dad’s the king of it all.

  Not my kingdom, though.

  Toilet Girl shocked me to the core that day in the bathroom, self-effacing and visceral. Stunningly self-deprecating and yet defiant. Shannon went toe-to-toe with me verbally and was so...something. If I knew the words I’d use them.

  “You’re right,” I say, acquiescing. I know when to stop the tug of war and just let go. “I don’t want it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I have something better.”

  “Shannon is better than being the CEO of a Fortune 500 company?” he asks, earnest and genuine. No snark. He’s trying to understand.

  I pause, blinking a few times. But I don’t wait too long.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Now who’s getting all touchy-feely?

  A carefully-constructed case with facts and judgments, analyses and explanations, builds in my mind like a tower. Like scaffolding. Like a court case designed to defend my premise.

  But you can’t do that with love.

  And I don’t have to validate my own feelings.

  “Why?” I echo him. “Why?”

  He nods.

  “Because.”

  He gives me a grimace and a glare. Mom shines through in him just then. It’s surreal.

  “You’d give up fame and fortune and power for love? How cute.”

  “No. The great part is that I don’t have to give up love for anything.”

  And with that I go back to texting Grace, ignoring my little brother as he makes himself his second cup of whatever it takes to get him through the day.

  Poopwatch, Day 2

  Shannon takes the day off and refuses to text with me. She says it’s bad luck to see the groom before you poop out the engagement ring. An old tradition carefully noted in the Emily Post Guide to Modern Weddings.

  I work out with Andrew. A lot.

  Poopwatch, Day 3

  The closest thing to intimacy with another person I achieve today is the moment Grace’s fingers brush against mine while she hands me my morning coffee. Shannon won’t talk to me, won’t text with me, won’t acknowledge my existence. She’s taken another day off work and I’m burying myself in projects that don’t matter.

  Meanwhile, Grace works hard at arranging The Proposal 2.0. The day passes in a blur of meetings and the tedium of waiting for something I have no control over.

  Jason appears at my office long after all the staff have gone home for the night. The cleaning crew has taken over the floor, men wearing jetpack vacuums and women carefully sanitizing phones as I hear a knock on my door, the kind of rap rap rap that comes after a person has tried repeatedly to get your attention.

  I open the door to find Shannon’s father standing there, a neutrally friendly look on his face.

  “May I come in? I realize I should have called, but this wasn’t a planned visit.”

  I rub the back of my neck and motion for him to come in. He walks with a steady, comfortable gait, attired in his standard jeans and casual shirt. He hasn’t shaved in days.

  A quick rub of my palm against my own cheek tells me I probably look a little grubby, too.

  “A drink?” I ask. “I’ve got Scotch.” Shannon told me long ago it’s his favorite second only to local microbrewery beer.

  His eyes flash with mischief. “Sounds great.”

  I hand him two fingers, neat.

  “You pay attention,” he says slowly.

  I shrug, then slam my own drink down like a shot of tequila at an all-night poker game in Vegas. Normally, I’d never drink while burning the midnight oil like this, but something about Jason makes me think it’s not a bad idea to loosen up a bit.

  He follows my lead, then sets the glass down on my desk and walks to the window. City lights dot the ground like an inverse blanket of stars.

  “Helluva view,” he says with a longing sigh.

  Nodding, I just smile. “It is.”

  “You’ve grown up with this.” A tone of marvel fills his words.

  “Yes.” Why argue? He’s right.

  “But your dad didn’t.” Jason runs a hand through his thinning hair. “He may have married into money, but he wasn’t born into it. That’s for sure. I remember James. Smart as hell and determined.”

  “You knew him?”

  “Only because of Marie,” Jason says, looking at me with eyes so similar to Shannon’s I have to check myself and remember they’re not attached to her. “She kept bringing these injured animals to the vet where I worked back then, and one night she brought James in. You’d have thought she’d asked him to eat dinner at the garbage dump.” He laughs. “And yet he found a way to pay for every injured animal. That was right before he hit it big.”

  “Before he met my mom.”

  Jason frowns. “Your mom. Marie told me about your talk a
t the cemetery.”

  Of course she did.

  I stay silent, wondering if I should pour us another round.

  “Your mom’s from Mayflower people, right?”

  I nod.

  “And old money.”

  My body goes tight. Where is this conversation heading.

  “Yes.”

  “She helped James, didn’t she?”

  “With investments? Sure. My grandfather did.” That’s all public record.

  “You’ve grown up with all this wealth your entire life, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “But James...James is all Southie.”

  “Jason,” I ask slowly, fighting back a defensive tone, “why are you here?”

  He gives a wan smile. “It’s about Shannon and the hospital incident.”

  “Which one?”

  He chuckles, then shakes his head. “My girls and their mother are one of a kind, that’s for sure. How many men can ask what you just asked?”

  A smile stretches my mouth before I can stop it.

  “We’re lucky.”

  “Either that, Declan, or we’re just stupid and don’t realize it.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  We stand and stare out at the city until he says, “You kicked us out of Shannon’s room.”

  “Yes. And with good reason.”

  He nods and grimaces at the same time. “Marie’s awfully hurt.”

  “So was Shannon. And Shannon’s my priority.”

  “She’s ours, too.”

  “Wouldn’t know it back there.”

  He clears his throat, tongue rolling between his teeth and lips. “You’re fairly new to Shannon’s life. The jokes are how we all handle stress.”

  “Doesn’t make it okay.” This moment is crucial. Thirty years from now, I’ll reflect back on it and if I don’t make the right choice right here, right now, I’ll regret it.

  I’m not a man with many regrets. Not adding one right now.

  “That doesn’t mean you should have ordered us out.”

  “You could have fought me.” I want to ask why he didn’t, but the answer might be too raw. Baring my soul to Shannon is hard enough. Opening myself up to Marie at the cemetery was a surprise. Hell if I’m going to be soft and fluffy with Jason over this issue.

  If I can’t do it, I won’t ask another man to do it, either.

  He pauses, carefully considering his words. That’s one quality I like in Jason. Unlike Marie, who rushes to fill in silence, Jason is comfortable with it. He can take his time before he says what needs to be said.

  “I certainly could have. Legally, we had the right to boot you out of that room. We’re still Shannon’s next of kin.”

  “But you didn’t.” Because I was right, I want to add.

  “No. It was clear that Shannon wanted you to defend her like that, and even if Marie couldn’t understand that, I could.”

  “Marie could have seriously hurt her with that back-smacking stunt,” I growl, showing more emotion than I want to.

  “I know. She knows it, too. She’s back home kicking herself and falling into a shame spiral that no amount of Netflix and pampering can pull her out of.”

  Shame spiral? These people read too many self-help books.

  “But that’s not why you made us leave, and you know it.”

  “Why do you think I made you leave?”

  “Because you care more about Shannon’s feelings than ours.”

  Zing.

  “Right.”

  “Which is fine,” he adds, searching the room for his glass. He walks over to my desk and picks it up, shaking it in the air. “Got more?”

  Relief floods me. I not only have more, I need more. Two generous glass refills later and we’re back at the window.

  He drinks half his tumbler and looks out at the inky night, words aimed at me, eyes aimed up at the stars we can’t see.

  “Which is fine,” he continues, as if we never paused. “But at some point you have to realize Shannon is part of a family, and that eventually all the family members do need to be considered.”

  “How can I not realize that? It’s shoved in my face every day. My penis—excuse me, penith—has been made fun of by a child born in the twenty-first century and you and my father engaged in a version of wrestling banned for its eroticism in seventeen countries. At my work. And don’t even get me started on Marie...”

  I swig the rest of my Scotch and give him a narrow look. “You think I don’t understand I’m not just marrying Shannon? That you’re all a package deal?”

  Jason blinks, eyes tired but steady. “It’s like that, huh?” He sighs. It’s a sound of disappointment that makes my stomach clench. “You’re just going to do what you do and we’ll do what we do and it’s going to be a mess.”

  That’s the most plainspoken description of my interactions with Shannon’s family I’ve ever heard.

  “Yes.”

  “As long as you always put Shannon first, I’m fine with that.” He offers me his hand. I shake it.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He steps back and walks with purpose to the door to my office, ready to leave. I watch him go, mind spinning from trying to understand why he’s here and, probably, a little from the Scotch.

  “Declan?” he adds right before he walks out. He’s smiling, eyes friendly and sharp.

  “Yes?”

  “Make sure you understand that I’ll always put Marie first when you two clash. Just so we’re clear.”

  And with that, he’s gone.

  Poopwatch, Day 4

  “Auntie Shannon pooped! She pooped!” My phone crackles with an excited eight year old’s voice as I answer a call from what I thought was Shannon.

  “Poopy! See poopy in da fesh fy tay!” chants Tyler in the background. I’m hoping “See” is his version of “She,” because the alternative is just too gross.

  “She got the ring, Declan!” Jeffrey crows. “You can be my uncle now. Uncleth give good presents to their nephew, right? And you’re rich. I want a Nintendo Switch with the new Zelda—”

  Shannon’s voice appears, dripping through my ears like honey. “Sorry about that,” she laughs. “Jeffrey got a little too excited and knows exactly how to use my phone.”

  “See? I was right.”

  “Huh?”

  “Little boys love to talk about poop.”

  She makes a sound of disgust, but hey, she’s got to admit I’m right.

  “You got the ring?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  Thank God.

  “Everything okay?”

  She snorts. “My mom brought me a bunch of chocolates yesterday. Turns out they had a little something special in them.”

  “Xanax?”

  “Laxatives.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Right. I needed an epidural to—oh, why am I talking about this with you?” she screeches, her voice changing from casual closeness to horrified harpy in the blink of an eye.

  “You can talk about anything with me, Shannon. I miss you.”

  “I promise,” she says in a rush of urgency, “that we’re having your mom’s ring cleaned. Sterilized. In fact, we’ve arranged to have a nuclear bomb detonated so close to it any living organisms will be killed. That should ensure it’s truly spic ’n span.”

  I chuckle and then have no idea what to say. I don’t even clean my own underwear, so how would I know what you do in a case like this?

  “I can have Grace arrange everything,” I tell her. “It’s the least I could do.”

  “Declan, when we have kids someday and I’m not around and a diaper needs to be changed, you know you can’t call Grace.”

  Kids. She mentioned kids.

  “That’s what nannies are for.”

  “Nannies? More than one?”

  “Of course. Three of them in round-the-clock shifts.”

  “You’re joking.” Her voice drops to a register that tells me that even if I weren’t joking, I ha
ve to pretend I am.

  “Yes, I am. But not about the diaper part.”

  Her voice goes soft. “Dec?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We need to talk.”

  My chest tightens. “We do?”

  “Well, there’s this ring here, and....”

  “About that,” I say with a smile. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “Throwing all my French fry trays away.”

  “After that?”

  “Going to work.”

  “How about a helicopter ride?”

  “To the lighthouse?”

  “No. Somewhere better.”

  Somewhere perfect.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Proposal 2.0

  Marie’s helicopter envy is understandable when you look at cities from the standpoint of having to get around in them. Landing at the Anterdec helipad is a breeze compared to trucking into the city from JFK or LaGuardia, limo or no limo.

  Anterdec’s New York City driver, Sam, takes our bags and delivers them to our corporate suite at the company’s finest hotel in Manhattan.

  “Where is he taking my bag?” Shannon shouts over the sound of the copter.

  “To the hotel.”

  “Aren’t we going there?” she asks, looking at me with curiosity.

  “Not yet.” First things first.

  Shannon is remarkably silent on the limo ride to our destination, giving me half smiles and little caresses. Sex in the limo in a new city is a bit daunting, and for once I don’t want to sleep with her.

  I know, I know. Back up the limo. That’s right.

  I don’t want to sleep with her. Not now.

  I’m too wound up, too full of cortisol and adrenaline and testosterone and whatever hormones drive me to ask her to marry me. My cup runneth over and I’m both full and empty, both free and chained. Cupid’s arrow struck me but it was attached to a rope that binds me to Shannon. We’re tied to each other for eternity.

  The proposal is just a formality.

  “How can you get away from work like this?” she asks, as if the thought suddenly came to her. “Isn’t the New Zealand launch a big mess? How can you take two days off?”

  I give her a puffed-up, proud smile. “Got it all under control. Dad handed me that big mess, but with the right management I got new subcontractors in on the development, a crack software support team, and we sent coupon codes out to sixteen thousand subscribers as an apology. Sales are through the roof, systems are functional, and Dad can go eat a pile of monkey dung.” That little condition for getting Mom’s engagement ring didn’t work. I bested Dad.