Shopping for a Billionaire 2 (10 page)

I throw on the shirt I’d planned to wear all along, kick off my shoes, peel off my stockings, and shimmy out of my pants. Mom turns away, but flings the red thong at me. It lands on my head like a deranged spider.

Ignoring it, I grab a pair of simple bikini underwear and my well-worn jeans, and I finish getting dressed. Then I take care of basic hygiene with deodorant, and tuck my shirt in. If it’s chilly tonight, a sweater would work. Mom watches with the preying eyes of a hawk.

A hawk with an eyelash curler clutched in her talons.

My lightweight v-neck made from a blend of silk and cashmere is perfect, so I tie it around my waist. I can’t run to the bathroom without having Declan see me, so I do what I can with my own makeup at my vanity on top of my dresser, ignoring Mom, whose silence has turned lethal.

Aside from needing to brush my teeth before putting on lipstick, the Shannon looking back at me from the mirror looks pretty good. Brown hair pulled back in a lovely braid, I have that fresh-faced, naturally athletic look, with my skin clear and a light layer of makeup applied to make it look outdoorsy. Brown eyes framed by a little mascara and a hint of eyeliner look more excited than scared. My nose is exactly where it’s always been, and my cheeks are flushed with a mix of applied color and organic arousal.

“You look like a fifteen-year-old going on her first date, Shannon. Like one of those athletic types.”

“We’re going hiking, so that’s perfect!”

“You’re not going hiking. You’re going on a charm mission.”

“A what?” What the hell is a charm mission? I have visions of debutantes wearing handguns on their thighs and rappelling down glass skyscrapers in Jimmy Choo heels.

Mom smoothes the wrinkles at my shoulders and tucks a loose wave of hair behind my ear, tweaking my look with little ministrations that used to annoy me when I was younger. These days, they make me feel loved.

“Charm mission. You’re auditioning, Shannon.” She lets a huge rush of air come out in one big whoosh. “Don’t you see that?” Her voice changes from exasperated to concerned, as if it dawns on her, mid-breath, that I really don’t view this situation through the same lens that she does.

“It’s a date. Not an audition. There’s no
role
I’m trying out for.”
 

Her laugh is a little too cynical for my poor anxious self, because the sound of it pouring out of her makes all the hair on my arms stand up.

“Oh, honey, yes you are. You’re too naïve to see it.” She shakes her head and takes a deep breath, her words coming out as she exhales. “Men like Declan McCormick require a certain kind of woman.”

“Steve required a certain kind of woman. See how well that went?” I just hope it’s not the same
certain kind of woman
. A mental image of Jessica Coffin chooses that exact moment to invade my brain. I shove it away and replace it with one involving Declan’s hands, my ass, and a kiss that crowds everything else out.
 

Her eyes go troubled on my behalf. Or maybe she’s actually reflecting on my words. Then she says: “Steve and Declan are nothing alike.”

“Because Declan comes from money?” Steve wasn’t born into it. He scraped and clawed his way up. Declan’s family—according to Amanda’s research—has been rich longer than the United States has existed. Something about shipping and mining. Her words trickle trough my subconscious as Mom continues.

“No—not because Declan has more money. Because Steve is a scrabbler. Always has been, and always will be. His sense of self depends entirely on whether his ambition is being filled. If he feels like he’s making progress, then his identity feels secure. If he’s standing still or falling back, then he loses who he is.”

She’s gone wistful, and Mom doesn’t
do
wistful. I am acutely aware of the ticking of time, and of Declan’s presence behind that door, and yet I’m riveted. I’ve never heard my mother wax rhapsodic about anything other than new spring colors in the latest Lululemon fashion campaign.
 

“Honey,” she says, her hands on my shoulders. Our faces are a foot from each other and her eyes shimmer under something that isn’t quite tears. “Declan knows who he is. There’s a quiet confidence that men from his kind of family possess. It’s easy to be with someone like that when you know who you are.”

She frowns. “But if you don’t—if the deep core of Shannon isn’t anchored—then being with him can feel like you’re lost. The world around you will insist that you’re standing on solid ground, and then one day you’ll realize you’re just balanced really well atop an enormous piece of driftwood in the middle of the ocean.”

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.
I
t’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.”

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.