Shopping for a Billionaire 4 (13 page)

I appear to have whacked it into hyperdrive. If it were the Millennium Falcon then Chewbacca would be turning all the thrusters on for Han Solo.

That sounds
soooo
dirty.

The vibrator is buzzing so loudly I’m sure the people in 1414 can hear it loud and clear. Removing the batteries should do the trick. I turn the cylinder over and—

Screwdriver needed.

Damn.

Tap tap tap
. Someone’s at the door.

“Maintenance!” a man’s voice calls out.

I look at the clock. 3:58 p.m. Great. Of all the times for me to get the overachieving hotel maintenance dude. The only one on the freaking planet. I race into the bathroom and shove the top of the toilet tank off with one hand. Not being strong enough, I set the vibrator on the counter.

BZZZZZZZZ. That only amplifies the sound.

Tap tap tap.

“Ma’am? It’s maintenance. The front desk sent me,” he says, a little louder. His voice is muffled and my hearing is slightly obscured by the rush of panic that makes the room start to spin. I break into a sweat as I grab the vibrator to stop the roaring sound and reach inside the toilet tank to loosen the chain from the handle. In mere seconds, I manage to do it, but as I stand up from my crouch I lose my balance and—

Splash!

Drop the giant pink vibrator into the toilet.

The J stares up at me, a bit of a blur as it motorboats inside the bowl.

The distinct sound of the electronic key being shoved in the slot of my door happens in slow motion, the sound like a series of guns in a firing squad being loaded, then locked on me.

I crouch down again and shove my hand into the tank to grab the vibrator, scanning the room for something I can use to mute it. Snatch it out of the toilet and wrap it in a towel? Maybe. Best plan I have.

But the door to my room opens and a familiar man’s voice calls out.

“Hello?”

“I’m, uh…” I try to kick the door closed to buy time, but all I accomplish is a slow slide on the tile in my heels, my skirt dragging up to show the edge of my panties. I’m elbow deep in the toilet bowl, my hand smothering my mother’s sex trophy meant for my
dad
.

And then a very familiar face appears with two highly amused, sparkling green eyes.

He looks at me, eyes scanning my half-acre of leg and thigh, my arm buried in the toilet, and says:

“We have
got
to stop meeting like this.” 

Chapter Fifteen

Declan’s face, his eyes, his voice, that saucy grin do not compute with the blue workman’s shirt he’s wearing. Red embroidery on a yellow name tag says Alfred, and he’s wearing Dickies work pants with tan construction worker’s boots.

He looks like any generic guy from my neighborhood back home. Like the dads of my friends. Like my male friends grown up now, in their early twenties, working in auto shops and framing houses.

“Layoffs at Anterdec got you working with your hands?” I say, leaning against the toilet bowl like it’s all good. Casual. Nothing to see here. Just drowning a sex toy to put it out of its misery.

“I thought I’d develop a new skill to fall back on.” He cocks one eyebrow and leans forward to see what I’m doing. “You drop your phone again?”

“Yep!” I chirp. “Sure did! Silly me, you know how I—”

Ring!

I changed my ringtone to that antiquated tone that sounds like a rotary phone.

Clearing his throat, he states the obvious because hey, that’s what you do when you corner a woman who is insane: “Your phone is ringing.”

“I’m not exactly going to answer it like this, now, am I?” I snap.

“Why don’t you get up and…hmmm,” he says, assessing the situation. His head turns to look in the room, then over my legs at the toilet, hands planted on his hips as he judges the situation and determines that there’s something wrong with finding me in a compromising position with the toilet.

“Are you drowning a tiny pink pig in the toilet?”

“Science experiment!”

Ring!

Does he have to look so damn hot while he’s dragging out this moment of impending humiliation and doom? It’s bad enough to be caught with my hand in the toilet—again!—but this time I’ll pull out my mom’s battery-operated boyfriend and go through the triple embarrassment of being turned on by the tight hang of his work outfit along his hips, how the cloth contours to those muscled thighs, the way the shirt is unbuttoned just enough to show his sprinkling of chest hair, and how the short sleeves showcase biceps that used to slide under my body and prop me up for his mouth as he—

Grabs my arm and pulls it out, dripping and buzzing from a gasping sex toy.

“You were drowning a…
that
? What the hell
is
that? A Barbie doll?”

I toss it at him. What do I have to lose at this point? 

He sidesteps it neatly and it lands on the rug, turning to the left like a drunk driving in a roundabout.

“Definitely not a Barbie doll,” he says, laughing. 

“I stopped playing with those a long time ago,” I say.

“I see you still have your favorite toys, though,” Declan replies. “And why a ‘J’ on the tip? No ‘D’?” he says, leering. 

All I can do is glare. My heart is buzzing in my chest like a—well, you know—and he’s looking at me like I’m a human being again. Like he likes me. Like he actually wants to interact with me.

“Why are you here?” I demand. 

“The front-desk clerk said the toilet was broken.” He holds up a small toolkit. “We have a completely different set of tools for malfunctioning vibrators.” 

“There’s a protocol for
that
?” I gasp. Wow. And I thought I’d seen it all as a mystery shopper. 

He nods and says dryly, “Yes. We just grab an EpiPen and shove it in there as hard as possible.”

My turn to size him up. I’m standing here with a dripping arm (again), toilet water soaking my sleeve (again), and Declan’s in disguise like he’s dressed up as a superintendent for some very pervy Halloween party.

“Why are
you
answering my maintenance call?”

He seems surprised to be asked. “Amanda didn’t coordinate this with you?”

“Amanda?” I say dumbly. “
Amanda
Amanda?”

“Is that really her last name? Cruel parents,” he says with a low whistle.

“No, her last name is not—quit changing the subject!” I demand, turning away. My jacket is ruined, so I slide out of it to review the current state of my clothing. White silk business shirt—one arm wet. Jacket wrinkling rapidly on the floor—needs to be dry-cleaned.

Suit skirt split just like the first date—business dinner—whatever you call it. 

My life is one big repeat, isn’t it?

And here I am, all twitterpated because the ex-boyfriend who inexplicably dumped me is giving me some attention.

My life is one endless loop.

I can stop this, though. I can make choices that don’t let other people do this—whatever this is—to me. Declan thinks he can waltz in to my hotel room dressed in uniform and smile and make me go weak in the knees and I’m just going to take the table scraps he’s throwing my way like a good little doggie.

Ruff ruff.

“Why are you dressed in that uniform and responding to my service call?” I demand again.

“Because Amanda suggested that as part of measuring and following customer service standards to aid in marketing pushes with conventions, I perform some small version of that reality TV show,
Meet the Hidden Boss
, and go undercover in my own company’s property.”

I frown. “Didn’t some CEO here in Boston do that recently?”

He nods. “Mike Bournham.”

Bournham. Playboy. A sex tape that went viral. Something about a poor, naïve administrative assistant.

Utter disgrace and a resignation from him.

“That went
soooo
well for him, didn’t it,” I say with as much sarcasm as I can.

Declan shrugs. “Amanda was convincing.”

I get the feeling she didn’t have to push much. A flicker of emotion in his eyes shifts the tenor of the room, the bathroom instantly small in the blink of an eye. I’m washing my arm now—both arms—and all I want to do is get him out of my room so I can take a shower and cry.

BZZZZZZZ
. As if reanimated by Dr. Frankenstein himself, the damn vibrator goes into high gear. I stomp across the bathroom, nudge Declan aside, and kick the damn thing as hard as I can.

When I was in middle school, for three years, I played goalie for my soccer team. Haven’t done anything more athletic than that in a decade, but my feet must remember how to point the toe and scoop up for a serious drop kick, because that vibrator catches my toe and grabs some serious vault and air, sailing across the room, high over the bed, and flying through the open sliding glass doors, over the balcony railing and—

Down fourteen stories into the street.

We can hear the screech of tires and men shouting, then a few blares of horns.

Declan and I must look like a pair of owls, eyes wide and blinking.

I am speechless.

Declan’s not.

“Good that you don’t have a dog.”

“Huh?”

“Because that could have been one game of fetch gone terribly, terribly wrong.”

“You’re making sick jokes after that just happened?” I point to the balcony. People are screaming at each other in the distance. 

“Is there a more appropriate time to make sick jokes?”

“Why are you here?” I demand in a voice with more munition in it than I thought possible. I’m shaking with overwhelm, adrenaline, embarrassment, and excitement.

He starts to answer me. Repeatedly. Four times, in fact. I count each one, and with each new false start I feel a tiny rosebud, tight and contained, start to unfold inside me. One millimeter.

Just one tiny budge.

“I told you,” he says in a rush, clearly flustered now, arms crossed over his chest, eyes hooded again. His hair is longer—like in my dream, but still fairly short. Not the rakish, hedonistic man I conjured in my subconscious. In my bed. 

Bed.

My eyes flick over to the enormous king bed in the middle of my room, covered in more pillows than a sultan’s sex den.

Declan’s eyes follow mine. His arms drop. He blinks rapidly, focused on me now entirely, still maddening. Still not answering.

“Surely you haven’t changed your name to Alfredo and taken up plumbing,” I joke, regretting the intrusion instantly.  

He gives me a wan smile. “Maybe I’ve become a mystery shopper.”

I shrug, trying to hide how my heart is trying to break free and go hug his. “I’ve worn plenty of uniforms before during evals. You wouldn’t be unique.”

“So I’m not special?”

I measure my answer carefully as a cloud of calm coats me. He’s here, and I want him so much, but I can’t bridge that gap without an apology. Or even an explanation. Letting men waltz back into my life and resume as if there aren’t pieces of broken, bloody glass made up of my soul isn’t working for me lately.

Isn’t working for me
ever
.

“If you mean are you like all the other men I’ve dated? No.”

He flinches, guarded eyes showing a series of quick snapshots of hurt, confusion, atonement.

“No? I’m on par with
Steve
?” He says his name like a curse word. 

I can’t do this. I cannot have this conversation with Declan right here, right now. Who does he think he is? My mind scrambles to come up with a pithy comeback, witty repartees that will make him regret what he’s cast aside, but instead I fall back on the one approach that comforts me most. That makes me feel real. 

The truth.

“What are you doing, Declan? I’m not playing games with you. I don’t play games. You chose to break up with me because you didn’t know who the ‘real’ Shannon is. Because you thought I was using you to get ahead in business. Because—” 

“Because I’m an idiot,” he interrupts, taking one resolute step forward, bridging the gap between us by half. A thick gust of wind billows the stiff curtains inward, the sun flashing off some piece of glass on the desk, and the scent of seawater, the rush of cool air makes the moment seem so ripe with possibility.

“Idiot?”

“Idiot.”

One more step.
Please take one more step
, I think. The Shannon inside me that knows I can’t be walked all over is fighting with the part that wants him to kiss me, that wants to lose myself in his touch, our lips, a joining of bodies that banishes the clashing of minds.

Does it have to be either/or?

Declan’s own struggle is reflected in his eyes, one strong hand moving to his hip, the other reaching up to push through hair I wish I could stroke. I still don’t understand what happened a month ago in the hallway outside that meeting. Probably will never understand. But if he could just give me one reason, one tiny sliver of—

And now he’s kissing me.

Good reason.

Very good reason. I arch into him, absorbing his warmth, lips parting to let him taste me. As my body softens against him I feel the pull of my heart toward his, like a magnet gathering iron shavings, as if his touch could summon the disparate parts of me and bring them together, whole.

Yes, with just one kiss. And then another. And another, until there is no separation between them. No divide, no marking point where one warm, soft sigh and brush of a tongue and an eager embrace begins and ends. They all blur together, like seconds blur into minutes, minutes into hours, hours and days into the woven cloth of a life well lived. 

And loved.

He smells so nice, like Declan. His own branded scent, like tasting him in the air. Hot, eager hands pull me to him like he’s planning never to let me go, and the rush of being so close, so deliciously close to him doesn’t subside when it should.

If this were a movie, I’d pull back, smack his face, and he’d yank me close and kiss me again.

But this isn’t a movie. And he still has not answered my question.

I pull back, the kiss lingering on my mouth like a layer of silk as I ask, “You broke up with me because of your mother, didn’t you?”