Shopping for a Billionaire 3(17)
Author: Julia Kent

“Good for me, then, that you came prepared.”

He pauses mid-bite. “Yes,” is all he says, then continues eating. The lights above us go round and round, giving the room a hypnotic glow.

“How does Andrew handle it?” I take a bite and let my words hang there. Declan’s quiet, finishing his food, and I get the sense that he doesn’t want to talk about this, but I do. There’s no way I’m going to act like it never happened.

“Handle being so allergic?”

“No, handle being the Green Lantern.”

He smiles. “Touché. Okay, he handles it by carefully orchestrating a life where he’s never near a wasp.”

I laugh. Declan pours another glass of wine for me. I nod my thanks and he sets the bottle down, conspicuously not filling his own glass.

“Impossible.”

His eyebrows go up in mirth. “No, it’s quite possible. He has drivers who meet him in underground parking garages, flies only at night in the cooler temperatures for that twenty-foot walk on private tarmacs to the company jet, and exercises indoors.”

“He must be paler than a vampire.” Then again, so’s my belly. It hasn’t seen sunlight since Kristen Stewart smiled.

“Tanning booths and vitamin D supplements cover that.”

I’m chewing a glorious piece of lobster as his words sink in. “You’re joking.”

He swallows his own bite and finishes his wine. “I’m completely serious. It’s how he copes.”

I’m stunned. The allergists over the years have cautioned me to take measures that reduce my risk, but no one’s ever suggested such extremes. “Were his stings that bad?”

“He’s only been stung once.”

“Once?”

“And his throat closed up.”

“Oof. That’s really rare. You don’t normally have a reaction that bad for the first time you’re stung.”

“Bad enough that he lost consciousness. We got him to the ER on time.” I can tell he really, really doesn’t want to talk about this, but it’s calming me. Centering me. Hearing him talk about his own experiences and his brother’s allergies makes me feel less like an oddity.

“Your mother and father must have freaked.”

“Mom was dead by then.” His face is a stone mask. My heart squeezes.

“Oh.” What the hell can I say after that? Shoving a mouthful of perfectly done filet is the only way to respond. Declan pours himself another glass of wine, filling it within a half-inch of the rim, then empties the rest of the bottle into my glass.

Neither of us has to drive, so why not?

He studies me, taking liberal sips of his wine, then puts the glass down and reaches for my free hand. I’m slowing down, full of delectable food, wired and aroused.

“You’re worried I can’t handle the bee thing.” It’s not a question. And he’s mostly right. 

I take a moment to think about this before answering. “No. Not quite.” He gives me a skeptical look. “It’s more that you handled it so well. Precisely perfect. The last time I was stung I was with Steve, who ran away in a panic and screamed so much the EMTs who arrived after I called 911 thought he was the bee sting victim. Delayed my treatment.”

Declan’s face goes tight and angry. “Not only is he an ass**le, 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.”