Shopping for a Billionaire 3(2)
Author: Julia Kent

I break the kiss and look over his shoulder, back at the parking lot. “We’ve walked no more than a hundred yards.”

“I guess we should actually hike on a hiking date.” He picks up the backpack and we walk at a reasonable pace, our legs synchronized. For a few minutes silence is all we need. The crunch of old leaves on the path makes the air seem to have a soundtrack. Chirping birds and woodland creatures add to the sounds.

No one else is here.

“There’s a clearing about half a mile ahead where we can set up,” he explains. The path right now is straight but it goes up an incline, jagged rocks dotting the ground. I have to use a little effort to walk, and we let go of each other’s hands to navigate.

I haven’t felt this present, this in the moment, in…ever. With Steve there was always something to say, some mission to accomplish, some goal involved in whatever we did together. From going to the “right” movie to keep up on current trends to making sure we dined at a “fashionable” restaurant to be seen or to converse about the food at work parties, every minute we spent together had to be in service to some larger goal of helping him meet the next layer of life in the ladder of achievement.

Here I am, walking up a rugged path with a guy who is so many levels higher in business success than Steve, and all we’re doing is walking among the trees to go sit and drink wine and eat strawberries under a meteor shower.

Wow.

And I wouldn’t be anywhere else right now. Even my mind grasps that. It’s leaving me alone, letting me soak in Declan and the sense of peace and greatness that comes from his attention.

We walk quietly until a small trail leads off. Darkness is hinting now, dusk making its entrance, and the newly sprouting leaves in the tall trees cast more of a shadow than they did even fifteen minutes ago. I’m guessing we’re close to the trail. My legs don’t hurt, but they’re definitely noticing we’ve walked farther than the distance from my car to my office.

It feels great.

The trees clear quite rapidly until the full grey sky is open and brighter without the cover of tree limbs and buds. A wide stretch of matted weeds spreads out before us, clearly old farm land that hasn’t been used for that purpose in decades. Because it’s spring, the growth has a raggedy aspect to it, a mix of early yellow flowers, clover, and dead straw still hanging out from last year.

“Here,” Declan declares. He stops just after we walk down a slight incline and reach a small spot of even ground. The optimal size for a big blanket. I’m tingling with anticipation and I take a second to remind myself to breathe. He’s so gorgeous, and being out here in nature in a scene out of a National Geographic special (and not the kind on the mating habits of the albino rhinoceros) gives me a kind of thrill I can’t quite describe. 

Something fiery and settled, exciting and comforting. Distracted, I open the blanket and shake it out, gently spreading the perfect square on the grass.

A warm breeze hits us, belying the chilling air. “Make up your mind, New England,” I say. “Is it winter or spring?”

He laughs. “And you say you’ve lived here your whole life? Remember the two feet of snow we got in ’97? Or the inch that came in May back in 2002? Watch out. Mother Nature may be playing a trick on us with this balmy fifty-seven degrees.”

“Every school kid remembers the April Fools’ Day blizzard! That was awesome! No school for days!” My answer makes his smile deepen.

“You were what—eight?” he asks, bending down to sit on the blanket, digging in one of the backpacks to pull out a bottle of Chardonnay and a small white container of what I assume are the strawberries. My mouth waters. Not at the food. At the sight of his strong, muscled legs stretched out before him as he works a corkscrew on the bottle.

“Yep. That made you…” I do quick math. “Twelve?”

“Eleven. My birthday is in August. Sixth grade.”

“Third for me.”

I reach for the container and open it. Yep. Strawberries.

A loud POP announces the uncorking of the wine, and I rummage through the backpack to help find the wine glasses.

“Here,” Declan says, reaching into the second pack.

He hands me coffee travel mugs.

“Huh?”

“Look closely.” The tumblers are made of clear plastic with black tops, like coffee travel mugs. But when I look closely I see it—plastic pretend wine glasses built into the coffee mugs.

My laughter fills the night. “These are perfect!”

“Sippy cups for grownups. Grace highly recommends them.”

“Then give Grace my thanks.”

He unscrews the tops off the wine “glasses” and pours us each a healthy amount of white wine. Each movement is deliberate, careful, firmly in control. He puts the tops back on and hands me mine. We’re sitting together, h*ps touching, knees up and braced. I’m comfortable like this. March was an unusually wet month and April wasn’t much better for the first week. The ground is springy but not wet, the verdant greenery of the new plants poking out with sweet hope. A fly buzzes by my ear and I ignore it.

The view is gorgeous, as farmland and fields roll with glacier-made hills and valleys before us. A ring of thick woods surrounds the view, and it’s a welcome relief from the chatter of the city just a few miles away. Route 9 is an endless string of mini-malls, regular malls, grocery stores, and chains, all buttressed by the city or Route 495 and its business belt. We’re sandwiched between the suburbs, the city, and massive interstates, but in this quiet, reflective spot we could be anyone, anywhere, at any time.

I gulp the first half of my wine. A fruity flavor with just enough sweetness to make it easy to drink but dry enough to be enjoyable, I compliment him on the choice.

“Grace, again, I must admit,” he confesses. No embarrassment. Just the gentlemanly acknowledgement. 

“Then to Grace,” I say, raising my tumbler for a toast.

“To Toilet Girl,” he says with a playful smile.

Chapter Two

“To Hot Guy.” We drink. We kiss. We sigh. He reaches for my now nearly empty tumbler and picks up a giant strawberry covered in dark chocolate.

“To first dates,” he says as he hands it to me. My mouth fills with the second-best-tasting thing this evening, the first being him.

“This is our second date,” I say around a mouth full of divine fruit and chocolate.

“It is?” He seems genuinely surprised. “I thought Monday was a business meeting.”