Shopping for a Billionaire 3(30)
Author: Julia Kent

She frowns and pretends to answer her phone, her exit remarkably anti-climatic.

“Sorry about that,” Jim says as we settle in. I’m guessing another hour or so of paperwork and then we can leave. If only my credit score were higher than my bra size.

“No problem. It happens,” Amanda says. Her tone is neutral but I know she’s testing Jim. My body is about to supernova with anger and parts of me will turn into ribbons of flesh that stretch into the parking lot and strangle Monica, so I stay silent and just brood.

“The truth is all over Shannon’s face,” Jim points out.

“The truth?”

He looks pointedly toward where Monica just exited, sighs, and pulls out the first paper from the stack, clicking a ballpoint pen. “Some people would rather hide behind a mask than be vulnerable and real.” His eyes are open and respectful, but something darker passes through them.

And with that, Jim just got the highest score possible on this mystery shop.

And I lost everything important to me because I couldn’t ditch my mask.

Chapter Fourteen

The first person to message me is my sister, who does it to my face.

“Oh MY GOD,” Amy screams as she crashes through my doorway, nearly flattening the cheap hollow-core door. Her hair springs to life around her like Medusa snakes as her neck snaps up and down between freaking out at whatever’s on her phone screen and making eye contact with me that reminds me of the women in The Handmaid’s Tale when they are sent off to their assignments.

“What did Mom do now?” I ask. Note to self: get deadbolt for bedroom door. Especially if I plan to have overnight guests.

Which I do.

“It’s not Mom. This time. For once.” She paces, her hair like a lady in waiting. I run my hand through my own locks and find a rat’s nest of straight, stringy hair. How does she manage to look like a cross between Merida and Christina Hendricks while I look like a drunk Cameron Diaz in Bad Teacher combined with Melissa McCarthy after that unfortunate diarrhea scene in Bridesmaids?

Genetics.

“Then who?” I reach for my phone to check messages from Declan. He was working late last night and then had a board of directors meeting for some big charity organization. We’re meeting tonight at my place for drinks. As in, he’ll drink me and I’ll drink him and eventually we’ll cave in to basic sustenance needs and order Thai takeout.

“Jessica!”

“Jessica…who?” I’m rubbing my eyes, trying to wake up. Before being so rudely interrupted I was in the middle of a dream where Declan and I were in a cabana on a beach on some tropical island, na**d and tanned and drinking something fruity and delightful out of a half coconut…

“Coffin!”

“Jessica Coffin.” I say the name slowly, then open my messaging app.

157 messages.

Say wha?

“Why do I have 157 messages? Steve isn’t THAT crazy!” I shout.

Amy throws her hands in the air in exasperation. It just makes her look cuter. If I do it, I look like I’m swatting flies. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you!” Her eyes are filled with panic and pity. “Your life blew up last night in cyberspace.” She pauses. “And, soon, real life. Have you heard from Billionaire Boy?”

“What the hell does Declan have to do with anything?”

The front door opens and someone shouts “Hello—oh, Jesus! Leave me alone! Those are new shoes!”

“Chuckles!” Amy and I shout at the same time. The cat had his balls hacked off forever ago but sometimes he still marks his territory, especially on shoes with laces that go up the ankle. As Amanda stumbles into my room shaking her foot, I see I’m right.

“Why are you wearing gladiator sandals in my place? You know Chuckles pees on them.”

“Forgive me for forgetting that you have a cat with a lace fetish,” she says back, fuming. “They’re in style right now.” She grabs a towel draped across the back of a chair and starts wiping her foot, cursing under her breath as she teeters off to the bathroom. The faucet turns on just as Amy zeroes in on me.

I cut her off. “Coffee? I can’t handle a crisis before I’ve had three cups.”

“Tough luck, sis, because the crisis is here whether you’re caffeinated or not.”

“And what, exactly, is the crisis?”

She points to my phone.

157 messages.

“Read those while I make you a double espresso. You’re going to need it.” Her ominous warning makes me frown, and Chuckles wanders in with a disapproving look that makes me scan the room for laces of any kind.

Fortunately, I have a taste in shoes that veers pretty close to that of a skateboarder, so I’m safe.

He sniffs the air, narrows his eyes, and looks at the phone in my hand. Go ahead, he seems to say. Make my day.

Now my cat is giving me Dirty Harry lines. This is worse than I thought.

“But before you read your messages, you need to read Jessica Coffin’s Twitter feed,” Amanda explains as she comes out of the bathroom shoeless. “It’s…well, honey,” she says with a compassion that makes my heart race. “Honey, you need to have that coffee in you.”

‘Honey’ is what Declan calls me, I almost cry out. It sounds pathetic and ominous when Amanda does it.

“How bad can some frozen woman’s Twitter feed be? What does it have to do with my life?” They’re scaring me. She’s just some woman Steve dated. Some woman who wanted Declan.

“Remember yesterday at the credit union?”

“How could I forget?”

“How we ran into Steve’s mom?”

“Get to the point.” Amy brings me a coffee and I take a sip, burning my tongue. The coffee could peel paint, it’s so strong, but that appears to be intentional.

Oh, boy.

“Monica must have said something to Steve who said something to Jessica.” Amanda and Amy share a look that makes my blood run cold. Chuckles smiles. I should rent him out as an interrogator for the Russian mob.

Oh, this is bad. Really bad.

“And Jessica—what? Mentioned me on her Twitter feed?” I make a huffy laughing sound. Ludicrous. What’s a Tweet going to do to me? Hurt my Klout score? Ouch. You hurt my fake internet feelings.

They look at me with alarm. “Yes,” they say in unison.

I glare at Amanda. “I knew that tentacle  p**n  comment would bring us nothing but trouble.”

I reach for my phone in slow motion, like something out of The Matrix, except instead of feeling like I’m part of some kickass save-the-world moment, I feel like an insect that is two seconds away from being crushed by the windshield of a Mini Cooper.