Shopping for a Billionaire 3(8)
Author: Julia Kent

“I have always lived in Realityland. I’m the mayor of it. It’s the rest of the world that doesn’t cooperate.”

He smiles.

“No, seriously. Have you met my mother?”

Now he just shakes his head with amusement. We both yawn at the same time, slow, lion-like sounds. I turn back around and he snuggles up.

“Are you allowed to nap with me?” I ask. I think half the words disappear as I fade off to sleep.

“It’s better to ask forgiveness than permission,” he says, the vibration of his words against my neck a cozy feeling. A feeling I could get used to experiencing every day of my life. “Besides, the nurses take pity on me. They’re also a little jealous of you.”

“Jealous?”

“When I had to strip down to show them the EpiPen puncture, they got an eyeful.”

My laughter is quieter than I want it to be. I’m so tired.

“Is this the weirdest date you’ve ever been on?” I mumble as sleep overtakes me.

“Probably.” A long pause, and then he adds, “The EpiPen was definitely the most inventive sex toy a woman has ever used with me.”

I’m in a state of exhausted bliss, and as I float off, a thought occurs to me.

“Declan?”

“Mmm?” He’s breathing slowly, his voice muted in the tiny room. I almost feel bad interrupting him, but I have to know. The thought won’t go away.

“How did your mother die?”

His breathing halts, the warm muscles behind me solid and tense like granite. Then he relaxes, as if by will. The monitors ping on.

“It’s not important. Go to sleep, honey.”

“You called me ‘honey,’” I whisper, my eyes filling with tears. He can’t see me, and that’s good.

“I’m just so, so grateful you’re going to be okay.” His hand rests on my hip with a possession and a familiarity I like. I like it very much, but I’m so, so tired.

“Thanks to you,” I mumble, and then that’s all there is.

Chapter Four

The first date I have after I get out of the hospital feels like a combination of a bad Girls episode and sealing myself to the bathtub during an unfortunate do-it-yourself waxing session.

What? Why do you think my mother insists on making me go with her to the spa? She let me get out of it this week because of billionaires and bees and that whole Shannon-almost-died thing, but I know it’s coming soon.

This bad date, though—it turns out it’s going to be a doozy. The kind of night where you go on Truu Confessions and skewer the person, then it becomes a BuzzFeed article and the next thing you know you have a podcast that propels you to a cable show and then—

“I wish I had been there, Shannon,” Steve says in a low murmur. That’s right. I’m on a date with Steve.

Not Declan.

Declan is off in New Zealand slaying Orcs or whatever you do “on business” in New Zealand. He almost offered to bring me, but the whole IV-in-the-arm thing and my mom’s screams about New Zealand bees killing her daughter put a stop to that. “Bad timing” will be etched on my gravestone, I swear.

Plus I have a backlog of shops to do, including two podiatrist offices (checking fungal safety protocols), one cigar shop (to see if there’s clerk bias against women), one massage company (hallelujah!), and fourteen fast food restaurants testing out a new Caesar salad.

Fortunately, I like anchovies. Amanda’s allergic to them (she says…), so I know what I’ll be eating for lunch for the next three weeks.

Last night I got into a lovely sexting session with Declan that ended in some pictures of him and a few pictures of me and let’s just say thank God for the fact that pictures you take on Snapchat all get deleted within a few minutes, because if this relationship goes south there would be pictures of me in compromising positions way more embarrassing than a hand in the toilet.

Steve is, instead, my “date.” He keeps calling it a date, and I keep calling it, well, nothing. We’re at a local Mexican joint where all the food is homemade and delicious, but coated with cilantro the way my mother puts on mascara. Three layers deep and with a ruthless efficiency few can master. At least none of the cooks poked my eye out while applying it.

“If you’d been there it would have been awkward, Steve,” I say in a no-nonsense voice, though I reach forward and pat his hand. That’s such a patented Marie Jacoby gesture that I freeze and snatch my fingers away as if I’d been burned. They say you turn into your mother as you age. Kill me now.

Weird. It’s so weird to realize how much of your parents seeps into you unconsciously. Pretty soon I, too, will wear nothing but yoga pants and use push powder to fluff up my thinning hair while talking incessantly about Farmington Country Club weddings and my dildo collection.

And if I had married Steve, that pretty much would have summed up the next three decades. I shudder again and shove a fried tortilla chip in my mouth to stifle a groan.

“Why would it have been awkward?” he asks, one corner of his mouth turned up in what I assume is an attempt to give me a seductive smile. He looks like the Joker, minus makeup.

I chew fast and swallow hard. “Because Declan and I were on a date.” Do I really need to spell out the obvious?

“Got a problem with two men at once?” he says in a guttural tone I’ve never heard from him.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I bark. “And ewwww, who wants two men at the same time?” One is hard enough to handle. If I want two men at the same time then one of them can change my oil while I have sex with the other one. Now there’s a fantasy.

Steve just laughs and says, “I thought you two weren’t dating.” He uses both hands to pick up his drink, which is a strawberry margarita the size of a bucket. You could host a pool party for toddlers in there.

I c**k one eyebrow and try not to sigh. “You caught us kissing at the restaurant two weeks ago. We’re dating.” My voice is firm and kind of flat, the way you talk to a pollster during a presidential campaign. Like you want to be nice and do your duty, but c’mon—let’s get this over with so you can go off and spin this conversation to your advantage in the most sociopathic way ever.

“That doesn’t mean you’re dating.” He takes three enormous swallows of his drink and sets it down, salt coating his thin upper lip. Steve then unrolls the silverware from the yellow cloth napkin and shakes the cloth onto his lap. His hands are steady but something is off. Why am I here again?