Shopping for a Billionaire 4(21)
Author: Julia Kent

“You’re just like your father,” Dad says, delivering the KO punch.

Gravity does, apparently, cease to exist, because I fall over in shock, my body flying forward and out into the lobby, shoulder and knee cracking against the polished floor, my shriek of surprise echoing in the enormous, airy building like a gunshot ricocheting.

I’m on my side and my hip and shoulder are screaming. I look up to find my father, completely dumbfounded, with his jaw hanging so low it’s resting next to me like a pillow, offered in shock.

And Declan is smiling.

Chapter Eleven

He can’t fake it, no matter how hard he tries to hide the grin that just spontaneously popped on his face, but the smother job he does is pretty damn good.

“Just testing out my Lucille Ball imitation,” I say as I roll onto my back, afraid to stand up. This is far less conspicuous than any limp, anyhow.

“Can I step on her, Mommy?” asks a little toddler as his mom drags him by the hand on the way to the bathrooms.

“No.” She’s dressed in all-white running clothes, and the little boy is wearing nothing but white, too. “You might get dirty,” she snaps.

“You must be Jessica Coffin’s sister,” I call back to her. She ignores me.

Declan’s eyes light up, though he doesn’t smile. Dad bends down to help me stand up, but I wave him off.

“You two were about to compare penises, so don’t let me interrupt you.”

I didn’t think Dad’s jaw could fall open any more, but somehow it does. Half of Declan’s mouth inches up with a quirked look, his eyes on me, conflicted but determined at the same time. He looks like a stern headmaster at a girl’s prep school, the pinnacle of authority and a role model for how to comport oneself at all times.

Yet just as likely to take the older girls to his office for a spanking when they’re naughty.

Parts of me that aren’t supposed to be warm right now feel like sunspots. And parts of me that aren’t supposed to be wet are. All in front of my father, who is grasping my elbow like he’s pulling me out of the rapids on the Colorado River in the middle of a flash flood.

“Shannon!” Dad exclaims, his voice shifting from the dominant fight tone he just used with Declan to the kindly, concerned father tone I know so well. All the information Mom’s given me about him and James from thirty years ago swirls around inside, a churn I can’t contain. No one can pivot readily from one stance to another, though; his muscles are corded steel underneath his middle-age paunch, and he has a look in his eyes that makes me a little afraid for Declan.

Once that alpha is unleashed…

“Why are you talking about penises, Shannon?” Declan adds, then shakes his head. A fight between two approaches to me and my father is brewing inside him. I can see it. Mr. Cool is trying to win.

Penitheth, I think, but don’t say. Then I giggle as I get on my feet, nursing my sore shoulder. Green eyes narrow and he goes somber. Challenging.

Mr. Ass is, apparently, taking over. This is the same guy I saw a month ago. The one who gives no quarter. Dismissive and closed off, he won’t be worth talking to.

And then Declan surprises me.

“Jason,” he says, turning to offer Dad a hand to shake. The two grip each other like a stripper hanging on to her pole after a high heel breaks. “Good to see you.”

Dad is dismissed. His eyes harden, and while he’s older and softer, he’s not going anywhere. “Good to see you, too, Declan.” Both of them look at me for a microsecond and, like synchronized swimmers, cross their arms over their chests, brows lowering, necks tight, mouths set.

Who are these people?

I don’t want to hurt my dad’s masculinity here, but I also don’t want to miss out on the first chance to talk to Declan in what feels like forever. Because my brain shuts down in overwhelmed moments like this, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind:

“Andrew thinks Amanda is hot?”

Declan lowers his head, biting his lips in that super-sexy way that he thinks is somehow suppressing a laugh but that just succeeds in making me want him even more.

“Eavesdropping? My dad was right.”

A flame of fury engulfs me. He’s itching to find reasons—really stupid reasons—to make our breakup my fault. So not my fault. Even when it’s on fire, my heart beats for him. Damn it. Time to extinguish it with just the right words.

Which are…

Not there. Because I’m so happy to be a few feet from him, to look at him, to have his eyes on me. I can’t come back with a retort because there are no retorts. If I say something—anything—right now, it will probably be a string of babble that makes me sound like I’m speaking in tongues at an evangelical revival.

So I just stare at him like Dory the fish. Just keep staring, just keep staring…

And he stares right back.

Dad clears his throat and gives me a look of consideration, the kind of glance you give someone who impresses you. Like he’s underestimated me and has reconsidered based on evidence I don’t know I’ve provided.

“I’ll leave you two to talk,” he announces, and gives me a wink. Have I neutralized the beta-alpha?

Or did Dad just defer to me because he knows he’s secure in who he is?

I’m not nervous. Not anxious or worried or scared or—anything. I am present. Here, fully, in the company of Declan.

And ready to talk.

“Your dad was right about which topic?” I ask Declan, who frowns slightly, confused. One hand slips into his pants pocket and the other opens, palm flat against the wall as if he’s holding it up.

Propping up the world.

Andrew’s words pump through my mind, analysis impossible right here, face to face with Declan. I can’t smell him, breathe in his air, watch the movement of his body under his suit and shirt while dissecting what his brother meant moments ago.

All I can do is ask the source and see if he will reveal any new truths to me.

Then again, why should he? In his mind I’m just the woman who used him for his money and connections.

“What do you mean?” He’s being coy. He knows I heard his conversation with Andrew, and instead of tipping his hand he’s tipping my heart. Upside down, shaking it like a pickpocket rolling a victim.

“What isn’t your fault? What was Andrew talking about? Something happened ten years ago and you’re blaming yourself for it.”

Blood drains from his face, but he doesn’t change expression, eyes hard now, mouth immobile. No answer. No reaction.