Shopping for a Billionaire 4(24)
Author: Julia Kent

“I’m upset about that, too,” Amanda adds. “But mostly I just want to get laid.”

“Don’t look at me,” Josh says, palms out.

“Or me,” Greg murmurs so quietly only I can hear him.

“I think we’re swinging away from professionalism,” I whisper in her ear.

“It’s the damn sex toy shop I did with your mother!”

“Anyone want coffee?” Greg shouts. Josh jumps up with him and they rush out of the room.

“Note to self,” I say. “Mention sex life, get free coffee from men at work.”

“Oh, and here,” Amanda says, as if uninterrupted. She flails one arm toward her a giant Vera Bradley bag, hands hanging down like a T-rex, ineffectual and useless. Normally I would take pity on her, but I’m kind of enjoying her pain.

After what feels like an hour, she pulls out a water bottle. One of those big, pink-and-white plastic water bottles that…

Has a giant mushroom cap on the end of it, and a Power button.

“Is that a—OH MY GOD, AMANDA!” I scream, shoving the monstrosity out of my way. It falls to the ground and in the impact, the Power button is pushed. A slow vibration rubs against my foot.

“What? It’s from the sex toy shop. You act like you’ve never seen a vibrator before!”

“Not at work! Here! With Greg and Josh around.” I’ve never met a vibrator I didn’t like, frankly, but this is a bit much.

“Your mom used part of her product allowance to give this one to you.” Mom’s been assigned to seven different sex toy shops now because of the way she handled my breakdown in Northampton. Her evaluation was perfect and the client asked for her to do most of the rest of the shops.

I’m so proud. It’s like having your mother win the Nobel Peace Prize.

Almost.

I stare at the buzzing monstrosity and I just…I don’t…words disappear. The earth implodes. A supernova of nothingness replaces my consciousness. I did not just receive a hand-picked vibrator from my mother. Nope nope nope.

“See? It has a ‘D’ on the tip. Marie wanted it to remind you of Declan.”

“Remind me of…what?”

“Plus, the curvature of the letter makes hitting the G-spot easier.” She says this the way a home party product specialist might describe a decorative candle.

“Shut up.”

“Why are you so hostile?”

“Some product designer actually thought this was a good idea?” I challenge.

“Your mom said the sex toy shop owner told her it was so your man could leave his mark in an intimate place.”

“Where? On your cervix? That’s like being branded! You know a man designed that,” I fume.

The vibrator twitches on the ground, but I can’t stop it. My legs won’t move. I’ve been sitting here just long enough for atrophy or entropy or oldladykickedmyassery to set in, and all these gym shops have collectively rendered my leg muscles so useless I can’t even kick a vibrator with enough power to make it come within range of my hand so I can turn it off.

Bzzzz. “Amanda, can you help me? Reach under there and—”

“Reach? REACH? You ever bench-press eighty pounds, then do ten minutes of high-intensity rowing on a rowing machine while a Bulgarian screams in your ear? I’m lucky my arms are still attached.” She looks down. “Okay, good. Still there. Hello, hands. I love you!” She looks up at me. “Just checking.”

Bzzzz.

“Greg and Josh will be back any second, and I’d really prefer neither of them has to pick up a vibrator that my mother gave me.”

“It’s pretty impressive,” she says. “Has an anal probe attachment that’s shaped like an octopus tentacle.”

Greg walks in as she says the end of that sentence. He stops so quickly that hot coffee sloshes out of the tiny sipping holes in the tops of the two take-out cups he carries. His ears perk up and he tilts his head, searching for the sound.

And then his eyes find it.

“Is that a robot vacuum cleaner?” he asks, poking his head under the table to catch a look. “Judy’s been mentioning getting one. Says it could really make things better at home, because I’ve been slacking, and we need something bigger.”

“Uh,” is all I can say. Just as he bends down, Amanda kicks the vibrator, hard, but her aim is off.

It hits Josh squarely in the shin as he walks in carrying two more coffees. Josh looks down at the bleating white-and-pink flesh penis, then looks at Greg, who has a perplexed look on his walrus-like face.

“That doesn’t look like a robot vacuum,” Greg says.

Josh is nonplussed by the non sequitur. He looks at Amanda, then me, and asks:

“Do they make that in purple?”

Chapter Thirteen

No amount of begging, pleading, or offers to clean anyone’s shoes with my tongue—including Chuckles’—has made a difference. I am stuck driving my poop-topped car to my mystery shop for The Fort.

Why does this matter, you wonder? Because when you mystery shop a hotel, most clients want a detailed evaluation of every service offered in the hotel. For high-end luxury properties, that begins with valet parking.

That’s right. I have to hand off my Turdmobile to a guy who makes more in tips parking Teslas and Ferraris in a day than I make in a week.

And while I’m sure these valets have seen some novel vehicles, including electric-powered Hummers and cars with batwings for doors, a compact car with a big, brown coffee bean that looks like a piece of feces is going to be a new one in their repertoire.

Which throws being inconspicuous out the window.

Even Greg wouldn’t relent, making up some sob story about how he needs his car to take his mother to her hip rehab appointment. Pffft. Excuses.

The Fort is a massive building of wonder and beauty, blinding in the bright sunshine and shining like a beacon on the edge of Boston’s Back Bay. Located right on the edge of all the fun in the city’s core, you can walk to fine steakhouses, Faneuil Hall, see the boats come in, go to the aquarium, and have everything at your fingertips.

But first you have to talk to a valet named Guido who looks just like your ex-boyfriend.

Guido—according to the name tag—makes me do a triple take, because if Guido were a few years younger and had green eyes instead of brown, he’d be Declan.

“Holy—what?” I exclaim as I climb out of the car, keys in hand. The semicircular covered driveway in front of the glittering bronze-covered entrance seems like it’s made of polished marble. As my high heels clack on the ground, I realize it is marble. Actual marble.