Shopping for a Billionaire 4(27)
Author: Julia Kent

The vibrator is buzzing so loudly I’m sure the people in 1414 can hear it loud and clear. Removing the batteries should do the trick. I turn the cylinder over and—

Screwdriver needed.

Damn.

Tap tap tap. Someone’s at the door.

“Maintenance!” a man’s voice calls out.

I look at the clock. 3:58 p.m. Great. Of all the times for me to get the overachieving hotel maintenance dude. The only one on the freaking planet. I race into the bathroom and shove the top of the toilet tank off with one hand. Not being strong enough, I set the vibrator on the counter.

BZZZZZZZZ. That only amplifies the sound.

Tap tap tap.

“Ma’am? It’s maintenance. The front desk sent me,” he says, a little louder. His voice is muffled and my hearing is slightly obscured by the rush of panic that makes the room start to spin. I break into a sweat as I grab the vibrator to stop the roaring sound and reach inside the toilet tank to loosen the chain from the handle. In mere seconds, I manage to do it, but as I stand up from my crouch I lose my balance and—

Splash!

Drop the giant pink vibrator into the toilet.

The J stares up at me, a bit of a blur as it motorboats inside the bowl.

The distinct sound of the electronic key being shoved in the slot of my door happens in slow motion, the sound like a series of guns in a firing squad being loaded, then locked on me.

I crouch down again and shove my hand into the tank to grab the vibrator, scanning the room for something I can use to mute it. Snatch it out of the toilet and wrap it in a towel? Maybe. Best plan I have.

But the door to my room opens and a familiar man’s voice calls out.

“Hello?”

“I’m, uh…” I try to kick the door closed to buy time, but all I accomplish is a slow slide on the tile in my heels, my skirt dragging up to show the edge of my panties. I’m elbow deep in the toilet bowl, my hand smothering my mother’s sex trophy meant for my dad.

And then a very familiar face appears with two highly amused, sparkling green eyes.

He looks at me, eyes scanning my half-acre of leg and thigh, my arm buried in the toilet, and says:

“We have got to stop meeting like this.”

Chapter Fifteen

Declan’s face, his eyes, his voice, that saucy grin do not compute with the blue workman’s shirt he’s wearing. Red embroidery on a yellow name tag says Alfred, and he’s wearing Dickies work pants with tan construction worker’s boots.

He looks like any generic guy from my neighborhood back home. Like the dads of my friends. Like my male friends grown up now, in their early twenties, working in auto shops and framing houses.

“Layoffs at Anterdec got you working with your hands?” I say, leaning against the toilet bowl like it’s all good. Casual. Nothing to see here. Just drowning a sex toy to put it out of its misery.

“I thought I’d develop a new skill to fall back on.” He cocks one eyebrow and leans forward to see what I’m doing. “You drop your phone again?”

“Yep!” I chirp. “Sure did! Silly me, you know how I—”

Ring!

I changed my ringtone to that antiquated tone that sounds like a rotary phone.

Clearing his throat, he states the obvious because hey, that’s what you do when you corner a woman who is insane: “Your phone is ringing.”

“I’m not exactly going to answer it like this, now, am I?” I snap.

“Why don’t you get up and…hmmm,” he says, assessing the situation. His head turns to look in the room, then over my legs at the toilet, hands planted on his h*ps as he judges the situation and determines that there’s something wrong with finding me in a compromising position with the toilet.

“Are you drowning a tiny pink pig in the toilet?”

“Science experiment!”

Ring!

Does he have to look so damn hot while he’s dragging out this moment of impending humiliation and doom? It’s bad enough to be caught with my hand in the toilet—again!—but this time I’ll pull out my mom’s battery-operated boyfriend and go through the triple embarrassment of being turned on by the tight hang of his work outfit along his hips, how the cloth contours to those muscled thighs, the way the shirt is unbuttoned just enough to show his sprinkling of chest hair, and how the short sleeves showcase biceps that used to slide under my body and prop me up for his mouth as he—

Grabs my arm and pulls it out, dripping and buzzing from a gasping sex toy.

“You were drowning a…that? What the hell is that? A Barbie doll?”

I toss it at him. What do I have to lose at this point?

He sidesteps it neatly and it lands on the rug, turning to the left like a drunk driving in a roundabout.

“Definitely not a Barbie doll,” he says, laughing.

“I stopped playing with those a long time ago,” I say.

“I see you still have your favorite toys, though,” Declan replies. “And why a ‘J’ on the tip? No ‘D’?” he says, leering.

All I can do is glare. My heart is buzzing in my chest like a—well, you know—and he’s looking at me like I’m a human being again. Like he likes me. Like he actually wants to interact with me.

“Why are you here?” I demand.

“The front-desk clerk said the toilet was broken.” He holds up a small toolkit. “We have a completely different set of tools for malfunctioning vibrators.”

“There’s a protocol for that?” I gasp. Wow. And I thought I’d seen it all as a mystery shopper.

He nods and says dryly, “Yes. We just grab an EpiPen and shove it in there as hard as possible.”

My turn to size him up. I’m standing here with a dripping arm (again), toilet water soaking my sleeve (again), and Declan’s in disguise like he’s dressed up as a superintendent for some very pervy Halloween party.

“Why are you answering my maintenance call?”

He seems surprised to be asked. “Amanda didn’t coordinate this with you?”

“Amanda?” I say dumbly. “Amanda Amanda?”

“Is that really her last name? Cruel parents,” he says with a low whistle.

“No, her last name is not—quit changing the subject!” I demand, turning away. My jacket is ruined, so I slide out of it to review the current state of my clothing. White silk business shirt—one arm wet. Jacket wrinkling rapidly on the floor—needs to be dry-cleaned.

Suit skirt split just like the first date—business dinner—whatever you call it.