Shopping for a Billionaire 4(33)
Author: Julia Kent

Fortunately, part of my job here at The Fort involves eating dinner in the main dining room. Testing whether they’ll seat me without reservations happens to be built in to the evaluation, which is great, because not only did I not think ahead to schedule any, my mind is like a series of shrapnel bits spiraling through space after the grenade Andrew just lobbed at me.

A friendly, helpful, extremely insightful grenade, but a dangerous weapon nonetheless. Declan’s words from our fight, the day he broke up with me. 

I took a chance on you.

Of course, I thought he meant it the same way Steve did—that I was too rough, too jagged-edged, not fit for the upper echelons of society.

Declan meant it in such a different way.

As I approach the restaurant a coiffed, sleek woman who looks like Jessica Coffin’s twin, fast-forwarded thirty years, graciously offers me a table. She does not say “for one?” with any condescension, which is important. Business travelers routinely dine alone, and alienating them  is not in anyone’s financial interest.

I just need a steak and a salad and some equanimity. I think the first two are on the menu. I know the third is not.

I’m seated at a lovely table with a glass waterfall to my right, the water trickling in perfect ribbons onto a Zen rock garden, peaceful and serene. Water lilies—real—float on the pools filled with koi fish, and I inhale deeply, muddling through the thousands of details, snippets of conversation and feelings, that fill me now.

A white-jacketed waiter brings me water and says,

“Enjoying your stay, Ms. Jacoby?”

I flinch and startle, flinging my arms wide, hitting the wine goblet he holds out to me, sending a spray of water all over his very familiar, lined face.

James McCormick.

“What kind of joke is this!” I sputter.

“That was supposed to be my line, Shannon,” he mutters as he uses the napkin on his arm to wipe his face.

Whether it’s the scotch or the mind blowing story Andrew’s just told me, or the aftereffects of just seeing and kissing Declan, I let loose without thinking.

“How could you blame Declan for your wife’s death?”

“You don’t mince words, do you? I dated a woman like that once. It didn’t work out.”

“I know. Because she dumped you.”

His eyes turn into wrinkled triangles. “What are you talking about?”

“The name Winky mean anything to you?” Andrew opened the floodgates with the truth. Well, technically, Amanda did. My head hurts. Too much to tease through, so instead I’ll just bulldoze James.

He deserves it.

Reflexively, he looks down at his crotch. Is this a male thing? “Winky? Like that children’s television character?”

“Winky the dog.”

He sits down next to me, moving just slow enough in that way people in their fifties—even the really fit ones, like my mom—have.

“What kind of joke is this?” He’s studying me carefully.

A little too much scotch, way too many revelations, and a flying vibrator that stops traffic have made my day one big, giant crater. “The name Marie Scarlotta mean anything to you?” Mom’s maiden name.

James’ eyes widen and he searches my face avidly. “My God! I knew you looked familiar.” He laughs through his nose. “You’re Marie’s daughter? And Jacoby is your last name?” He leaps up and disappears around a corner, headed for the kitchen.

That was remarkably anticlimactic.

A worker brings a breadbasket with artisanal options that carry a layer of seeds and nuts on top thicker than an energy bar. James returns, carrying two tumblers of scotch.

Neat.

He holds one out to me and with a shaking hand I take it. Seems like the best idea ever, especially right now.

“A toast.”

“To extraordinary fathers,” I say.

He beams. “Why thank you.”

“I was talking about mine.”

His smile fades, but he shrugs. “To Jason.”

Our glasses crash together, retreat, and then we empty them.

“He never accused me of killing someone,” I say viciously.

“Is that the baseline for being a good enough parent?” James fingers the rim of his glass. “If so, I’ve failed.” Standing, he pulls off the white jacket and rips off his bow tie. Fit and trim, like Declan, his stomach is flat, shirt a bit askance after his partial undressing. Shrewd eyes meet mine as he raises one hand and a waiter attends to us instantly.

I cover my glass with my hand and shake my head ‘no.’

James smiles, baring teeth. He’s just wolfish enough to scare me. Not in a sexual predator kind of way.

Just a plain old predator. He’s dangerous. Any man who would blame his own son for—

“I regret it. I never should have said that to Declan, and even now, ten years later, I find I can’t help myself. It slips out. I’m really angry at me. Not him.”

The confession feels insincere.

“You don’t believe that.” I pull a piece of bread bigger than my head from the basket and take a bite. The crust is so hard you could use it to stone rape victims in backwards countries with misogynistic laws. I think I just cracked a tooth. Good thing I have whisky to help with the pain.

“What do I believe, Shannon?”

“You’re pissed at your wife.”

“Because she chose to save Andrew? What kind of a father would feel that? I’m not a monster.”

“No, not because of that. Because she died. Period. You’re just pissed. Anyone would be. It’s human. You’re allowed to be human.”

He sighs slowly and looks angry.

“And so is Declan,” I add.

“If I’d been there, I might have—”

“What? Been racked with guilt like Declan?” I shake my head. “It’s a freak accident. They happen. In fact, if Declan hadn’t done exactly what his mom told him to do, you might have lost Andrew, too.”

“I know.”

“And you told Declan to stop dating me because I’m too similar to his mother,” I mutter, making the connection.

The booming laugh that greets my statement rattles my teeth. “You? Similar to Elena? No.”

“But we have the same affliction.”

“Yes.”

James worries the glass in front of him and glances at the ice bar, where Andrew’s back in place, this time in a suit and tie, talking with what looks like a manager.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to have a child or a wife or a loved one with a severe, anaphylactic allergy like this, Shannon?”