Shopping for a Billionaire's Fiancee
“And the difference is…”
“One is a woman and one isn’t.”
“That makes no sense. What’s ‘Aman’, then?” While I’m waiting for an answer, it hits me. Aman. Amanda. Andrew’s got a thing for Shannon’s best friend.
“It’s Amanda, isn’t it?” Most people would keep their mouth shut but he’s my little brother. It’s in my DNA to torture him. Plus, he’s on the fast track to become CEO and Dad picked him. Not me. I have resentment and have to take it out on Andrew somewhere.
“It’s no one. Shut up. Spot me while I lift.” Andrew is the worst liar. Always has been. He’s fine with a poker face when it comes to business, but on a personal level, he’s the last person you want to tell a secret.
“Amanda Red Corset Chest,” I taunt. Andrew’s face tightens. Zing! Hit the target.
He snorts, trying to play this off like it’s nothing. “I wouldn’t know Amanda if I walked past her on the street. Haven’t seen her in what…fourteen months?”
Right. He wouldn’t know her if he passed her on the street. But who’s counting?
Oh. He is. How many months it’s been since he saw her. I know I, personally, keep track of how many months it’s been since I last saw someone I don’t give two shits about.
Not.
“Let’s talk about your future mother-in-law getting a full-on view of your ass and…hey. Wait a minute.” He folds his legs and sits on the ground next to me. I’m still on the plastic yoga ball, now stretching out my hips.
“Did you say the words ‘future wife’?” he asks. Sweat is pouring off him and he wipes it off his neck with a small hand towel.
“Yes.”
“You’re proposing? To Shannon?”
“No, to Marie. Thought I’d kidnap her and run off into the sunset.”
“You have a thing for fifty-something buxom blondes with sex fetishes?”
“Can we stop talking about ‘sex’ and ‘Marie’ in the same sentence?” I snap. At least this conversation has taken care of my hard on. It’s long gone, like Mitt Romney’s chances of becoming president.
“Marriage, huh? You feel ready for that? One woman for the rest of your life?”
“Why does everyone keep bringing up the one woman thing?”
“Because your reputation precedes you.”
“What reputation?” I know what he means and brace myself.
“Remember what Jessica said once? How you managed through sheer force of will to make ‘Declan’ rhyme with ‘man whore’?” He frowns and stands up, reaching for a hand towel. As he wipes his neck he asks, “Does Shannon know?”
“You mean, have we shared our numbers?”
“Yes.”
I nod.
“And did you have to bring out the quantum computer to calculate yours, while she used one hand for hers?”
“She uses one hand very well.”
Andrew leers and I regret the comment instantly.
“If we’re going to talk about sex and numbers, how was your ‘business meeting’ last night? Let me guess. She agreed to one, two, three! contract negotiations.”
Andrew clears his throat but says nothing.
“What’s her name?”
“Huh?”
“Her name. The woman you conducted…business with last night.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
I stand, tired and ready to go home to my one woman. A quick stop at the jeweler’s is in order, too. As I walk out of the hidden gym and into the expansive, bright room of Andrew’s office, I call back.
“Enjoy your programmed life, little bro. When you’re ready to join the rest of us, we’ll be right here. Keeping it real. And now I’m going home to be real with Shannon.”
“You mean you’re going home to fuck her.”
“Same thing.”
CHAPTER FOUR
8:01 p.m. Shit. I’m the one who’s late, so there’s no need for a search party. My homing beacon is beeping like a fire alarm and as I fidget in the elevator, wondering why the hell I ever thought living on the top floor was a good idea, I hope she’s home.
God damn New Zealand. The deal should be smooth sailing, and implementing this new line a breeze, but somewhere in the code, I know those sneaky developers added a cockblocking spell designed to keep me in a state of perpetual frustration because the name of the product we launched in twenty-three hotels and spas down under?
Blue Bell.
Which is so close to blue balls, which I have a raging case of, that I think all the sperm has backed up through my system and is poisoning my brain, turning me into a tinfoil hat conspiracy theorist. The developers in New Zealand are trying to drive me insane by preventing me from having sex.
There it is. I’ve completely lost it.
Shannon has a key to my place, and as I walk in the door I see candlelight. Flickering flame is to a man what Ben & Jerry’s is to a woman.
A sign of a sure thing.
“Shannon?” I call out, following the disorganized scatter of lit candles in the living room. Shadows dance on the wall in my hallway, and I round the corner to my bedroom to find her, spread out on my bed, wearing garters, stockings, the red corset, and—
She’s asleep.
That’s okay. I can work with asleep.
I can’t work with absent.
You’d be surprised how fast a man can undress when under the complete control of testicles so full they look like a case of mumps. I’m out of my clothes in seventeen seconds or so (who’s counting?) and on the bed, my hands taking in her prone body. I’m allowed to touch. We have an unwritten rule. It goes something like this: