Shopping for a Billionaire's Fiancee (Page 53)

He drinks half his tumbler and looks out at the inky night, words aimed at me, eyes aimed up at the stars we can’t see.

“Which is fine,” he continues, as if we never paused. “But at some point you have to realize Shannon is part of a family, and that eventually all the family members do need to be considered.”

“How can I not realize that? It’s shoved in my face every day. My penis—excuse me, penith—has been made fun of by a child born in the twenty-first century and you and my father engaged in a version of wrestling banned for its eroticism in seventeen countries. At my work. And don’t even get me started on Marie…”

I swig the rest of my Scotch and give him a narrow look. “You think I don’t understand I’m not just marrying Shannon? That you’re all a package deal?”

Jason blinks, eyes tired but steady. “It’s like that, huh?” He sighs. It’s a sound of disappointment that makes my stomach clench. “You’re just going to do what you do and we’ll do what we do and it’s going to be a mess.”

That’s the most plainspoken description of my interactions with Shannon’s family I’ve ever heard.

“Yes.”

“As long as you always put Shannon first, I’m fine with that.” He offers me his hand. I shake it.

“Yes, sir.”

He steps back and walks with purpose to the door to my office, ready to leave. I watch him go, mind spinning from trying to understand why he’s here and, probably, a little from the Scotch.

“Declan?” he adds right before he walks out. He’s smiling, eyes friendly and sharp.

“Yes?”

“Make sure you understand that I’ll always put Marie first when you two clash. Just so we’re clear.”

And with that, he’s gone.

Poopwatch, Day 4…

“Auntie Shannon pooped! She pooped!” My phone crackles with an excited eight year old’s voice as I answer a call from what I thought was Shannon.

“Poopy! See poopy in da fesh fy tay!” chants Tyler in the background. I’m hoping “See” is his version of “She,” because the alternative is just too gross.

“She got the ring, Declan!” Jeffrey crows. “You can be my uncle now. Uncleth give good presents to their nephew, right? And you’re rich. I want an X-Box K’nect with—”

Shannon’s voice appears, dripping through my ears like honey. “Sorry about that,” she laughs. “Jeffrey got a little too excited and knows exactly how to use my phone.”

“See? I was right.”

“Huh?”

“Little boys love to talk about poop.”

She makes a sound of disgust, but hey, she’s got to admit I’m right.

“You got the ring?” I ask.

“Yes.”

Thank God. Poopwatch 2015 is over.

“Everything okay?”

She snorts. “My mom brought me a bunch of chocolates yesterday. Turns out they had a little something special in them.”

“Xanax?”

“Laxatives.”

“Ouch.”

“Right. I needed an epidural to—oh, why am I talking about this with you?” she screeches, her voice changing from casual closeness to horrified harpy in the blink of an eye.

“You can talk about anything with me, Shannon. I miss you.”

“I promise,” she says in a rush of urgency, “that we’re having your mom’s ring cleaned. Sterilized. In fact, we’ve arranged to have a nuclear bomb detonated so close to it any living organisms will be killed. That should ensure it’s truly spic ’n span.”

I chuckle and then have no idea what to say. I don’t even clean my own underwear, so how would I know what you do in a case like this?

“I can have Grace arrange everything,” I tell her. “It’s the least I could do.”

“Declan, when we have kids someday and I’m not around and a diaper needs to be changed, you know you can’t call Grace.”

Kids. She mentioned kids.

“That’s what nannies are for.”

“Nannies? More than one?”

“Of course. Three of them in round the clock shifts.”

“You’re joking.” Her voice drops to a register that tells that even if I weren’t joking, I have to pretend I am.

“Yes, I am. But not about the diaper part.”

Her voice goes soft. “Dec?”

“Yeah?”

“We need to talk.”

My chest tightens. “We do?”

“Well, there’s this ring here, and….”

“About that,” I say with a smile. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Throwing all my French fry trays away.”

“After that?”

“Going to work.”

“How about a helicopter ride?”

“To the lighthouse?”

“No. Somewhere better.”

Somewhere perfect.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Proposal 2.0…

Marie’s helicopter envy is understandable when you look at cities from the standpoint of having to get around in them. Landing at the Anterdec helipad is a breeze compared to trucking into the city from JFK or LaGuardia, limo or no limo.

Anterdec’s New York City driver, Sam, takes our bags and delivers them to our corporate suite at the company’s finest hotel in Manhattan.

“Where is he taking my bag?” Shannon shouts over the sound of the copter.

“To the hotel.”

“Aren’t we going there?” she asks, looking at me with curiosity.