Shopping for a CEO (Shopping for a Billionaire #7)(7)

“It should be,” he growls.

And with that, he turns and leaves.

“I’ll walk you out,” Declan mutters.

Shannon gives him a look. Declan walks to the door Andrew’s just exited and sighs.

“Salted caramel this time? Two pints or three?” His fingers curl around the doorframe as he waits for an answer.

She looks at me with the deep intensity of a psychotherapist analyzing a feral child. “One bag of marshmallows. One bag of Cheetos.”

Declan’s eyebrow goes up.

“Mom!” Shannon calls out. “Do we have any butter?”

“Yes. Two sticks,” Marie calls out.

Declan flinches. I can see the calculation in his eyes. Dare I ask about the butter? He’s a smart man, though, and chooses the path of least resistance.

Silence.

Andrew uses silence, too, I realize as I will my pulse back to a beat that doesn’t involve breaking the sound barrier. He uses his mouth to silence me.

Why?

“Fine. I’m buying marshmallows and, uh...Cheetos.” Declan’s hand is on the doorknob. He’s giving Shannon a look that says, Please don’t make me buy tampons again.

“Aren’t you sending Gerald?” she asks in a surprised tone. Gerald is Declan’s primary limo driver. Notice that phrase? Primary limo driver. The man has back-ups. I’m sure the back-up limo drivers have back-ups, like understudies for Broadway show stars.

Billionaires live lives of fluid grace, where other people are in charge of smoothing all the wrinkles, preventing any hiccups, and making sure they don’t, you know...

Have to buy marshmallows, Cheetos and tampons at a convenience store on a Friday night.

It’s a wonder Andrew didn’t just send his limo driver to kiss me and shut me up. When you hire someone else to do all your dirty work for you...

The tiniest sliver of panic blooms in Declan’s moss-green eyes. He controls it quickly. I have to give him credit.

“I could use some air,” he mumbles. “So I’ll just go.”

“Coward,” Shannon says with a chortle.

He clears his throat meaningfully. “I prefer the term ninja.” A swift peck on the cheek and a flick of the wrist and Declan’s out the door before she can argue.

Smart man. All the IQ points must have gone into him and his older brother, Terry. Andrew was left with a hot ass, that sultry grin, and a coal-covered soul that whispers evil sweet nothings to his conscience.

Kiss her in the closet in your office, it says. Kiss her in the hospital closet, it murmurs. Kiss her to shut her up, it hisses.

Bet it wasn’t expecting my little slap.

“I should feel triumphant,” I whimper as Marie rushes over, glass of white wine in hand, offering it to my lips like she’s a priest giving First Communion  . “I stood up for myself. I made it clear in no uncertain terms that I am not a woman to be trifled with.”

“And it only took you two years,” Marie says, nodding. I guess that’s supposed to be comforting. Marie can be kind of hit-or-miss like that.

“And three kisses!” I groan between guzzles of white Zin.

Shannon does a double take. “Three? There was a third incident?” She scrunches up her face, making her cute little rabbit nose poke out. “When did you—”

“Was it that time Jason and I saw you at the hospital during Poopwatch?” Marie asks. She’s wearing this gorgeous, flowing lilac silk wrap and her eyelashes are so long it looks like she contracted them out to an asphalt company. She leans forward on the counter between the kitchen and the living room, eyes wide and fascinated.

Shannon gives me a deadly stare. “You made out with Andrew while I was in the emergency room choking to death?”

Busted.

And then she turns on Marie. “And quit calling it Poopwatch.”

“Honey, that’s what everyone calls it.”

“No, Mom, that’s what Jessica Coffin called it.” Shannon frowns. “Wait. You just used the present tense. Calls. Not called. She’s still making fun of my...of the...of you know—”

“Poopwatch,” Marie and I say in unison.

Her hands go up in the air in a show of exasperation. Either that, or she’s turned into a gospel singer. “That’s not funny!” Jessica briefly dated Shannon’s ex, Steve, and had the hots for Declan. As a trend setter in the Boston social scene, Jessica’s tweets can make or break a restaurant, though she has lost some of her power. Humiliating Shannon online seems to be Jessica’s favorite hobby.

Marie and I look at each other and burst into giggles. We can’t help it, even though we shouldn’t. Marie places one perfectly manicured hand on Shannon’s shoulder, her fingernails a deep purple with a lilac tip.

“Poopwatch will never, ever not be funny, honey.”

Shannon’s eyes narrow like she’s at the OK Corral and ready for a showdown. “You have one word that pushes my buttons. I have one for you.”

Marie laughs even harder.

“Elope.”

Marie stops laughing and blanches.

“You wouldn’t!”

“Try me.”

“But honey, Poopwatch is—”

“Elope!”

Marie’s mouth tightens like a drawstring pouch. Her nostrils flare. Her eyes go small and she looks like one of those apples carved and dried to look like a shrunken head.