Shopping for a Billionaire 1 (2 page)

And the whole two-different-shoes thing, which could be a fashion statement, you know? It could. Don’t question it.

The coast is clear.
Tap tap tap
. I knock softly on the men’s room door, assuming it’s a one-seater like all the other stores I’ve been in this morning. No reply.

Sauntering in, I do a double take. Damn! Two urinals and two stalls instead of the big old square room. Someone could walk in on me. A guy could come in here and whip it out if I’m not careful.

Then again, it’s been so long, I’m not sure I remember what they whip out.

Last year, one of my shops for a gas station chain made me count the number of hairs on the urinal cakes. That was, I contend, the low point in my secret shopping career. Fortunately, this particular chain does not have an obsession with hirsute urinators.

How progressive.

I tap on my phone and open the app, scanning the questions. Enough toilet paper? Check. Faucets in working order? Check. Paper-towel dispenser full? Check.

Toilets and urinals in operating order? Hoo boy.

If you’ve never been in a men’s room, and have only set foot in the ladies’ room at most fine (and not so fine) establishments, you need to know this: store owners hate men. No, really—this is the one area where women get treated better. We may earn seventy-seven cents on the dollar compared to men, but, by God, our public bathrooms don’t look like something out of a Soviet-era prison.

Or worse—a Sochi hotel during the Olympics.

My mind wanders as I try not to touch anything I’m not required to touch in order to do my job and get out of here. I recall the scent of aftershave and man on Mr. Perfect Blue-Gray Suit from a few minutes ago, instead of the acrid odor of moldy cheese, urine, and chemical deodorizer that smells like poison-ivy pesticide. How would it feel not only to touch a man so put together, so confident, so in control—but to be
allowed
to?

The overwhelming pleasure of being in a relationship isn’t the actual affection, sex, and companionship. It’s the permission to be casual, to reach out and brush your hand against a pec, to thread your fingers in his hair, to hold hands and snuggle and have access to his abs, his calves, the fine, masculine curve of a forearm when you want.

On your terms.

By mutual agreement. The thought of running my palms from his wrists to his shoulders, then down that fine valley of sculpted marble chest to rest on his waist, to slide around and embrace him, makes my mouth curl up in a seductive smile.

That no one will ever see. So why bother?

Besides, I have toilets to flush.

I check the back of the bathroom door for the cleaning chart. You know those pieces of paper on the backs of the doors, with initials and times written on them to verify that the restroom has been cleaned? Someone verifies that verification.

Me
. That’s who. Of course, I have no way to verify that JS (the initials down the line for the past four hours) has actually cleaned the bathroom. Only a video camera would be able to tell for sure.

And while modern society loves to videotape everyone in public, mostly for the purpose of catching Lindsay Lohan in an uncompromising crotch shot, corporations haven’t begun videotaping bathrooms.

Yet.

And thank goodness, not only for privacy reasons, but because cameras put people like me out of a job. As much as my job drives me nuts on days like this, it’s a paycheck. I have health insurance. Paid time off. A retirement plan.

At twenty-four, that’s like being a Nobel Prize winner in today’s economy. Most of my friends from college are working part-time at retail stores in the mall, being evaluated by secret shoppers like…me.

Question number thirteen stops me cold. “Is the bathroom aesthetically pleasing?” Um, what? It still makes me cringe, even for the ninth time. The walls are a pale gray, with tile running halfway up. Chips and stains on the tile make me wonder what men have done in here. How does taking a pee translate into broken tiles? And those yellowed stains. I shudder. Is it really
that
hard to aim?

Whoosh! Whoosh!
I flush both urinals, then rush over to toilet #1.
Whoosh!
I stand in front of the stall to #2 and get ready to flush that one.

I’m in my own little world and let my guard down to ponder the question. I am also exhausted and most definitely not in top form, because I let a few seconds go by before realizing that someone is coming in the bathroom. Out of the corner of my eye I see a business shoe, and that becomes a blur as I scurry into one of the stalls and shut the door.

Heart pounding, I stare at the dented back of the stall door. Then I look down. Chipped red nail polish peeks up at me from my open-toed navy shoe. Aside from being outed as a transgendered man in here, there’s no plausible reason why any men’s room stall occupant should have red toenails.

I quickly scramble to perch myself on the toilet, feet planted firmly on either side of the rim, squatting over the open bowl like I am giving birth. Because I am genetically incapable of balance—ever—and as my heart slams against my chest so hard it might as well be playing a djembe, I lean carefully forward with one arm against the back of the stall door, the other clutching my phone.

The unmistakable sound of a man taking a whizz echoes through the bathroom. I can’t help myself and look through the tiny crack in the door.

It’s Mr. Sex in a Suit, his back to me. Thank goodness, because if I got a full-frontal shot right now then how would I answer the “aesthetically pleasing” question from a strictly professional standpoint?

The tiny bit of shifting I did to peer through the crack makes my right foot slip, and I make a squeaking sound, then lose my grip on my phone as my arm flails.

Ka-PLUNK!

You know that sound, right? I know, and you know, that I’ve just dropped my smartphone in the toilet, but he thinks the man—he assumes it’s man—in here just delivered something the size of a two-hundred-year-old turtle into the toilet.

I look down. My phone is still glowing, open to the question “Is the bathroom aesthetically pleasing?”

Staying silent, I struggle to remain perched on the toilet and in balance. One palm splays flat against the stall door, one hand curls into a fist as it poises over the toilet water.

Four-hundred-dollar phone

or

Arm in nasty men’s room toilet water.

I have the distinct disadvantage of seeing every dried stain on the inside of the rim that my feet occupy, and I know that launching my hand into that porcelain prison means gangrenous death in three days after male pee germs invade my bloodstream and kill me.

But it’s a $400 phone.

A
company
phone.

Closing my eyes, I lower my hand into the ice-cold water and pretend I’m Rose in the movie
Titanic
, bobbing on that miraculous door as my hand fishes blindly around the bottom of the toilet for my phone.

I get it not once, not twice, but three times as it slips and catches, slips and catches, and then—

The stall door opens toward me, sending me backwards with a scream, my arm stuck in the toilet as I fall down slightly, my back pushing against the toilet-flush knob.

Whoosh!

Chapter Three

Mr. Blue-Gray Suit springs into action, jumping into the stall with me and planting nice, big, beautifully-manicured hands under my un-deodorized armpits and lifting me off the toilet. It’s like we’re in a toilet ballet, my body leaping up above his, suspended for a few seconds, and all I can think is
My arm is dripping toilet water all over a cashmere suit that costs more than my student loan balance
.

My second thought:
This will be one hell of a story to tell at our wedding reception
.

Our eyes lock as the toilet roars, and if we were anywhere else I could imagine this was a waterfall on a deserted island in the middle of the South Pacific, the two of us the only people inhabiting the island, forced by pure survival to have sex like monkeys and procreate to save the human race.

A sacrifice we both suffer through.

Except I’m not on an island with this man, whose arms don’t even seem to strain under my size-sixteen weight. My breasts bob as he makes split-second calculations without looking away from me. Somehow, he moves my entire body, which is now on fire from his sure touch and pure, animal strength, and sets me down without either foot falling directly in the toilet.

The pain of the toilet handle digging into my shoulder blade when I fell back is making itself known, and my arm is dripping, but—but!—Mr. Death by Toilet Rescue is looking at me with concern, and almost as good:

I am clutching my phone.

This all took about five seconds, so I’m panting, and the top knot of my already unruly hair has come undone, leaving a curtain of long waves framing my face. The ends of some of it are wet.

Oh, gross. Toilet arm, toilet phone—toilet
hair
?

The first words we share finally fill the air. He initiates with a grin.

“We have better seats out in the dining room, you know.”

“My phone needed a bath,” I reply, combing my hair with my dry hand, and now it’s wet, too. I wonder what I look like right now, but I’m afraid if I look in a mirror I will crawl back into the toilet and try to flush myself out of this mess.

“What, exactly, have you been doing with your phone to make it so dirty?” he asks with a leer.

He steps back out of the stall with a gentlemanly sweep of his arm, green eyes filled with a mixture of mirth and guardedness. As he moves, he reveals a full-length wall mirror, giving me my own nightmare.

Oh.
That’s
what I look like. Anyone have a spare coffee stirrer? Because I could stab myself in the eye and maybe bleed to death right here.

Or embarrassment will kill me. No such luck. If embarrassment could kill, I’d be dead nine times over by now.

I study myself in the mirror. Time seems measured by increments of incredulity, so why not make Mr. Toilet Rescuer think I’m even crazier by looking at my reflection like a puppy discovering “that other puppy” in the mirror? Long brown hair, wet at the ends in the front. Split ends, no less. Who has the money for a decent cut after I needed new tires for my ancient Saturn? My torn pink t-shirt and gray yoga pants make me look like your average college student, except my shoes bring me to a screeching mental halt.

Yoga pants and one loafer, one open-toed shoe make me look like Mrs. McCullahay down the street, dragging her trashcans out to the road at 5 a.m. with mismatched shoes, a mu-mu, and curlers in her hair while an inch-long ash hangs out of her mouth.

“At least I don’t smoke,” I mutter. Then I remember where I am, and look slowly to my left.

Mr. Smirky Suit leans casually against the scarred, dented stall wall, his face settled into a look of amusement now, but he’s not going anywhere. Feet planted firmly in place, I realize he’s giving me that look.

No, not
that
look. I’d take that look from him any time.

I mean the look of someone who will not let me out of here without an explanation.

An explanation I am contractually obligated
not
to give. Outing myself as a secret shopper is
verboten
. Unheard of.

Grounds for termination.

See, the first rule of mystery shopping is like the first rule of Fight Club: don’t punch anyone. Oh. Wait. No…it’s that you don’t talk about it. Ever.

Though, sometimes, that not-punching rule comes in handy, because there are some really weird people in stores.

And Mr. Suit looks at me like I’m one of them.

“Let me introduce myself,” he says, taking the lead. His body moves effortlessly from leaning to standing, then he takes two steps forward and I retreat until the backs of my calves hit the toilet rim again. I’m backing away from him and I don’t know why.

“Declan McCormick. And you are?” Instinct makes me reach my hand out, and he’s clasping mine before we both realize it’s the toilet-contaminated hand.

He pretends it’s perfectly normal, keeping strong eye contact and pumping my hand like it’s the handle to a well. Except his fingers are warm, soft, and inviting, the touch lingering a little too long.

His eyes, too. They study me, and not like he’s cataloging my features so he can file a police report or have me Section 35’d for being a danger to myself and others.

I am being
inventoried
in the most delicious of ways.

As a professional whose job it is to inventory customer service in business, I have acquired a set of unique skills—but more than that, I now have a sixth sense for when I’m being detailed.

And oh dear…there goes that flush.

And not the toilet kind.

I realize we’re still shaking hands, and his eyes are taking me in. “Uh, Shannon. Shannon Jacoby. Nice to meet you.” I find my voice.

He looks around the room and bursts out laughing, a flash of straight white teeth and a jaw I want to nuzzle making me inhale sharply. That laugh is the sound of extraordinary want entering my body, taking up residence low in my belly, and now waiting for a chance to pick china patterns and paint colors to really consider itself at home.

Go away, want. I’ve banished you.

Want ignores me and settles in, cleaning out the cobwebs that have taken up residence where I used to allow desire and hope and arousal to live.

Squatter.

“Shannon, this has to be the strangest way I’ve ever met a woman.” One corner of his mouth curls up in a sexy little smile, like we’re on a beach drinking alcohol out of coconuts carved by Cupid and not in a ratty old bathroom with a fluorescent tube light that starts buzzing like a nest of mosquitoes at an outdoor blood bank.

“You don’t get around much, then,” I say. My toes start to curl as my body fights to contain the wellspring of attraction that is unfurling inside me. No. Just…
no
. I can’t let myself feel this. You spend enough time trying not to feel something and all that work gets thrown away with one single flush.