Shopping for a CEO (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 7) (6 page)

“Technically,
you
didn’t kiss
him
. He kissed
you
. It was like something out of a 1940s Bette Davis film,” Shannon explains to Josh and Carol, who pay rapt attention to her words like the good little employees they are. Why do your actual work when you’re on the clock if you can gossip about your coworkers instead? 

“The Bette Davis movie where she feeds the rat to her invalid sister?” Josh asks, his face screwed tight in confusion.

“Yes,” I deadpan. “Exactly like that.”

“Did he express the rat’s anal glands first?” Carol asks. 

“I’ve heard rat is a delicacy in some parts of southeast Asia,” Greg shouts from the other room. 

“How did we get from talking about Andrew McCormick to rats?” Josh marvels. 

“It’s a natural progression.” My words hang in the air, hovering like Marie watching Shannon and Declan on their first date. 

Minus the wine glass and the dinging and the references to head lice.

My bitterness is leaking out of me like government servers in the hands of Anonymous. I can’t stop being hacked by the outside world. Little by little, my sense that I can fix anything is being whittled away by the mystifying reality that everything I’ve assumed about myself is a lie.

A lie revealed by a kiss.

Or three.

“I thought you liked Andrew,” Shannon says, concern creasing her brow. She glows now, like someone ground LED lights and injected them into her bloodstream. Bridal Botox. She is luminescent with love.

I, on the other hand, am bitter with betrayal. Yet how can I be betrayed by a man who has zero attachment or obligation to me? 

I inhale slowly, buying time, as I look her over. She’s full figured, like me. Her wardrobe has changed along with her income. Everything she wears fits better. The shift is small but noticeable. It’s subtle and yet distinct. Somewhere, in the blink of an eye, Shannon has become more herself, a person who is still the old Shannon and yet...more. More present. More aware.

Just...
more
.

Her hands move with the fluid elegance of someone who gestures for emphasis and not out of nervousness. Her eyes gleam with the calculated awareness of someone taking in and observing rather than nervously cataloguing and adjusting. Her smile is more genuine, less anxious. She is a rough diamond, chiseled out of a mine, then cut to near perfection.

Love is the jeweler.

My bitterness fades, replaced by a feeling I can only describe as envy, but that’s not right. I don’t want to take away what Shannon has with Declan. And I don’t even want what she has, because wanting what another person has means settling for less than what is best for you. My own needs differ from Shannon’s. My life isn’t hers, so why would I want to co-opt the billionaire fiancé and the fabulous marketing job at a Fortune 500 company?

Wait a minute.

Let me pause there.

More money. Better clothes. Financial security. Luxury beyond your wildest dreams. A hot man in her bed—

Forget what I just said.

I want what Shannon has.
Bad
.

“So,” Carol says, sipping her coffee, “the bottom line is that Andrew McCormick sniped you from a guy who fondles dog butts for fun and you’re not happy?” 

I frown. “When you put it that way...”

“Honey, when I put it
any
way, you’re not making sense. He has spent most of the past two years sending you mixed signals and you keep picking up what he’s putting down, but the two of you are maddening.”

“Maddening?” I ask, genuinely confused.

Shannon and Carol move closer to me. It’s like having slightly changed, younger versions of Marie and Jason love bombing me.

“He wouldn’t kiss you if he didn’t like you,” Shannon says under her breath.

“I’m still heee—eeerrrre,” Josh sings. “I haven’t left the room. You don’t get to do the chick thing.”

“Chick thing?”

“Where you discriminate against me because of my penis.”

“When did we start talking about your penis?” I squeak.

“Can we go back to dog butts? I’m less grossed out by that topic,” Shannon whispers.

“You are crowding me out of this girl talk because I don’t have the right equipment, and I don’t appreciate the exclusion.” Josh is serious. Oh, boy. He doesn’t get like this very often. Normally, the only time he draws this line is when we steal all the massage mystery shops. 

“No one’s excluding you because of what you have in your pants,” Carols says with an eye roll. “We’re excluding you because it’s really obvious you have a thing for Andrew, too.”

That thought never, ever occurred to me.

“I do not!” Josh argues. But his scalp turns red. It’s bad enough to be a blusher when all that can turn red are your cheeks and neck, but the poor man is balding. He looks like Hellboy when he’s worked up. 

A nerdy Hipster Hellboy.

“You came to the mall when Declan was playing Santa last year just so you could sit on his lap!” Shannon’s accusation has more bite than I would have expected.

“I did not...okay, I did,” Josh admits. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t gossip about Amanda’s sex life!”

“Is
that
what we’re doing?” I ask, incredulous.

“Duh,” they all say in unison.

“The only one of us with a sex life is Shannon, and she’s all settled and happy with her perfect billionaire and her wedding planning, so it’s not like there’s anything juicy there,” Josh explains.

“Other than what they did last night with a stick of butter,” I joke. 

Oh. Looks like Shannon can blush and look just like Hellboy, too.

“I’m not having sex with anything that doesn’t have a battery tech support line,” Carol adds. “We have to talk about
someone’s
sex life. And Josh is a hopeless cause since his last boyfriend dumped him.”

Josh is nodding along to everything Carol says until that last bit.

“Hopeless?” He looks like he’s about to cry. “You really think I’m
hopeless
?”

“You use a car that advertises erectile dysfunction meds to find dates.”

“Better than dog asses.”

“Touché.”

Something in the back of my mind won’t let go. I feel a thin string unravel, as if a thread were caught from the hem of my skirt, except instead of a skirt, it’s my mind. I’ve forgotten something. It’s important.

“What time is it?” Carol finally asks.

“Time for Amanda to come with me to Anterdec for a meeting.” Shannon declares. “Eleven-thirty.” 

Meeting. What is she talking about—

“Oh, my God! Andrew’s text. I have a meeting with
him
,” I gasp. 

“You do?” All three of them raise their eyebrows. 

“Yes. Eleven.”

Shannon frowns. “He told me to meet him at eleven-thirty. With Declan. Why would he want to meet with
you
earlier?”

This is one of those moments where I have to decide what kind of person I am. Do I lie to my best friend to save face for the man who won’t stop turning me into his own little county fair kissing booth, or does loyalty prevail?

“Oh, you know,” I say, trying to appear casual. “Maid of honor and best man stuff.”

I, apparently, am the kind of person who throws my best friend under a bus.

Shannon smiles, but the grin doesn’t meet her eyes. “That’s cute. Will you talk about that kiss, too?”

“That’s up to him,” I huff. “He’s never talked to me before about the other kisses.”

“Because he’s an asshole,” Carol says flatly.

“A hot asshole,” Josh says.

“You struggling with that, too?” Greg says from the hall as he walks by. “Just lay off the spicy curry. Takes a day or so to go away.”

We all wince.

“Is Anterdec hiring?” all three of us ask Shannon at the same time.

She just shakes her head slowly, like she knows something she can’t say.

Funny.

Same here.

Chapter Six

“I’ll drive,” Shannon says as I grab my purse and pointedly ignore Greg. Josh or Carol will tell him I have a meeting at Anterdec. He won’t care that it’s really about Andrew becoming CEO. He’ll think I’m drumming up more business for Consolidated Evalu-Shop.

We get outside and walk down the crumbling concrete steps. There is a limo in front of us.

“Is Declan here?” I ask. He and Andrew travel in the city by limo. The only time I’ve ever seen Declan drive a car is his SUV, and that almost seems like it’s for show. The guy claims he gets more work done when someone else is driving, but then why not let Shannon drive?

As Shannon looks embarrassed but determined, she opens the door and I look in.

No wonder she likes this limo thing. It’s the size of her entire old apartment in there.

“Why does it smell like chocolate?” I ask as I bend and settle in.

I look to my left.

“Is that a
cake
bar?”

She pinkens. “Declan just had a new customer come by.” She names a celebrity chef you’d gasp to hear mentioned. I do.

“She brought an assortment of desserts from her new line that Anterdec will be using in all their properties in North America. Elite member guests will come in to their hotel rooms with a tray of these, a bottle of sparkling water and chocolate-covered strawberries.”

“Any tiramisu?” I joke.

“Only in petit fours form, and no rings attached.” She taps on the glass between us and the driver and off we go, headed for the Financial District. As I look back at my office building, it feels like walking out of a Brazilian favela.

“Seriously. Any job openings at Anterdec? Because I would jump ship like the rat that I am,” I say, then stuff a little square of cake perfection in my mouth.

She smiles, serene and composed. She’s like a Shannonbot.

“Oh, my God, is that pistachio mint?” I groan.

“With a touch of amaretto.” 

“I think I just orgasmed.”

“Wouldn’t be the first one in this limo,” she sighs.

My mouth goes dry. “Um, thanks? Didn’t need that visual.”

“Speaking of orgasms,” she says, ignoring my comment, “what is going on with you and Andrew?” 

My mouth turns into the Sahara.

“Did you have to ruin a perfectly good moment of stress eating by bringing up Andrew?” I whimper. 

“Sorry. But yes, I do. What are you hiding about him?”

She’s
so
good.

“Nothing.” 

“Liar.” 

Rage. An unexpected wave of red fury fills me, wiping away the taste of the divine in my mouth and replacing it with a stark bitterness that fills me with despair.

And anger.

I don’t get angry. It’s not what I do. Not, at least, with my friends and family. All my life I’ve been the person who rationalizes and organizes and thinks and plans and plots her way out of emotional messes. I sob quietly in the shower or slink off to let my angry tears come out in vents, but this?

This kind of rage comes after the pressure cooker can’t contain it. My inner world is about to become spaghetti stains on the ceiling. 

I’ve never, ever directed it at Shannon. We’ve known each other since elementary school and I can count on one hand the number of fights we’ve had. And by “fight” I mean terse words that end with tearful crying and two spoons and a pint of ice cream. 

Okay...two pints.

“Isn’t your perfect life enough for you?” I hiss, regretting the words instantly even as they come out of me. I sit back and straighten my spine, knowing the inevitability of the moment makes whatever I say all the more odious. I can’t stop this. It’s an avalanche that has been triggered by her gunshot—the word
liar
—and now here it comes.

Watch out below.

“What—what do you mean?” she stammers. “I was just—” 

“You have everything,” I whisper through my clenched teeth. “You have it all. And I’m happy for you.” My mouth is set in a way that makes the muscles in my face that run along my temple feel like flat pieces of tense wood that can move.

“I really am. This isn’t about that. It’s about...me.” I realize how true that last word is as Shannon looks at me with open, caring eyes and a wary expression. Making eye contact goes against everything in me. I’m a live wire. There is no one in the world I can say this to.

Except my bestie.

“Is it about dumping the Turdmobile off on you? Because I’m so sorry.”

I give her a hard look. “Ha ha. No.”

“This is really about Andrew and your mom,” she says with a sigh.

“Now
that’s
a sentence I never expected to have directed at me,” I reply, completely stumped. The wind’s out of my sails. Only Shannon can do that. “What do Andrew and my mother have to do with each other?”

“You always call yourself a fixer,” she says, reaching out to touch my shoulder. Her eyes are so warm, so calm. The Shannon I’ve known for years has her edges smoothed off. She’s coiffed and possessed, and I love her for not yelling at me or rejecting me. Being able to tell her how I really feel means so much more than I think I even understand. 

“I am a fixer.”

“But who fixes problems for you?”

“Me.”

“Exactly.”

I frown. “What’s your point?”

“That is my point.”

“And...”

“You fix your mom’s problems. You fix client problems. You came to the rescue and fixed my problem with Declan nearly two years ago. Andrew isn’t a problem you can fix.”

“I’m not following you.”

“He’s maddening.”

“Okay,
that
I can follow.”

“He’s unpredictable. He keeps kissing you but never calling. Declan says you confuse his brother.”

“
I
confuse
him
? Talk about projecting.” A thrill runs up my back, spreading warmth and some salacious throbbing to places that really need more of a pulse. “Wait. Andrew talked to Declan about
me
?”

“Yes.”

I feel like a breathless eighth grader. Ah, hell. I
am
a breathless eighth grader.

“And?”

“You’re not Andrew’s type.”

“You mean because I don’t charge by the hour?”