I don’t want to talk about last night.
I want to savor it. Not the Ice Queen part, or the Steve part, but the Declan part.
Okay, a little of the Steve part, because how awesome is it to be found in the most exclusive restaurant in Boston and 1) not be on a mystery shop and choose to eat whatever I want 2) be there with one of Boston’s most eligible bachelors and wealthiest men and 3) be found by your smug ex-boyfriend who dumped you for not being able to fit in with people like…your date?
Pretty damn awesome.
The vortex of swirling emotion inside me isn’t just hangover nausea. It’s overwhelm. Emotional overwhelm with a heaping side of disbelief. Declan McCormick wants me. He kissed me. He texted me for a date in four days. With strawberries. And chocolate. And hopefully more kisses, less Steve, and definitely no Jessica.
The only thing better than Steve finding me in Declan’s arms would have been having Jessica right next to him.
A plume of jealousy fills the air like a skunk on a spraying spree. I feel like Wolverine and take a sip of coffee to calm myself. If metal claws slid out from under my knuckles right now, I wouldn’t be surprised. This kind of jealousy is completely new for me. Uncharted territory. A wash of emotion so tidal-wave-like in its enormity that it makes my chest tighten, my heart stop beating for a split second, and my vision blur a bit.
Or maybe that’s still the hangover.
Three deep breaths and two hot sips of coffee later and I can definitively state that nope—that’s jealousy.
The memory of her hand on Declan’s arm fills me with red rage. It dissipates fast, but the lingering shock of being affected like this remains, hotter than my cup of joe and lingering like a bad houseguest.
I don’t do jealousy.
Sure you don’t, an annoying voice in my head says. And you don’t do revenge fantasies, either.
My coffee stays down through sheer force of will as a spit-take threatens my duvet cover.
I am not the revenge-fantasy type. Sure, I’ve daydreamed about Steve having huge regrets for dumping me. In my dreams I’m svelte and have been recently approached as one of the hottest up-and-coming marketing wunderkinds, the type of social media rockstar who has Seth Godin calling her for advice. Steve watches my third TED Talk on YouTube and sobs into his Harvard degree, cursing himself and the heavens for his horrible mistake in letting me go.
But I don’t have revenge fantasies. I’m above that.
Last night was so much better than any revenge script I could have written. Hell, better than any romantic comedy scriptwriters could bang out with a huge advance and Nora Ephron’s ghost coaching them while Judd Apatow gives them neck massages.
Steve caught me kissing Boston’s most eligible billionaire bachelor and—even better—a man sitting at the helm of a company so big and so powerful that Steve would happily become a, well, mystery shopper for them to get some clout. Connection.
Advantage.
Bzzzz.
I look at my phone. Steve. The level of disappointment in me that it is not Declan calling gives me pause. Big pause. Sickening pause.
I’ve fallen. Bad. Double-plus bad.
“Ignore that,” Amanda says as she opens my door and holds a steaming cup of coffee in one hand. Her makeup is all goth-like on this sunny morning and she is wearing work clothes.
“How do you know it’s not Declan?” I ask, my words fading with the just-in-time realization that she knows me too well.
“Because you look like a kid who didn’t just drop her lollipop. She dropped it into an open sewage field and fell in on top of it as well.”
“You can tell I’m bummed it’s not Declan,” I say.
She frowns in a look of confusion. “No. That’s what anyone would look like if they’re forced to interact with Steve.” She wrinkles her nose in this super-cute way that makes me want to watch her face forever. I know she’s doing it out of distaste, but she could seriously patent that and use it to act in commercials. It’s such a great encapsulation of how this all feels.
The Steve part, at least.
“Sandra Bullock,” she says under her breath, talking to herself.
“Sandra what?”
“She could play you. In a movie.”
I’m halfway through a mouthful of latte as she explains, and I spray an impressive fan of coffee all over her arm and my pillow. “Sandra Bullock could not play me in a movie!” I gasp. “Melissa McCarthy? Sure. But not Sandra Bullock!”
“Jesus, Shannon, say it! Don’t spray it!” She uses part of the duvet cover to wipe my surprise off her arm.
“Sorry. Your fault, though.”
“Mine?” The whites of her eyes seem bigger than usual as she stares me down.
“C’mon. Sandra Bullock? Might as well pick Scarlett Johansson.”
Amanda sizes me up. Her eyes linger on my hair, then travel to my neckline. I fell asleep in a weird combination of a tight workout t-shirt and extra-baggy pajama bottoms, pants so big I use an old robe sash to tie them to my waist. My hair must look like something you’d find on Courtney Love, and even in my partly hungover state I realize I smell like fear and happiness.
“Melissa McCarthy. Or Jennifer Lawrence if she put on some weight.”
“Thank you for being honest.”
“I am always honest.” She reaches out to squeeze my hand, a creepy, fake smile on her face. Then she spears the back of her hand against mine, wiping more coffee off.
“You can wear the strap-on, then,” I say.
Mom chooses this exact moment to walk in. And then my phone buzzes. She snatches it up before I can get to it.
“Restricted number!” she crows. “It’s the billionaire!”
Chapter Three
Mom holds my phone up like she’s Rafiki from The Lion King, presenting baby Simba to the tribe.
“Hakuna matata,” Amanda whispers.
“Give it to me!” I snap as Mom refuses to give it to me.
“Marie,” Amanda says in a low growl. Damn. She’s channeling Musafa. James Earl Jones couldn’t do a better job with that growl. I wonder if Amanda could do Darth Vader next.
Mom tosses the phone to me like we’re in a game of Hot Potato, and I answer the phone in such a rush I don’t give myself the time to feel anxiety or panic or to freak out like I really should because it’s Declan.
“Hi, Shannon,” Declan says. His voice pours over me like warm hot fudge. I imagine his face, all broad planes and narrow intensity, how his jaw is so lickable and his eyes make me smile when he’s focused on me. The heady scent of spice and man fills me as I pause, body shivering with the pleasure of knowing he is calling me.