Shopping for a Billionaire 1 Read Online Free PDF Page B

perfect moment to correct my hairstyle.
    “It’s just…” She sniffs. “What kind of man will you meet at a burger joint? Or a car wash? Getting your oil changed or buying a bagel sandwich?” Her face perks up. “Is there an elite level of mystery shopping? Who are the secret shoppers for Neiman Marcus, or the Omni Parker House? What about Tiffany’s?” Her eyes glitter. “Now that would be one way to meet the right kind of man.”
    “The right kind of man.” I can’t keep the disdain out of my voice, but an image of Declan flashes through my mind. That smile.
    “You won’t meet him on your eighth bagel sandwich dressed like a college student on the fourth day of exams with a bad case of lice,” she adds.
    “I don’t have lice!”
    “Well, honey, you looked like it.”
    “Mom.” I steel myself. “This has been great. Really. But I have to go.” I grab my purse and throw a few cups of white rice in a baggie, then shove my phone in it. “But I need to get to work.”
    “We need to talk, Shannon—”
    “Bye! And change Chuckles’ litter box for me, would you? He looks like he’s about to go in the zen rock garden.”
    And with that, I run down every one of those twenty-seven steps, grateful for my escape.
     

 
    Chapter Five
     
    The drive to the office gives my body a chance to settle in to the day. Awake since four a.m., it is screaming for some kind of break.
    Or maybe that is my inner thighs. They begin to spasm and ache, and not in that stretchy-groany kind of way after a long weekend of incredible sex.
    Squatting on the toilet has, apparently, led to a fair amount of injury. Great. Add this to the growing list of occupational hazards.
    If only Declan had been responsible for this burning ache in a decidedly more delicious way. Daydreaming never hurt anyone, right? I let my mind wander, wondering what he looks like out of that suit. In bed. Under bright white sheets on a crisp spring day, windows open and gauzy curtains billowing with the breeze, the air infused with the scent of sensual time.
    Would he be a patient lover, taking every curve and valley of my body with a slow touch that built to a crescendo? Or an intense, no-holds-barred bedmate, with fevered kisses and unrestrained hands that need and knead, fusing us together in sweaty promises of nothing but oblivion?
    A new kind of ache emerges between my thighs, and it’s closer to the kind I wish I’d had with him.
    For the first time since our meeting a few hours ago, I let myself laugh. Really giggle, with belly moving, abs engaged, and chest whooping with the craziness of it all. Was he laughing, too? I feel a blend of incredulity and shame inside me, too, but there’s a lot more amusement. Never one to shy away from self-effacing humor, this event will be reshaped and I’ll retell it to my friends, crafted in a way that makes everyone think, That silly Shannon.
    Is Declan even thinking about me at all? The laughter dies inside fast. Maybe I’m just some whacko woman he humored as he now tells scathingly nasty stories to his work buddies about the chubby chick he found squatting on the men’s room toilet, fishing her phone out.
    Am I the butt of jokes? Does he describe me with vicious derision, using me as a quick one-off story, the office equivalent of a viral BuzzFeed link that makes people pause, point and laugh, and move on?
    A lump in my throat tells me I care way too much about what he thinks. Why am I fantasizing about a guy who trapped me in a toilet stall while I was on a mystery shop?
    Because you’re that desperate , my mother’s voice hisses in my head.
    I throw an imaginary cat at her.
    The company I work for, Consolidated Evalu-shop, Incorporated, is in a building as nondescript as the business’s name. If boring had a name, it would be Consolidated Evalu-shop. The building is made of block concrete. The interior steps are concrete as well. No carpeting anywhere, leaving the hallways to echo. If Stalin’s army