The Billionaire Bargain #2(13)
“Well, then, you can think of this as your civic duty to go out there and rejuvenate American’s failing domestic goods market.”
“Grant, how much shopping do you think I can do?!”
“Look, this isn’t about the money.” He tried to look sincere, but the smirk was ruining it. “What would it look like if a Devlin was getting married and yet not lavishing gifts upon his fiancée? I have a reputation to uphold.”
“What reputation, that the Devlins are all secret shopaholics?” I snapped. “What next, are you all hoarders too? Is there a house in the Hamptons somewhere that’s just crystal goblets and designer shoes and giant stacks of moldy newspaper?”
“Oh no, you’ve stumbled upon our most dreaded secret,” Grant said, still grinning as he let go of my hand and stood up. “Now I must wall you away in the attic and pretend you're anguished screams are the cries of the ghost that haunts our manor.”
He waved goodbye and swooped out of sight before I could point out that he was tragically muddling the plots of at least three different Gothic mysteries.
I stood there fuming for several seconds, then kicked the desk as a stand-in for Grant. The desk was solid mahogany and did not appreciate being kicked.
Gritting my teeth and swearing creatively, I decided on a less painful way of expressing my feelings. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the one person I could count on above everyone else to enable me in seeking this particular path of revenge.
“Kate? Hey, girl, pull up your wish list. After work, we’re going shopping.”
FIVE
Anger is a powerful force. It has started and ended wars, won the vote for marginalized groups like women and people of color, and inspired artists to create masterpieces ranging from Picasso’s Guernica to Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist.
Anger was currently powering me and Kate through the twelfth department of the evening, our arms draped to the brim with thousand-dollar watches, purses straight from Paris fashion shows, and dresses so exquisitely crafted that future archaeologists would probably deem that they had been created for royalty.
“And then he just smirked and said, ‘It’s not about money!’” I ranted to Kate as I slung a tennis bracelet into the cart; had to stock up on stocking stuffers early! “You know who says things like ‘it’s not about money?’ People who have so much money they’ve never had to worry about it in their entire lives! It’s like a fish saying ‘it’s not about water’ to a dehydrated camel!”
“Oooooh, look at this!” Kate held up a retro skirt in an adorable floral pattern that complemented her eyes. “Girl, keep hating Grant for as long as it takes for me to get this to the checkout counter.”
“I’m serious!”
“Oh hon, I know you are,” Kate said. She out skirt over the rack, and patted my shoulder. “But I also know that there’s a pretty thin line between love and hate sometimes. Stevie’s reading The Taming of the Shrew right now: ‘And where two raging fires meet together—’”
“Please, Katie, do not do Shakespearian analysis on my relationship with my boss!”
“‘Relationship,’ huh?” Kate waggled her eyebrows. “Sounds like it’s getting more serious. Have you two hooked up again? Was it as super-hot as last time?”
I was beginning to regret telling Kate about the hookup, but it had been unavoidable. When we met up after work, she had refused to budge one single inch until I dished about why I was so pissed at Grant, and somehow, between all the other stuff about the keys and credit card and the five hundred guest engagement party, the revelation of Grant eating me out against the hallway wall had come spilling out of my lips.
“No, we did not ‘hook up’ again, and believe me, I wish I could forget the last time.”
“Girl, never regret good sex,” Kate advised. “So it’s making your life rough right now, yeah, but ten years from now, when you’re in a tight spot and you need a little memory nudge to push you over the edge, you know what memory’s going to be your friend? Good sex is the gift that keeps on giving.”
I just shook my head. Kate had always been better at the sex-without-feelings thing than me, so how had I ended up the one in a loveless relationship while she was happily settled down?
As we rounded the corner into the jewelry department of the store, an advertisement caught my eye: a life-size photo of two ridiculously attractive models, the man on one knee with a ring box in his hand as he gazed adoringly into the eyes of the woman, her lips framing the word ‘yes.’ Little gold roses twined around the diamond of the ring he was offering her, and red roses twined around the edges of the billboard, framing the perfect couple.
It’s just a stupid advertisement, I told myself. It has nothing to do with you.
But there was something about the fairytale imagery they’d used, the roses and slight princessy cut of the woman’s dress, that made my heart twist. Maybe my dreams of love were childish, but sometimes those dreams were the hardest to let go of. Someone to kiss my forehead, someone to hold me tight, someone to look at me as though I were the most beautiful—no, the only—woman in the world…
It probably didn’t help that the male model in the picture had sun-kissed brown hair and blue eyes, and thus bore a slight but telling resemblance to Grant.