Read Online Shopping for a Billionaire 2 by Julia Kent - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julia Kent
Tags: Romance, Literature & Fiction, Coming of Age, Contemporary, Genre Fiction, Romantic Comedy, New Adult & College
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amount of effort is going to transform me from Plain Old Shannon to Imaginary Perfect Woman when it comes to this date with Declan.
Deep breath .
My mind seems to know this. I am enough. I— as I am —can have a wonderful time with a man a few years older than me, considerably more sophisticated, excessively more successful, and I can go toe to toe with him in the boardroom and the bedroom.
My entire body tightens. And not in the good way.
Can I?
Twelve deep breaths. That throat-tightening feeling, the ribcage that is a little too small, the spacey eyeball-floating thing—all of it recedes a bit. I am freaking out in my crappy car with minutes ticking away before Declan will show up, and somehow the only thoughts I can experience are those that undermine me. Ridicule me.
Invalidate me.
Who do I want to be? This? Quivering Shannon with insecurity issues, stuck in some kind of purgatory from Steve and filled with his ideas about who I am? Goofy Shannon with a hovermother and two sisters who view me as comedic relief?
How about I start seeing myself as Declan sees me. But what, exactly, does that mean? He’s funny, intense, handsome, accomplished, and interesting. The only way to know what he thinks about me is to spend more time with him and to experience it. Tonight I will do exactly that. We’ll talk, we’ll walk, we’ll dance that careful dance that crosses boundaries between our distinct selves as we perform a ritual.
For millennia men have pursued women with varying signals and women have responded with a plethora of replies. We’re just a man and a woman with a spark between us. Whether it lights something on fire depends entirely on how strong that connection really is.
Or whether we can rub something hard enough to light a blaze.
Bzzzz.
Steve again. I smack my forehead with a quietly-muttered “Aha!”, because that’s my answer. I keep asking myself what on earth makes Declan want to date me.
And Steve, of all the people in the world, is the key.
Mr. Invalidator is undermining me by simply communicating with me. It’s not even intentional . The conte n t of what he’s trying to communicate doesn’t matter. Our shared past means that even being bzzzz’d by him carries an emotional message.
I snatch up the phone and, without reading his texts, delete them all. Then I delete Steve as a contact from my phone.
It feels like flushing a deeply clogged toilet after working for hours with a plunger and a snake to reach the goal. Whoosh!
Should have done that last year, but I couldn’t. It felt like cutting off the stump of an amputated limb.
I close my eyes and feel. Feel . The air goes in as I inhale and I imagine breathing with Declan, our air mingling, intentions and suppositions and hopes and interest all swirling before us in an atmosphere of mutual enjoyment.
My eyelids flutter and as my eyes drift around I can see him, casual and smiling, laughing and quiet, nuzzling against me, my view obscured by the soft wave of his hair, by the layout of his eyelashes against his cheek, the look of light stubble across an iron jaw.
I inhale deeply and remember his scent, the mix of citrus and spice and something deeper, fragrant and infused with promise. The taste of wine on his lips, how fire and grapes mixed in our kisses to make a kind of ambrosia I want to experience again. And again.
And then I run my fingers lightly across my arm and remember the weight of his hot skin against mine. His arms claiming me, hands hungry to touch more of me, to combine our flesh and to revel in the nuance and the carnal.
How it felt like finding my way to a home I never knew I had.
Tap tap tap . I turn to look toward the sound and there’s my mother’s face pressed up against the window, her makeup smearing the glass as she presses a bright red kiss on my already-dirty window. The fact that it’s off center annoys me even more.
“Hi, honey! We’re here to make sure you go on your date
Deep breath .
My mind seems to know this. I am enough. I— as I am —can have a wonderful time with a man a few years older than me, considerably more sophisticated, excessively more successful, and I can go toe to toe with him in the boardroom and the bedroom.
My entire body tightens. And not in the good way.
Can I?
Twelve deep breaths. That throat-tightening feeling, the ribcage that is a little too small, the spacey eyeball-floating thing—all of it recedes a bit. I am freaking out in my crappy car with minutes ticking away before Declan will show up, and somehow the only thoughts I can experience are those that undermine me. Ridicule me.
Invalidate me.
Who do I want to be? This? Quivering Shannon with insecurity issues, stuck in some kind of purgatory from Steve and filled with his ideas about who I am? Goofy Shannon with a hovermother and two sisters who view me as comedic relief?
How about I start seeing myself as Declan sees me. But what, exactly, does that mean? He’s funny, intense, handsome, accomplished, and interesting. The only way to know what he thinks about me is to spend more time with him and to experience it. Tonight I will do exactly that. We’ll talk, we’ll walk, we’ll dance that careful dance that crosses boundaries between our distinct selves as we perform a ritual.
For millennia men have pursued women with varying signals and women have responded with a plethora of replies. We’re just a man and a woman with a spark between us. Whether it lights something on fire depends entirely on how strong that connection really is.
Or whether we can rub something hard enough to light a blaze.
Bzzzz.
Steve again. I smack my forehead with a quietly-muttered “Aha!”, because that’s my answer. I keep asking myself what on earth makes Declan want to date me.
And Steve, of all the people in the world, is the key.
Mr. Invalidator is undermining me by simply communicating with me. It’s not even intentional . The conte n t of what he’s trying to communicate doesn’t matter. Our shared past means that even being bzzzz’d by him carries an emotional message.
I snatch up the phone and, without reading his texts, delete them all. Then I delete Steve as a contact from my phone.
It feels like flushing a deeply clogged toilet after working for hours with a plunger and a snake to reach the goal. Whoosh!
Should have done that last year, but I couldn’t. It felt like cutting off the stump of an amputated limb.
I close my eyes and feel. Feel . The air goes in as I inhale and I imagine breathing with Declan, our air mingling, intentions and suppositions and hopes and interest all swirling before us in an atmosphere of mutual enjoyment.
My eyelids flutter and as my eyes drift around I can see him, casual and smiling, laughing and quiet, nuzzling against me, my view obscured by the soft wave of his hair, by the layout of his eyelashes against his cheek, the look of light stubble across an iron jaw.
I inhale deeply and remember his scent, the mix of citrus and spice and something deeper, fragrant and infused with promise. The taste of wine on his lips, how fire and grapes mixed in our kisses to make a kind of ambrosia I want to experience again. And again.
And then I run my fingers lightly across my arm and remember the weight of his hot skin against mine. His arms claiming me, hands hungry to touch more of me, to combine our flesh and to revel in the nuance and the carnal.
How it felt like finding my way to a home I never knew I had.
Tap tap tap . I turn to look toward the sound and there’s my mother’s face pressed up against the window, her makeup smearing the glass as she presses a bright red kiss on my already-dirty window. The fact that it’s off center annoys me even more.
“Hi, honey! We’re here to make sure you go on your date
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