Shopping for a CEO’s Honeymoon
Andrew says we never had a proper honeymoon.
So, instead, he’s giving me…
A prepper honeymoon?
Who knew billionaire preppers were a thing?
I guess I’m about to find out.
Read a sneak peek of Shopping for a CEO’s Honeymoon, the next book in the Shopping series, and pre-order your copy now!
Amanda
I am eating a piece of grilled white asparagus wrapped in prosciutto, drizzled with melted manchego cheese and coated in crushed pistachio when my friend and co-worker, Josh, ruins my culinary orgasm by bringing up my honeymoon.
More specifically, my lack of a honeymoon.
And all I can do is grunt.
“I’m just saying,” he says with a sigh as he waves his bacon-wrapped goat-cheese-stuffed date around on its silver toothpick like he’s the conductor of the Boston Pops doing a tapas bar gig, “you married a freaking billionaire. You deserve a honeymoon.”
“It’s not about Amanda does or doesn’t deserve,” Carol insists on my behalf. As I chew, I give her a look that either says Thank you or that is so indecent I need a cigarette and a fan, because damn, that asparagus is good.
“What’s it about?”
“It’s about what they want. I mean, my god, Josh! Andrew bought her an estate as a wedding gift. I think he’s got all the good husband bases covered.”
“Pfft. That? He’s a billionaire! That’s to be expected.”
“You’re poo-pooing my husband’s wedding gift to me? An estate in Weston, Massachusetts? It’s one of the most expensive zip codes for real estate in the country.”
“Hello? Billionaire? For him, that’s like buying a cheap condo behind the railroad tracks in Clinton,” Josh sighs. “Declan bought Shannon an entire coffee chain.”
“This isn’t a competition,” I say, alarm making my Pinot Noir taste like vinegar.
“And he managed to give her a nice honeymoon in Hawaii.”
I lean in. “Define ‘nice.’ Because those two sill refuse to talk about their honeymoon.”
“Isn’t that weird?” Carol says, affirming my gut instinct. “Shannon’s normally easy to pry information out of, but she’s so closed-lipped on this.”
“Maybe they had an orgy,” Josh ponders.
“On their honeymoon?”
“Weirder things have happened.” Josh wraps his arm around my shoulders. His armpits smell like lemon and coconut. “I was married to Amanda, you know,” he tells Carol. “We had a honeymoon.”
“We had a panic-filled hour in a Las Vegas hotel suite after being poisoned with psychedelic-contaminated wine.” I wrench his arm off me. “Don’t compare the two.”
“I’m just saying, maybe Shannon and Declan are being private about their honeymoon because it’s, you know.” His voice drops. Wink wink. “Private.”
“Declan doesn’t strike me as the swinger type,” Carol declares.
“Right,” I add. “He’s not the sharing type. Have you ever tried going to a tapas bar with him?”
Josh straightens up, frowning at me. “Did you just say topless?”
“What? No! Tapas. Declan won’t even share small plates. You expect him to share his entire wife?”
“Scratch that theory off the list,” Josh mutters.
“Why did you,” Carol says, pointing to me, “and my little sister both land billionaires for husbands, and all I got was a tattooed ‘musician’ who turned MLM pyramid schemes into an art form and tried to convince me that lube made from tea tree oil was an aphrodisiac? Where’s my billionaire?”
“Oh, God, not this again,” Josh groans. “Carol must be on her third glass of sangria.”
She shakes the ice cubes at the bottom of her glass. “How’d you know?”
“Drink #1: This is great! I love hanging out with friends. Drink #2: I’m hungry. Drink #3: why can’t I get a billionaire?” Josh says, ticking off the list with his fingers.
“What’s Drink #4?” Carol asks.
“I hate Drink #4,” he says, turning red. “It’s when you start to tell us how long it’s been since you’ve had sex.”
“I do not!”
“Do too,” I inform her. Josh’s eyes jerk like his brain is riding a bucking bronco. “And then there’s Drink #5.”
“We won’t talk about that!” Josh squeals.
Carol gives him a head tilt and raised eyebrows, her sangria perched halfway to her mouth. “What on earth? I don’t have five drinks when we come out like this?”
“No, no, it was Mathilda’s wedding. Remember? She invited everyone in marketing to her wedding when she and Dryden tied the knot,” I remind her.
“The reception?” Carols asks. “The one that was all about candles in mason jars and a goat as a flower girl? on the farm in Marlborough?”
“That one,” Josh says primly, turning red.
“I did drink heavily that night. I’d just gotten my second child support check from Todd, ever, from the Virginia department of corrections. Twenty-three dollars and twelve cents. And then we came to the wedding and – what did I do after Drink #5?” She leans in. “Talk about my dry sex life?”
Josh looks like he’s choking on a cocktail stirrer.
“You asked Josh to sleep with you,” I blurt out. Might as well get this over with.
Carol laughs. “Did not!”
“You did,” he says, twisted away, his neck at an unnatural angle, like a swan procreated with a pipe cleaner. “You were, uh, very specific about what you wanted.” He makes a face like’s imagining eating something he doesn’t like.
Carol’s turn to blush. “I did not hit on you! You’re not my type, Josh. Sorry.”
“But. You. Did.” Josh grabs the edges of the table, which is made of stone, dark and grooved by deep scratches and years of sweaty glasses.
“If I did, I was clearly beer goggling it.”
“Vodka goggles. Not beer,” I correct her.
“I am sorry, Josh. Sorry I offended you. You’re definitely not my type, so it would take that much vodka to get me to hit on you.”
“You manage to turn an apology into an insult like it’s programmed into you.”
Carol laughs. “Blame my mother.”
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