Shopping for a Billionaire 1 Read Free Page A

a waterfall on a deserted island in the middle of the South Pacific, the two of us the only people inhabiting the island, forced by pure survival to have sex like monkeys and procreate to save the human race.
    A sacrifice we both suffer through.
    Except I’m not on an island with this man, whose arms don’t even seem to strain under my size-sixteen weight. My breasts bob as he makes split-second calculations without looking away from me. Somehow, he moves my entire body, which is now on fire from his sure touch and pure, animal strength, and sets me down without either foot falling directly in the toilet.
    The pain of the toilet handle digging into my shoulder blade when I fell back is making itself known, and my arm is dripping, but—but!—Mr. Death by Toilet Rescue is looking at me with concern, and almost as good:
    I am clutching my phone.
    This all took about five seconds, so I’m panting, and the top knot of my already unruly hair has come undone, leaving a curtain of long waves framing my face. The ends of some of it are wet.
    Oh, gross. Toilet arm, toilet phone—toilet hair ?
    The first words we share finally fill the air. He initiates with a grin.
    “We have better seats out in the dining room, you know.”
    “My phone needed a bath,” I reply, combing my hair with my dry hand, and now it’s wet, too. I wonder what I look like right now, but I’m afraid if I look in a mirror I will crawl back into the toilet and try to flush myself out of this mess.
    “What, exactly, have you been doing with your phone to make it so dirty?” he asks with a leer.
    He steps back out of the stall with a gentlemanly sweep of his arm, green eyes filled with a mixture of mirth and guardedness. As he moves, he reveals a full-length wall mirror, giving me my own nightmare.
    Oh. That’s what I look like. Anyone have a spare coffee stirrer? Because I could stab myself in the eye and maybe bleed to death right here.
    Or embarrassment will kill me. No such luck. If embarrassment could kill, I’d be dead nine times over by now.
    I study myself in the mirror. Time seems measured by increments of incredulity, so why not make Mr. Toilet Rescuer think I’m even crazier by looking at my reflection like a puppy discovering “that other puppy” in the mirror? Long brown hair, wet at the ends in the front. Split ends, no less. Who has the money for a decent cut after I needed new tires for my ancient Saturn? My torn pink t-shirt and gray yoga pants make me look like your average college student, except my shoes bring me to a screeching mental halt.
    Yoga pants and one loafer, one open-toed shoe make me look like Mrs. McCullahay down the street, dragging her trashcans out to the road at 5 a.m. with mismatched shoes, a mu-mu, and curlers in her hair while an inch-long ash hangs out of her mouth.
    “At least I don’t smoke,” I mutter. Then I remember where I am, and look slowly to my left.
    Mr. Smirky Suit leans casually against the scarred, dented stall wall, his face settled into a look of amusement now, but he’s not going anywhere. Feet planted firmly in place, I realize he’s giving me that look.
    No, not that look. I’d take that look from him any time.
    I mean the look of someone who will not let me out of here without an explanation.
    An explanation I am contractually obligated not to give. Outing myself as a secret shopper is verboten . Unheard of.
    Grounds for termination.
    See, the first rule of mystery shopping is like the first rule of Fight Club: don’t punch anyone. Oh. Wait. No…it’s that you don’t talk about it. Ever.
    Though, sometimes, that not-punching rule comes in handy, because there are some really weird people in stores.
    And Mr. Suit looks at me like I’m one of them.
    “Let me introduce myself,” he says, taking the lead. His body moves effortlessly from leaning to standing, then he takes two steps forward and I retreat until the backs of my calves hit the toilet rim again. I’m backing away from