Aloha, page 61
That makes him sound so cold, so clinical, almost sociopathic, but it’s the opposite: his unique way of viewing the world, combined with family trauma, made him a force to be reckoned with.
Meeting him by accident with my hand down a toilet in one of the restaurants his family owned was kismet.
Teaching him how to accept my love and believe he is worthy of it is fate.
So those laugh lines at the corners of those gorgeous, sharp, moss-green eyes? I earned those. Every last one of them. If Declan’s inner source of pride is achievement, mine is this.
Laugh lines made from my love.
And I cannot wait to put more on his face.
BANG BANG!
“Daddy? Mama? Where’s the charger? And why is the door locked?”
Dec mutters a curse and climbs out of bed. “I did not anticipate this,” he says in a tone that makes it clear he’s sour about his own failure to strategize for every contingency.
“What did you bribe her with?”
“A $4.99 app from the Apple store.”
“You value sex with me at $4.99?” I sit up and rearrange the covers, smiling at him.
“Don’t even joke about that. If you force me to put a price tag on making love with you, I’ll have to get her something outrageously decadent.” His side-eye is full of mischief.
“Oh, no! Don’t you dare! Do NOT buy her a yacht.”
“A yacht? You think that —” he motions toward me “ — was worth a yacht?”
“I’m guessing?”
“Priceless, Shannon.” Dec crawls back into the bed, pressing his full body against mine, angling to give my belly wide berth. “I’d need to buy her the Mona Lisa. A seat on Blue Origin. The Red Sox.”
“Now you’re being silly.”
“The priceless part is anything but silly.”
Our kiss is interrupted with:
“I know what you’re doing! Mama has a baby in her. Are you putting another one in? Is that how Uncadoo got twins? Grandma says when a mama and papa love each other the best, he puts a watermelon seed on her tongue and that’s how babies are made, but Auntie Carol told Grandma she’s full of – ”
I wince. Yep. She said it.
“Shouldn’t she be in school by now?” Dec mutters as he slides off me and walks to the bathroom, emerging quickly in a bathrobe.
“Maya’s coming.” Our nanny arrives promptly at 7:30 weekday mornings. I look at my phone. “It’s only 7:22.”
The doorknob rattles as he halts mid-step.
Our daughter’s increasingly outraged voice pipes up through the thick wood. “Hey! Why can’t I pick the lock? Ay-mish said ’e ken I’d ’ave nae trooble!”
Ellie’s blur into Hamish’s Scottish accent is simultaneously disturbing and cute.
Mostly disturbing.
Bzzz
That’s my phone. It buzzes again. Then it rings. Declan throws his hands up in the air in frustration.
“Ellie first. I’ll handle that call,” I say, stepping in to triage the situation, suddenly in scramble mode. When I look at my screen, I realize my error.
Dave.
Dave, Dave, and more Dave.
A top notch, couldn’t-ask-for-better executive assistant, Dave is extraordinary. But he’s Declan’s assistant, and if my husband sees the constant stream of messages between us, he’s going to lose his ever-loving mind.
No, I’m not sleeping with Dave.
I’m colluding with him.
This is so much better than sex.
Blanton Jean-Pierre Koshigiri owns the premier Kona coffee farm in the world. There is nothing like the place he jokingly calls “Nui Ke Kālā” anywhere. Wholly unique and deservedly coveted by every billionaire on the planet, his farm receives a steady supply of offers to be purchased, most of them coming from my husband.
Because Declan wants to own the ultimate worldwide coffee chain and the ultimate coffee farm.
Not any coffee production facility.
The farm.
Eyeing Declan as he shuts our bedroom door and says something to Ellie I can’t make out, I answer my phone.
“Skipper says we’ve reached the point where Declan needs to know,” Dave announces with his characteristic, no-bullshit bluntness.
Years ago, on our freaking honeymoon, Dec spent a bunch of time cozying up to Blanton Jean-Pierre Koshigiri, but he was never given permission to call him by his nickname.
Koshigiri is Skipper to me, and when Declan finds out, he’ll be pissed.
Or maybe not. Hopefully not. Because this house of cards I’ve been carefully protecting will all fall down at the same time, if I’m lucky. And when Dec learns I get to call the man Skipper, it’ll be at the same time I tell him I’ve bought the Kona farm for him.
Two can play that game.
It’s just like in 2004, when Mom got Dad a new weed whacker and Dad got her a ceramic straight-iron for Christmas, and they were able to one-up each other on Black Friday with the best deal.
Erm, maybe not just like that, but you get the picture.
I’m sneaking around behind Declan’s back with his rival and his right-hand man, all to give Declan the biggest surprise of his life.
A deal he didn’t negotiate.
“Shannon?”
Dave and Declan say my name at the same time, the sound in stereo, my neurons confused. In the doorway stands Declan, robe loose as he frowns at me. “Who’s that?”
I am the world’s worst liar.
“It’s um, Mia.”
Dec yawns, the stretch delicious to watch. “Mia? Is she late?” he says at the end, the words drawn out.
“I sound nothing like Mia,” Dave says flatly in my ear. “You really are shit at lying. Declan always says so, but you’re proving it.”
“No!” I chirp at Declan, ignoring the insult machine on the phone. “Just asking to make sure Ellie has all the glitter she needs.”
“Glitter.” Shrewd eyes, narrowed into slits, meet mine. “Ellie does not need more glitter. I found some on my ass the other day.”
“On your ass! Why would you have glitter on your butt?”
“I do not need to hear this,” Dave grumbles in my ear. “Make it stop.”
Dec glowers at me. “Good question, Shannon. Why did I?”
“You say that like it’s my fault!”
“She thought it would be fun to use my razor on a glitter project. Something about shading it just right.”
“Shaving, or shading?”
A nonplussed look crosses his face.
“I don’t know! But glitter got on my hands, and then it got everywhere. Andrew saw it when I was working out at the gym, and Vince started calling me ‘Glowboi.’” He mutters a curse, turning on his heel to wander back to the kitchen.
I do not tell him Glowboi is an adorable nickname.
“Glowboi,” Dave says into the phone with an evil snicker.
“You did not hear that!” I hiss into the phone. “Declan doesn’t know I’m talking to you.”
“Hear what? Other than the sound of a nice big raise this year?”
“You already get nice big raises.”
“This year it’ll be nicer and bigger.”
“You help me close this deal with Koshigiri, and I’ll help with that.”
“Good news: he’s here.”
“Who?”
“Koshigiri.”
“Here – where?”
“In Boston.”
“What?”
“Something about being on business, headed to London. Wants to have lunch with you.”
“LUNCH?” I gasp, the timing about as unfortunate as my mother overhearing me talk about going to her favorite thrift shop on ten-dollar fill-a-bag day.
“Mia wants to have lunch?” Declan asks as he drops his robe, walks into the bathroom, and turns on the shower.
“No. Done with that call. This is a new one.”
“Who?”
“My mom.”
Fastest way to make him lose interest, right?
“Oh.” True to form, he closes the bathroom door.
“I am not Marie,” Dave says archly. “First of all, my brain cells don’t ricochet off the inside of my skull.”
“HEY!”
“And second, fill-a-bag day is for amateurs. Just wait until thrift shops change over from one season to another and dumpster dive.”
“What?”
A smug sound fills the phone. Dave makes a significant six-figure income as Declan’s executive assistant, and he has an MBA from Wharton, but he’s also a squatter living in an artist commune. The artisanal chocolate he makes from some special cacao he buys from co-ops in Central America. I know that working for Declan has given him more leverage in helping local people on cacao farms, which is fantastic, but the chocolate itself is extraordinary.
And the little boy growing inside me is probably seventeen percent built by Dave’s handiwork.
“Dumpster diving,” Dave says patiently, as if explaining how to use a computer mouse to a 104-year-old. “You wait until the thrift shop changes seasons. They throw out tons of stuff. Then you show up with rolling carts, a long-handled grabber, a step-stool, a flashlight, and plenty of cat food.”
“Cat food?”
“Yes. Cat food.”
“Why cat food?”
“Because cat food is your alibi.”
“Alibi?”
“Excuse. Whatever. For when the cops show up.”
“The cops? You… feed the cops cat food?”
“Of course not! You claim to be out there feeding the poor strays. Instant sympathy from the bastards.”
“That’s devious!” And a little sick. “Dave, seriously? You’re going to risk dealing with the police over salvaged thrift shop clothing you could easily afford to buy and lie about feeding stray cats!?”
My own cat, Chuckles, wanders in as I’m speaking, gives me an extremely grumpy look, and shows me his butthole.
“The longer you’re with your husband, the more judgmental you get, Shannon.” Is he tsking me? That sound – tsk, tsk, tsk – makes him sound like Mrs. Hickey, the old librarian from my elementary school.
The one who smelled like moth balls and freshly baked child hearts.
“The longer you work for my husband, Dave, the more you sound like an asshole.”
“Declan must be rubbing off on me.”
I stay silent. Why interrupt someone hoisting themselves on their own petard?
“Let’s change subjects,” Dave says tightly.
“Yes. Back to Koshigiri. He’s in town?”
“Will be. Today. Can you do a late lunch? He lands at noon in Bedford and can be at Consuela’s by two.”
“Isn’t that risky? What if Declan has a work lunch there. Or Andrew?”
“I’ve booked Declan already for a Wisconsin dairy deal. Three-hour negotiation.”
“I cannot fathom why he loves negotiations.” I shudder.
“It’s his version of Viagra.”
“Dave.”
“Sorry.”
“No, I just mean – bad comparison. Viagra is what you take when you need a little… help. Dec doesn’t need any assistance when it comes to negotiation.” Or in the bedroom, I think – but do not say.
“He does with Koshigiri.”
We share a conspirator’s snicker.
“True! I cannot believe this is really happening. Skipper’s selling to me.”
“He is. Declan’s fuming. He has no idea who the anonymous buyer is. Getting increasingly desperate.”
“I know I’ll have to tell him eventually.” I drop my voice to whisper as the sound of the shower ends abruptly. “But not until after this lunch.”
“Right. Consuela’s, two p.m.”
He hangs up just as Dec walks out of the bathroom, toweling off.
“Long call with Marie?” he asks with a tone that makes it clear he’d rather bleach the tile grout with a toothbrush and a cotton ball held by tweezers than spend five minutes on the phone with my mom.
“Yes,” I sigh, pretending to be harried. “You know.”
“What’s her deal today?”
Oops. Now I have to invent something. Then again, this is a conversation about how annoying my mother is. I don’t have to reach.
“She asked about Farmington Country Club for Amy and Hamish’s wedding.”
“They aren’t even engaged yet! And I thought the wedding would be in Scotland.”
“She says she got ‘cheated’ out of a full wedding at Farmington when we ‘stole all the fun’ out of our wedding.” While I didn’t just get off the phone with my mother, I have a memory bank of choice phrases she’s used over time, so this part is easy.
“Again? Pulling out those old complaints?”
“Amy and Hamish’s future wedding seems to have revived a bunch of hurt feelings.”
“Then let her take it all out on them! Hamish is just a wall of ginger emotional Teflon. Nothing she says gets to him.”
“I don’t think that’s quite true. She asked him if he knew anyone at the FAA and could get them to ground all helicopter traffic within a 50-square-mile radius around Farmington for their wedding.”
We both groan.
“He didn’t take that well,” Declan adds unnecessarily as he searches for underwear in his closet, talking to me through the open door as he dresses. “Said something about stealing Amy away to Gretna Green for a good old-fashioned elopement.”
“Gretna Green! Hah! Isn’t that just in those historical romance novels?”
“No clue. It seemed to be code for ‘screw Marie.’”
“Amy would never agree to that. She’s way too attached to having a full wedding.”
“But not a full Marie Jacoby wedding. And Hamish says his mom is basically the Scottish version of Marie.”
“I remember. Amy laughed, but when he didn’t a cold tendril of fear shot through me.”
“Fear? You? She’s not going to be your mother-in-law.”
“Fear for poor Amy. Imagine having two versions of my mother? On two different continents?”
“No and no.” Exiting the closet, he comes out wearing underwear, socks, and carrying a shirt, suit, and two ties. Declan points.
“Blue or purple?”
“Purple.” Gray flecks mix in with fine black lines, navy accents, and a deep indigo that make the tie a perfect fit for his navy suit. “Why so fancy?”
“Video call. Have to look the part.” Setting the clothes on his wooden valet, he heads for the bathroom, where an electric razor begins.
And my body screams coffee time!
The doorbell rings, then the front door beeps with a code being entered. Mia is particularly polite, though she’s been Ellie’s nanny for years, and will help with the new baby as well. She always rings before entering our home.
As Declan finishes shaving, I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths.
Renovating a conference center to be our forever home – and a new, boutique resort.
Negotiating a secret deal to buy an exclusive Hawaiian coffee farm.
Maintaining a somewhat-executive role at Grind It Fresh! until the baby’s born.
Growing an entire human being with my body. Again.
Life is full.
So is my heart.
But you know what’s empty?
My caffeine meter.
Chapter 2
“It doesn’t add up,” I snap as Andrew spots me. Shannon left quickly this morning, and I decided to fit in a short workout – and another shower – before heading back to the office for my marathon negotiation call with a bunch of people who spend their days squeezing liquid from bovines.
“Business never does.” A grunt, then I take in a deep breath and bench press it, feeling my core divert power through my limbs. Pumping iron is nothing like making deals and being a CEO.
It’s bliss.
“No shit, Sherlock. I mean Koshigiri’s behavior. Why is he dodging me?”
“There are five or six other billionaires in the world asking the same question.”
One of the desk workers waves Andrew down. The motion catches my attention as I go for one more rep, arms screaming, shoulders begging for mercy, but no –
This is about powering through.
Being determined.
Never giving up.
Something in my neck turns to liquid fire, tendons turning into hot pokers, but I do it, racking the bar, making Andrew shake his head.
“Impressive, huh?”
“You?” He scoffs. “Hardly.”
A whiff of funk and stinky canvas shoes hits my nose, sweat pouring down my brow as I wipe it with a white towel that reeks of bleach. As my heart rate goes back to something resembling normal, the blood rush feels nice and tight, as if all that power from lifting invades my cells.
Which means I succeeded.
Success begets success. Each layer builds on the next. A strong body fuels a strong mind and vice-versa. Andrew was smart to buy these basic, grungy gyms and find resilience.
“Fuck you,” I mutter, but I don’t have the heart to be angry. We’re competitive. Always have been. Our dad pitted us against each other practically since Andrew’s first breath. Our oldest brother, Terry, left the family business after our mother died, but he’s got the killer instinct, too.
He just hides it under a lot of yoga and tie-dyed goofiness.
Buying Koshigiri’s Hawaiian paradise would be a coup.
“You know, Dad tried to buy the Hawaii place.”
My head snaps up.
“Quit messing with me.”
“When he found out how much you wanted it, yes.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him. He probably outbid me.”
“I don’t know. Told him I don’t piddle in little deals like that.” His smirk makes me want to rip it off his face.
“As if this chain of gyms is Planet Fitness.”
“It’ll be better.”
“Just like Grind It Fresh! I’m in eight more countries than you are. When will you go fro – oh, right. One country. You’re only in one country.”
“We have plenty of plans for Canada,” he says flatly, hating the conversation.
Hah. Good. Means I’m winning.
“And besides,” he adds, “Anterdec is still beating us all.”
“And yet we all walked away from it.”
