Shopping for a CEO (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 7) by Julia Kent Page B

eyes watch me.
    “Hungry?” he asks, dimples firmly in place as he smiles. 
    I bite my lips and exhale, a little sound of frustration making the back of my throat vibrate.
    “You could say that.”
    We’re in front of a series of brick buildings that look like converted lofts and businesses. As Andrew opens his door, a blast of warm night air fills the limo. April in Boston is a crapshoot. You never know if you’ll get a balmy breeze or need your down winter coat. 
    Salty air, carrying the ocean on it, fills the small space. Aha. I know where we are.
    The Seaport district. Congress Street.
    I look outside and my eyes adjust. We’re just at the curb, not even in a parking spot or an underground garage. The driver simply pulled over and we’re blocking traffic.
    My door opens. I reach up to touch my hair, then my lips. I must look frightfully disheveled, bright red lipstick smeared across my lips, hair thoroughly mussed.
    The second I climb out of this limo it’ll be obvious what Andrew and I have been doing. The thought makes me smile. 
    Andrew reaches one strong hand for me and I take it, lifting up into the dark night, his palm splayed at the small of my back without interruption. He seems incapable of not touching me now.
    “Is my lipstick smeared?” I whisper, the intimacy of such a simple question feeling both natural and out of place. I’m living in two different realities right now, second by second, as time flows and I am with him.
    There is this dream world, where Andrew McCormick is kissing me. And then there’s reality, where I am waiting sorrowfully to wake up.
    “Does it matter?”  
    The limo takes off like a silent jet, disappearing down Congress Street as Andrew guides me up a set of stairs. There is no sign. No obvious door. We might as well be headed into a nondescript, restored historical building that houses tech start-ups rather than a restaurant.
    “Where are we?” I ask as I fumble around in my purse, looking for a hand mirror or a compact.
    “You’ll see.”
    As he holds open a door, I see a small brass plaque, so subtle I would never have noticed it if I weren’t on guard, nerves firing at random intervals as every cell in my body is alert and ripe.
    The plaque has the name of the most exclusive new restaurant in town on it, complete with the chef’s name.
    “We’re eating here ?”
    “You’ve been here before?”
    I shake my head, my fingers closing on my compact. I’ve heard about it. This is the apocryphal restaurant that the celebrity chef created for friends, family, and few of her closest Boston billionaires. 
    When I look in the mirror, my lipstick’s half gone. Where did it go?
    Andrew looks down at me and I find my answer.
    “You look good in red,” I say, pulling on his arm. He gives me a puzzled look and I reach up, using my thumb to wipe some of the lipstick off his mouth and show him.
    He laughs, then reaches into his suit jacket for a handkerchief, removing the evidence of our limo encounter. At least, the visible evidence.
    I look at my reflection and he gently takes his handkerchief and presses it into my hand. Our eyes lock.
    “I must be a mess,” I say, suddenly self-conscious, dabbing at my smeared makeup. 
    “You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs, bending down, so close his words send shivers down my spine. “And you’re even more beautiful when you’re a mess, because I know I made you that way.” 
    No man has ever talked to me like this. I’ve never even imagined conversations like this, the kind that cut to the chase. He’s so direct, so virile and masculine, filed with the warrior’s gaze and the lover’s tenderness as he stands there beside me, just...there.
    He’s finally here . It only took him two years. 
    And I don’t know what to do with him now that he’s decided to show up.
    Andrew takes me to a tiny elevator. It’s quite literally just a door, and if I didn’t see him wave a small card, like a hotel key, in front of a little