Deep trouble. Did I mention I was in very deep trouble with this man? “All right, Caleb Blackstone with the beautiful eyes, I accept your invitation to stay over at your penthouse, but on one condition.”
“Name it,” he fired back confidently.
“You’re taking me to Target first so I can get a few things for this slumber party you’ve invited me to.”
He clearly did not expect me to demand a shopping trip to a discount store like Target—whose doors he’d probably never darkened—but maybe Caleb liked surprises, because he threw his head back and laughed.
Then he lowered the partition and said, “Isaac, Miss Casterley would like to go to Tar-zhay.”
CALEB appeared amused as he followed me around Target, gathering up the things I wanted. He pushed the cart for me but didn’t say a lot. Mostly he observed, and I had the strangest feeling he was taking notes in his head as if he was . . . learning. Had he never been inside a Target before? Did billionaires even shop for themselves, or did other people do it for them? I would never allow someone to shop for me. I loved shopping, and lucky for me it was a huge part of my job to search out the unique and artful accent pieces that made the room and showcased the individuality of the client. Flea markets were some of my favorite places to find treasures. I wondered if Caleb had ever been to anything like a flea market.
Nothing was more uncomfortable than being stranded without necessities in a strange place. If this was indeed going to be my first experience with the space I’d be transforming, then I wanted to enter into the process on my terms and feeling at ease. Which meant having my own toothbrush, some clean knickers, and something to wear to work tomorrow morning at the very minimum. I always carried a bit of makeup around in my bag, so I was covered on that end. I didn’t like going faceless, either. I loved my makeup and that was just my preference. Maybe it gave me some sort of perceived shield from the world, but I totally needed it.
I found a really soft sweaterdress in black that hit just above the knees. It would do nicely for work tomorrow and would pair well with my boots. A large-checked, fringed scarf in cream and black pulled it all together. In the lingerie section I grabbed a three-pack of lace boy-shorts knickers in pink, baby blue, and black polka dots. I watched for Caleb’s reaction when I tossed the package into the cart.
He was paying attention all right.
Because he picked up my new knickers and gave them a thorough inspection before bestowing another one of his signature cheeky grins. All men were such teenage boys at heart—apparently even a sophisticated billionaire couldn’t keep back the giggles when holding a pack of ladies’ panties in his hand.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Caleb?” I couldn’t help asking the question.
“Very much, Brooke,” he answered quickly. “Thank you for bringing us to Target. It’s quite a different experience for me.”
It was very close to what I’d said to him earlier about him being a gentleman. “I’m almost finished. I just need to find something warm for sleeping and a weekender bag.” I plucked the pack of knickers away from him and tossed it back into the cart.
Again with the cheeky smile.
I had the insane urge to bury my fingers in his purposely mussed hair just so I could feel it for myself. He smiled lazily at me and proceeded to make my hormones put on their slut show inside my head. Very. Deep. Trouble.
“N
o rush at all, Brooke. I said it was a different experience for me, not that I didn’t like it.”
And my same words used back on me a second time. Or was it the third? The man was a dedicated tease, but I had to admit he was also very adorable whilst doing it. An idea hit me that Caleb was paying attention to everything in Target as I shopped—for a reason. He was committing his new knowledge to memory and filing it away.
A flannel pajama set in black and very pale pink, and some soft thick gray socks took care of sleepwear for me. I also spied a black felt bolero and couldn’t resist taking it after trying it on in front of a mirror. It would look perfect with my new sweaterdress, I rationalized. “I have a slight hat fetish . . . er . . . problem,” I admitted.
“Good to know, Brooke. Please, feel free to keep on sharing your secrets. I’m taking notes.”
I was right. Caleb was taking notes in his head. He remembered everything. It was probably the secret to his success in business . . . which just reminded me, yet again, of my curiosity as to why he was interested in me. Why, when we came from such polar opposite worlds?
He left me to do some shopping in another part of the store when I went to the travel section to find a weekender bag. I just wanted something inexpensive, but capable of holding all my purchases. An orange-and-gray woven bag in an Aztec print fit the bill perfectly. I knew I would put the thing to good future use as well. In my line of work, I always needed bags to carry around the plethora of crap I discovered for decorating.
Lastly, I cruised through the trial sizes of toiletries and selected the necessities: toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo and conditioner, a hairbrush, deodorant, body lotion, and some moisturizer for my face. A waterproof cosmetic bag to house everything and I was done.
My rather-filled shopping trolley was now ready for the checkout line. I texted Caleb from line as the attendant rang me up. I’m finished. Checking out now.
I headed for the Starbucks located inside the store as I looked over my receipt. All of my awesome loot had come to a grand total of 167 dollars. Not bad at all, I thought. I knew I’d get good use out of everything I’d bought, even if I hadn’t planned on shopping for any of it tonight. I stuffed the receipt into one of the bags and felt my phone vibrate with Caleb’s reply: Wait for me, please. In Electronics . . . almost done.
Ok. I’ve already paid. I’ll be in the Starbucks ? front of the store. What would you like me to get for you?
He didn’t answer so I assumed he didn’t want anything.
“So I have a grande pumpkin-spice latte decaf for Brooke. That’ll be five twenty-five.”
I handed over my debit card to the barista, but he didn’t take it from me. His attention was focused on someone else behind me because he nodded and mouthed, “okay.”
Then I felt Caleb’s hand on my hip as he put an arm around me. “I’ve got this, and I’ll have a venti flat white,” he said, and handed over a solid black American Express card. I did a double take because I’d never seen one before. I don’t think the barista had, either, because he gave it a good stare as well. It dawned on me it must suck to have people speculating on how rich you were whenever you paid for something normal at a place like Starbucks with a black AmEx card. The problems of the rich . . .