Shopping for a CEO (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 7) (12 page)

Which is pitch perfect for how every second with Andrew feels.

His hand takes mine, fingers slipping into the grooves between my own, palms pressed together like hearts trying to find a common rhythm. Soon we’re seated, and as I settle in to my spot I look up, then gasp. 

The view of the ocean stretches on into the night, inky and rolling, offering endless possibilities and terrifying enormity.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, completely smitten with the view. 

He looks over his shoulder, as if the panoramic scene behind him were nothing. “Oh. Yeah.” 

And for him, it probably
is
nothing. Shannon’s talked about the everyday luxuries Declan takes for granted, from having groceries delivered and stocked to never touching a cleaning supply or a broom. How he has tailors who come to his office. Dry cleaning picked up dirty and brought back and hung in his closet, neat as a pin.

How the limo driver just delivers him where he needs to go and appears when called. His schedule is managed by people who work for him and he never makes a single logistical arrangement. The McCormick men live a life crafted not so much by whim, she says, but by choice. Other people make their lives run like a well-oiled machine so that they are never, ever inconvenienced by the small tasks in life that trip the rest of us up.

Their lives are fixed by people like
me
.

Wine appears with a first course of grilled octopus and chive aioli that almost tastes as good as Andrew’s kisses.

Almost.

We’re quiet. He holds one of my hands. We don’t really talk for the first few minutes. We don’t need to. Either this is super awkward and I’m too clueless to realize it, or we’re seamlessly fitting together in a way that is far too easy.

The spectrum is maddeningly long here, and the pendulum has more than enough room to swing in whatever direction fate chooses.

I finish my first glass of wine. Andrew stands and removes his jacket, sliding his arms out of the sleeves and rotating, his form on display. Minutes ago, that body was atop mine, pinning me in place against leather and lust. I enjoy the display, watching the lean stretch of his forearms, the subtle bulge of biceps as they twist and he slips the jacket over the back of his chair, the curve of his legs as he resumes his seat, moving the chair closer to the table, then reaching once more for my hand. 

“Nice view,” I say.

“You already said that,” he replies as he glances over his shoulder.

“I wasn’t talking about the ocean.”

A gleam in his eyes makes me glad for the boldness of a glass of wine and my own relief at finally having his undivided attention. Maybe I’m being too forward. Perhaps this is far less than I think it is, and I’m making it into more.

I don’t care.

Guys like Andrew McCormick don’t exist in my world. Not as dating partners. Men like Ron and Jordan are what’s out there in my life partner pool, and not only is there no comparison—zero—the fact is that none of that matters.

I spent the last two years waiting for Andrew to make a move I’d given up on ever experiencing. And now here he is, holding my hand and pouring me wine on a private rooftop garden at one of the most exclusive, elite restaurants in the country and I’ll be damned if I let this slip out of my hands.

“What are we doing?” he asks, echoing my earlier question.

“You tell me.”
Please, tell me, Andrew.
 

“We’re getting to know each other.”  

“We’ve known each other for nearly two years.”
Two long years
. 

“I know quite a bit about you,” he says with an alluring grin.

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Shannon spilled all your secrets.”

I snort inelegantly. Is there an elegant way to snort, though?

“Right. Not falling for that, bud. Shannon would never, ever spill my secrets. Besides, I don’t have any.”

“Everyone has secrets.” 

“Not me. I’m an open book.”

He gives me a skeptical look and asks, “What’s your greatest fear?”

That this isn’t real.

I can’t tell him that, so instead I tell him my
second
greatest fear.

“Being naked in public.”

His grin widens. “Has this been an issue for you in the past?” 

“Only in my nightmares.”

“Or
my
dreams.”

Did the temperature just rise by ten degrees out here?

A small beet salad with goat cheese and fennel is served, interrupting us and giving me a chance to catch my breath.

“But seriously,” I say between bites.

“I was being serious.”

“You have dreams about my being naked in public?”

“All the time. Except for the public part.”

“You could have said something sooner.”

“I’m saying it now.”

What else can I do but laugh and pivot?

“What’s
your
greatest fear?”

His face goes somber so quickly that I realize my very awful misstep immediately.

“I’m sorry,” I rasp. “I know what it is, and I shouldn’t have asked that.”

He flinches. “You know my greatest fear? How could you know?”

“It’s wasps, right?”

Of course it is. Between Shannon’s allergy and the story about how Andrew, Declan and Terry’s mom died, and Declan’s impossible choice, how could I not know? Andrew is deathly allergic to wasp stings. Shannon is deathly allergic to bee stings. It’s a weird confluence of events that found Shannon and Declan together, and if I weren’t her best friend I would think it was nuts. 

But love doesn’t care about crazy. It’s random that way.

Andrew’s head is dipped down, just enough that the strings of lights above us make shadows that cover his face. His hand holding the salad fork is suspended above his plate, arm bent at the elbow, a light breeze blowing the cloth of his shirt to the side. He’s blinking furiously and breathing with great care, as if gentling himself.

And then he says, “Yes. That’s right.”

Except it feels like he’s lying by omission.

A million questions pour into my head as I struggle to correct my misstep. I feel so foolish. So sickeningly stupid. Here I go again, ruining what has, so far, been the best night of my life.

I need to fix this.

I need to fix this
now
.

“What’s your favorite food?” The words come out of me just as the server clears the plates and a woman in a chef’s uniform appears from the shadows. She’s tall and lean, elegant in a way that only a European woman can be, with a self-possession that makes me feel like I’m twelve.

“Señor McCormick, so good to see you,” she says with a light Spanish accent. Her cheekbones are high and her face long, eyes deeply sunken with a well-painted face and the bone structure of a woman who knows herself all too well. Her hair is streaked with lines of grey that American women in their fifties would dye but she sports proudly. 

Andrew stands and kisses her on both cheeks, his movements elegant and possessed. He’s so young. Just twenty-nine, and yet here he is, kissing a woman I’ve seen on television for more than ten years and who chats with him—in Spanish—as if they’re old friends.

He switches to English. “May I introduce Amanda Warrick? Amanda, meet—”

“I know who you are,” I gush. I’ve never met a celebrity chef before. Consuela Arroyo is surprisingly pleasant, her face breaking into a warm grin as she reaches for me. Her cool, dry hands reach up to cup my cheeks and plant one kiss on each side. I flail, not quite knowing how to greet her back, and roll my jaw bone against hers, wincing as my shiner scrapes against her cheekbone. This double-cheek-kiss thing makes me feel like an awkward teen at my first school dance. 

“Amanda, it is so nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy cilantro,” she says in a voice that carries some kind of subtext with Andrew. 

I look at him. Andrew makes a face and his lip curls up in disgust. 

“I love cilantro!” I chirp. 

She gives him a look. “See? It is only
you
.”

“Are you one of those people who think it tastes like soap?” I ask him.  

“No. I just don’t like it.”

“How can you not like cilantro?” Consuela and I ask in unison. Her voice contains sheer horror, mine pure curiosity.

He responds by pouring us each a generous glass of wine until the bottle is empty. A server appears as if summoned and replaces it immediately with another.

Good thing neither of us is driving.

“Fine. No cilantro. You will have to suffer through a most exquisite polenta dish without the best herb,” Consuela sniffs, her disapproval evident. Those eyes flash with a mock anger that just might hold more anger than teasing. 

“I’ll survive,” Andrew says dryly with a wink.

“You have a savage palate,” she retorts, storming off with a wink to me, her hand cradling her glass of wine. Whew. Mockery wins. 

“I take it you two are friends,” I say as I drink half my wine. It’s so smooth. And I’m now more nervous from having met
the
Consuela Arroyo than I am from the fact that this date is going in directions I never fathomed.

“Connie is an old, old friend of Dad’s.”

“Ah.”

“Not
that
kind of friend.”

“I never thought that. She’s not his type.”

“What does that mean?”

“Doesn’t James stick to dating women who can’t legally purchase alcohol on their own?”

A fine spray of expensive white wine goes flying out of his mouth as he chokes on my words. It’s a beautiful sight, really. A kind of performance art I wish I could capture on film.

“Who told you that?”

“Who do you think?”

“Shannon really thinks that about my dad?”

“Well, between Becky and Stacey and Kelly and—”

He holds up one palm, flat. “Got it. Point taken. Don’t need to hear my dad’s To Do list.”

“More like his Done list.” 

He frowns. “Now that you mention it, when my prom date ditched me to go hang out with my dad, I did think it was a little weird.”

I gasp. “That actually happened?”

“No.”

I can’t find anything to throw at him—other than myself—so I just laugh.

“My dad’s not a complete lech, you know.”

“I’m sure he’s a well-rounded, sophisticated man who’s misunderstood.” 

“Let’s not go
too
far. He’s a grey fox who likes his women young.”

“He dates zygotes.”

“He has his reasons.” 

Talking about James McCormick isn’t my idea of a fabulous date conversation topic, but there’s a reason why we’ve veered into this territory. “Is everything okay with your father?”

“You mean other than dating women who could star in the Hunger Games movies as tribute?”

“Right.”

Andrew closes his eyes, his shoulders rising, then falling, with a deep breath. “Why is it so easy to talk to you?”

I shrug and drink. The wine is loosening me up.

“Because you
are
talking to me?” 

“You’re not going to let me live that down, are you?”

We both know he’s talking about the past. About ignoring me for so long.

“That depends on what happens next.”

“What do you want to have happen next, Amanda?” Oh, the way my name spills out of his mouth. It’s like being licked up my spine.

Consuela appears at that exact moment and announces, “Polenta with churro in a non-cilantro monstrosity!” and sets down two piping hot cruets on small plates with an overblown flourish that makes us both burst into laughter. His voice is deep and strong, his mirth rumbling and profound. I’m so accustomed to his stoicism that this side of him—which I suspected lingered far beneath the surface—is a joy to experience.

A revelation.

“The salmon is next,” Consuela tosses over her shoulder as she disappears into a curtain of greenery.

I roll the stem of my wine glass between my fingers.

“I want more of this,” I say with a sigh. 

“Polenta?”

“Talking.”

“Just talking?”

I smother my smile with a taste of the food. It’s divine. So is he.

“What about the wedding?” I ask after finishing my first bite.

He pauses, fork in mid-air. “Isn’t that a bit presumptuous? Can we finish our first date before talking about weddings?”

“I meant
Shannon and Declan’s
wedding.”

He sets down his fork and reaches for his wine, downing the entire glass in a series of gulps that make the thick lines of his neck move like a dancer on stage.

“Of course you did,” he declares, pouring more.

I freeze.

There are so many ways I can interpret that. I decide to play dumb.

“Has Marie talked with you about our roles?”

“Best man and maid of honor. We stand at the front of the church and I give a toast and maybe we dance with each other. You throw a bachelorette party and I hire a bunch of hookers for Declan to get in his last chance and—”

I start coughing. “What?”

“Kidding.”

“You better be.”

“Declan’s too head over heels for Shannon. Worst case, we’ll go to Vegas for some crazy times and he’ll spend half the night blabbering about how great she is.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“That’s true love.” He gives me a pointed look. “I guess. I wouldn’t know.”

“You’ve never been in love?”

He ponders the question while taking small bites of his food.

“Good question.”

“You’re stalling.”

“No.”

“No, you’re not stalling, or no, you’ve never been in love?”

“Never been in love.”

“Never?
Ever?
” I can’t keep the incredulity from my voice.

“No.”

“Wow.”

“What about you?”

“Me neither,” I admit. 

“Then why do you sound so surprised that
I
haven’t ever been in love?”

“Because I’ve never met anyone else who would admit to it, too.”

“Then there’s a pair of us—don’t tell!” 

Did he just quote
Emily Dickinson
?

“Are you saying I’m nobody?” I ask with a smirk, my tongue poking out to lick the rim of my wine glass. Let’s see if he passes this test.