Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee (12 page)

“He wants Fridays to be Bring Your Pet to Work Day?”

“Fine.” No harm in it. “Anything else, Gina?”

“No, sir?”

“Please call me Andrew. All my admins do.”

“Yes, Mr. McCormick?”

Click.

I finish my lukewarm coffee. Weed through more than a hundred email messages that Gina already triaged. These are the truly urgent ones. I pare them down to eleven that are impossible to solve in my first full day back.

By the time I’m in my spin clothes, my trainer, Vince, has arrived. He’s carrying a glass bottle filled with limp, brown seaweed and a foil packet.

“Here’s your kombucha,” he announces, handing me the seaweed.

“I’m not drinking that crap, Vince.”

“It’s fermented! It’s good for your gut.”

“Beer’s fermented, too.”

He shoves the foil pouch in my hand. Vince has long hair, thick and braided, with a clean-shaven, wide face and a nearly hairless body. In spite of his enormous size, he cycles competitively and does private training for a few CEOs in the area.

He’s also merciless.

Which is why I hired him.

“What’s this? Kelp botanicals in a druid-tear solution?”

“MCT oil.”

“Isn’t that illegal everywhere except Colorado and Washington?”

“It’s medium-chain fatty acids, not marijuana.” Vince begins reciting all the health benefits. It’s easier to eat it than to argue. I rip open the top of the packet and suck it down.

“Ugh.” It tastes like you think. I just drank a quarter-cup of oil.

“Muscle power.”

“If I vomit in the middle of my sprint, it’s on you.”

“Nope. My reflexes are better than yours. You won’t get any on me.”

I snort. He shoves me to the twin spin bikes in the workout room attached to my office. “Put up or shut up.”

I climb on my bike and wait for the music. The same song opens all of our 60-minute spin sessions for warm-up.

Queen’s
Fat-Bottomed Girls
.

Vince doesn’t start the music, though. His eyes are narrowed to slits, and he’s staring at my midsection.

“The fuck, Andrew?” Unlike everyone else who works for me, Vince doesn’t call me Mr. or Sir.

“What?”

“Something you want to share with the class?”

“What class?”

He yanks my left hand off the handlebars. “You got
married
?”

“Oh, that.”

“You’re wearing a wedding ring for shits and giggles?”

“No.”

“You gonna explain this to me?”

“No.”

“I have to spin it out of you?”

“Just try.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Burn me to the ground, Vince.”

“Done.”

The music starts.

Five minutes into it and my legs are screaming.

Ten minutes into it and Vince is screaming.

Twenty minutes into it and
I’m
screaming.

Forty minutes later, the lambs are screaming.

With five minutes to go, Vince’s soundtrack shifts to a song I’ve never heard before.

“You changed the lineup?”

“Sure. Variety is the spice of life.”

“Don’t do that. Stick to the plan.”

“My plan, Andrew. You can’t make me do the same damn shit over and over.”

When I hired Vince, I told him exactly what I wanted. Technique, pacing, playlist, the whole bit. All he had to do was ride with me and hold me accountable.

“Screw you,” he said that day. “I do what I want because I’m the best. Don’t like it? Don’t hire me.”

I hired him on the spot.

“Changing the music makes me lose my place,” I huff.

“Changing the music forces you to adapt. You’re too rigid.”

“Go to hell, Vince.”

“You only say that when I’m right.”

I don’t have the lung power to answer.

Five minutes later, I’m stretching. Vince is at the blender.

“Smoothie?” I ask, as I feel my pulse in my eyelashes.

“Bulletproof coffee with protein powder.”

“Coffee and whey?” I cringe. I uncringe. How did Vince make my face muscles ache like this? Damn. “Do I look like Little Miss Muffet with a latte?”

“Trust me.”

“I don’t trust someone whose primary diet source is rotten plankton.”

He just grunts, then shoves a pint glass filled with beige cream at me.

“Seriously, Vince, what’s in this?” It looks like a hot latte met an oil slick.

“Try it.”

I do. It tastes like milk blended with coffee and snot. I gag on the first try.

“You’re like a chick giving her first blow job, Andrew.”

“Now I
really
want to put this in my mouth. You’re so inspirational.”

“Wimp.”

“Asshole.”

“You have too much energy left,” he declares. “Let’s lift.”

Verbal abuse is my second language. I’m fluent in it when talking to other guys.

“I’m not lifting. I’ve got a call with some investors in Turkey.”

“Excuses, excuses.”

“If you haven’t noticed, I run a Fortune 500 company.”

“And you’re wearing a wedding ring you won’t talk about.”

“I’m not married.”

“Spill it.”

Damn. He’s not letting me live this down, is he?

I tell him the whole story. The abridged version.

In one sentence.

“Amanda and I drank hallucinogen-spiked wine in Vegas and woke up wearing wedding rings, but it turns out we didn’t actually marry each other.”

His eyes narrow.

“Why are you still wearing the ring?”

I shrug. “Haven’t had time to take it off.”

His eyebrows go up. “You haven’t had two spare seconds?”

Damn.

“Fine.” I reach down and slide the ring off my finger, holding it in my palm. “See?” I curl my fingers around it, protective.

“Don’t take it off for my benefit. I’m not the one who gets fake married and then comes home in real denial.”

“Denial?”

“All I’m saying is that the chick you almost-married must be one hell of a woman if you’re still wearing a wedding ring you don’t need to wear. Most guys would have ripped that off their finger the second they could.”

“I’m not most guys.”

“No, you’re not. And speaking of that special woman, how are you doing on your wasp lessons?”

Back up.
Wasp lessons?
I know what you’re thinking. It’s not—well—

“I’m doing fine,” I grind out, covering my mouth with the lip of the glass filled with caffeinated snot.

“You’re practicing?”

“I don’t need to practice.”

You ever hear metal grind against an orc’s bowels? That’s the sound Vince makes.

“Andrew.” He grabs the rest of my bulletproof coffee and drinks it, then slams the glass on the counter like he’s Thor, demanding another tankard of ale. “You came to me a few months ago to ask for help dealing with your fear.”

“Don’t use that word,” I snap. “It wasn’t—”

“
Feeeeaaaaarrrrrr
.” He draws out the word slowly, eyes glowing, boring into me like a laser. “And I came up with a plan. When I work with clients, my training programs are all-encompassing, and designed for success. Your wasp lessons were maximized for optimal outcome. Eradicating fear was the goal.”

“Quit calling it—”

“
Feeeeeeeaarrrrrr.
”

My hands curl into fists, the wedding band digging into my palm. He looks just like Declan when he says that damn word.

“Look.” I grab my hand towel off the bike and start to walk away. “I’ve got a call with some officials in Bhutan in ten minutes, and then I—”

“You said Turkey a few minutes ago.” 

Shit.

“Turkey, Bhutan,” I say, dismissive like my dad.

“Even
I
know those are very, very distinct countries and cultures, Andrew.” He gives me a sour look.

“Investors blur together. They’re all the same.” That’s a huge lie. “I don’t have time for this.”

Not a lie.

“You taken your fake wife out on a real date in daylight, Andrew? Outside?”

I freeze. It’s a split second pause, but he catches it.

The huff of dismissive reaction makes my blood boil.

“Look, Vince, shut the hell up.”

“I’ll shut up when you man up.”

“I’m plenty man.”

“Not if you expect your woman to live like a vampire. You bite her already and turn her into one of you? Humans need sunlight. Air. A man who doesn’t live in fear of an insect’s shadow.”

I’ve never told Vince why I live a carefully-constructed life. A life designed to mitigate risk. A life that reduces down to near-zero the chance that I’ll be stung.

A life that makes sense.

“She’s agreed to your weird-ass lifestyle crap?”

My head feels like a balloon within a balloon within a balloon filled with glitter and jelly beans. I can’t have this conversation.

“She’s off limits as a topic.” I take the ring from my palm, slide it back on, and give him the bird.

His eyes narrow, hands on hips, breath steady. “You’re hardcore, Andrew. Seriously. I don’t say that lightly. I work with guys like you. Most of you are a dime a dozen. That’s why I don’t work with most of you. But you’re not the strongest client I have.”

“Vince, you train Olympic weightlifters. Of course I’m not.” He’s playing head games. Won’t work on me.

“Not that kind of strength, man. I’m talking about inner strength.”

He might as well have sucker-punched me, gloveless, while wearing brass knuckles.

“Fuck.You.”

Vince shrugs, shaking his head slightly, never breaking eye contact. “There you go. Baring your fangs when you should be showing me your belly.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Real strength comes from being vulnerable without flinching. Real strength comes from admitting when you feel weak—and asking for help to become strong again. You did that when you came to me and asked for help with the wasp thing.”

I snort. “Okay, Dr. Phil.”

“And now you’re backpedaling.”

I roll my tongue in my cheek and say nothing, pivoting away. My hand shakes as I reach for a folder.

“It’s Monday. We used to meet on Fridays at two out at that park in Waltham. You gonna be there?”

“Do I pay you to bully me?” I’m not answering his question.

I’m not answering because I don’t know the answer.

“No. You pay me to train you.”

I shoot him a dirty look.

“The bullying is a bonus.”

As he walks out, I hear him say to Gina, “Two o’clock Friday in Waltham. Add it to his calendar.”

Balls.

But I don’t object. I’m man enough to admit he’s right.

Just not to his face.

As I’m bending down to sit in my office chair, eyeballs deep in some contract made up of more legalese than a pre-nup for Rupert Murdoch, in breezes a bundle of creamy flesh, lush hair, big, round eyes and red lips that don’t even get a chance to talk before I’m across the room, kissing them. She’s soft and sweet, tasting like honey and tea, and her curves melt under my hot hands.

My hot hands that wear our wedding ring.

For a marriage that didn’t happen.

But it will
, I think as the kiss deepens. The shift from talking smack with Vince to having her skin pulsing into my palms is dizzying.

Or maybe that’s just the effect of having Vince beat the shit out of every electrolyte in my body.

As she makes a small sound of pleasure in the back of her throat, my thumb migrates, the pad resting lightly on the pulse at her collarbone, seeking to feel the sound. Our hips press into each other, my erection painful in these cramped, tight shorts, and all I want to do is free myself, then be caged within her warm, wet madness.

Losing myself in her is the best form of escape.

Her hands slide up and down, one north to the nape of my neck, one south to the curve of my ass, which tightens at the initiation of her touch. Her hand is insistent, demanding, righteous and full of assumptions.

She acts like she has the right to touch me like this.

I like that.

I break the kiss and bend, thighs screaming, hamstrings ready to defect, put one arm under her knees and the other around her back, palm cupping her breast, and she’s in my arms, then on my desk.

And I’m on my knees.

Ignoring the shaking muscles in my legs, which tremble from strain and desire, I part her legs, finding black silk, lace, and nothing but barrier. It’s beautiful, but this will not do.

“Not here!” she gasps, but her voice isn’t firm, the protest half-hearted, as if she needs to check a box on a list of How To Be Professional qualities she should have in the workplace. She’s turned on and ready, the illicit desk sex and my mouth too much to let her mount another argument, her head lolling back as I dive in, pushing aside the piece of cloth and finding my way to give.

Sunlight glints off the wedding ring on my hand as I reach back, my hand resting on her knee.

It’s the last thing I see until she chokes back a cry from her orgasm, her fingers pulling tightly on my hair, and begs me, “Please. In me. Now.” Normally talkative, Amanda loses access to part of the speech center of her brain as we spiral deeper into lust and passion. It’s a tell.

I love this tell.

Within seconds, the bike shorts are across the room, and we’re on the floor, her skirt around my hips, Amanda riding me. Not only is this one of my favorite positions, but she doesn’t know that my legs are so blown from Vince’s workout that I’m not sure I could remain standing for any testosterone-injected positions that require balance or strength.

Not going to admit that, so instead, I let her take the lead, which kills two orgasms with one stone. Or something like that. My own speech center is devolving as she moves up, the friction turning me into an animal, atavistic and primal.

Besides, this leaves both hands free, which means I can unbutton her shirt, unleash her breasts, and watch her beautiful face as she rides me, coming with a tight clench and a full-throated cry, her face flushed and lips parted, one look at her pushing me over.

As we come together, I stare at the sight of my left hand on her breast, the ring stroking her sweet nipple, my mind processing only this as my body roars with a pulse and thrusts that move us up to a new layer of abandon.