Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee (13 page)

She leans down for an open kiss, her mouth pausing as a small pulse ripples between us, a little more that usually comes from her after the main event, as if her body isn’t quite done with her yet, like a stinger at the end of a Marvel Comics movie.

Hair. Suddenly, I’m surrounded by long, lush hair, covering my cheeks and neck, tickling me. Her uncovered torso presses into mine, her body loose and liquid, hands curled on my sweaty shoulders, her nose in my ear.

“God, I needed that,” she mutters.

“You needed that?
You?
”

“It’s been two days.”

“I know it’s been two days.” I tighten, making myself twitch inside her, which unleashes a torrent of giggles from her. “But you turned me down last night.” My booty text went unanswered. Same thing as rejection. 

“Did not!”

“Did too.”

“Are we seriously going to fight about sex while I am still pulsing around you? Not the best management technique, Mr. McCormick!”

“You’re not my employee. It’s not as if we’re acting out a scene from ‘Who Moved My Cheese,’ Amanda.”

She laughs. The movement pushes me out of her.

Bzzzzz.

“Mr. McCormick?” It’s Gina, on the damn intercom Dad insists we use.

Insisted
. Past tense. He’s no longer CEO. Note to self: abolish the intercoms and just use texting.

“You answering that?” Amanda rolls off me and onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, her eyes darting to catch mine as I stand, slowly, and look down on her.

What a vision. Skirt around her hips, thigh-highs slipped to her knees, her panties hanging off the edge of my trash can in my peripheral vision, she’s all creamy skin covered at the edges by lightweight gray wool and white business cloth. Her hair slips over the carpet like an oil slick, lips red and raw from kissing, her expression telling me everything her body just said.

“Thank you,” she whispers, eyes digging into my soul, slowly standing and beginning to re-cover that which belongs fully exposed for my eyes to feast on.

“Thank you.”

“We’re a grateful pair.” Her left hand comes up and strokes my cheek.

Her hand is bare.

My solar plexus curls up into a shriveled ball, like a tiny leaf after the first fall frost. I shouldn’t be bothered by her lack of a ring, but I am.

I am, deeply.

All the pain Vince injected into my muscles comes roaring into my center, aimed straight for the safe confines of a compartment inside my heart. The unbearable ache of the journey is nothing compared to the agony of closing the door on that shattered piece of me.

This should not bother me.

It does.

I should not let it hurt so much.

But I do.

I do.

Post-sex bliss drains out of me like I’ve been slashed, mugged for the bounty of some richness inside me and left to bleed to death. Amanda’s chin is pointed down as she looks at her buttons, and my chest spasms, threatening to rip a sound from my throat that I can’t let myself make.

I’m ice cold, then burning hot. My legs tremble and tense, my arms itching to touch her, to smack her, to make her want what I want.

To make her want me.

“What’s wrong?”

I don’t pretend. “You’re not wearing your ring.”

“We’re not married, silly!” she says with a laugh that dies as she looks at me.

“No,” I say softly, mournfully. “We’re not.”

She reaches for my left hand and strokes the ring. The movement of her steps, the new proximity to her, brings a whiff of our mingled scents, hers rosy and sex-laden, mine sweaty and metallic. Minutes ago, I was buried so deep inside her that I could push up and skim heaven.

And now I feel like I’ve descended into hell.

Her brows twitch, pulling down and in, and her wide eyes search mine. “Why are you so upset? You were really weird on the plane ride. And,” she asks, faltering, her fingers seeking my ring, “why are you still wearing yours?”

“Maybe I don’t want to take it off.”

She pales.

“Why not?” Amanda’s breath quickens.

“Maybe I’ve gotten used to wearing it.”

“Maybe? Andrew, you don’t use the word
maybe
.”

Maybe she’s right.

Chapter Ten

“You said the idea of being married was ‘ridiculous.’” I resort to finger quotes.

Yes, I’m desperate.

“I did.”

“What if there is no conflict?” I ask.

Her eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

“Why do we need to have some big dramatic moment about this? You confessed that the idea of already being married is terrifying, yet I think you also find it appealing. I didn’t take my wedding ring off until my trainer hassled me out of it—and then I put it right back on. Maybe we both want this.”

“Want to be married after kissing in closets for two years, only dating for a few months, breaking up horribly, and reuniting when I took a dog and kitty bath and nearly drowned?”

She’s got me there.

Truth always wins, though.

“Yes.” I shrug. I reach for her, my finger tracing the strong line of her jaw.

She manages to frown and widen her eyes at the same time. “That is crazy, Andrew! People don’t magically just go and get married like this, and have it last.”

“Says who?”

“Says everyone.”

“I don’t care about everyone. I care about you.”

“But we can’t just—”

“Says who?”

“You truly want to just run off and
marry
me? After rejecting me less than two weeks ago during Shannon and Declan’s wedding rehearsal fitting? What happened to the man with the cold eyes and the closed heart who told me he wouldn’t let me love him?” Her throat makes a strangled, hitching sound that feels like a line to my heart, which twitches in response. Amanda’s palm begins to sweat.

I hold on.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I strain to find the right tone, the right words, that match the utter fury I hold inside toward myself. That day of the wedding party fitting, when I stormed out half dressed, needing an excuse to be angry and finding it in the paper-thin argument that no one had told me the wedding was outdoors, in daylight, in July, the beast inside me was looking for a fight, and invented one.

“When I told you I wouldn’t let you love me, it didn’t mean I didn’t love
you
,” I confess, trying to find a lifeline here, a rope attached to a buoy as I drown in memories of my own stupidity. “I knew that so long ago.”

“Knew what?”

“That I loved you.”

“How long ago?”

This tell-the-deep-truth part is hard, isn’t it? Few aspects of my life are truly new these days. Information, sure. Details and experiences, travel and people are new.

Emotional realities, though—going into new territory is rare.

With Amanda, it’s become the rule. I don’t know how to be in a relationship with her and not explore new layers of love with her. Holding back from that journey feels unfair. False. Fake.

If I wanted fake, I’d date Jessica Coffin again.

I want real.

I close my eyes, remembering the moment she walked into the boardroom as Dad, Declan and I conferred before Greg and his staff appeared for the mystery shopping account meeting. More than two years ago. A lifetime. An eternity.

A blip.

“The day we met, you were wearing a long, gray pencil skirt that hugged your hips like a treasure map for my palms. The slit up the back was a portal into another world. Red silk shirt under a black blazer, and your lips matched the silk. I wondered if you were wearing a red lace bra underneath.” 

She’s spellbound, eyes watching me as if my words hypnotize her. “I was,” she rasps.

I knew it. “You were the epitome of ‘fuckable secretary’ from every fevered fantasy I’ve ever had.”

“You really are a pervert.”

I shrug.

“Hey, if we’re telling the truth...” I pause. “But I don’t have those fantasies about
my
secretaries.” 

“Right.” She’s skeptical.

“I haven’t. Not since the day we met.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You’ve ruined masturbation for me. I can’t even cheat in my mind.”

“You’re such a romantic.”

“I quoted Dickinson to you on our first date!”

She makes a gesture of concession. “Go on.”

“Red silk shell and black blazer. With the black hair and red lips, you had the look down. That day I looked up, expecting to just glance at the client’s staff, shake hands, and sit down for the boring but necessary details before signing the deal. That’s not what happened, though. I did a double take.”

“My
breasts
made you do that,” she says with a soft laugh.

“No.” I reach for her chin and lift it up until she can’t look away from me. “You did that.
You
.”

She sighs and smiles, nice and wide.

“Your breasts were just the closer,” I add, flinching, ready for the punch that I know follows.

The kiss surprises me, a welcome substitute for the punch I deserve.

“Why?” she asks, talking against my mouth. “Why did you wait so long? Why did you steal kisses and make me live with ambiguity?” I can tell she needs to know, and my own murkiness makes me feel inadequate. I owe her the truth, but what do you do when you don’t even know your own truth?

“Because I didn’t know how
not
to live with ambiguity. It’s all I knew.”

“What changed?”

What changed?

“I tortured myself for those few days before Dec and Shannon’s wedding. Got Vince to take me out for some more desensitizing sessions.”

“De-what?”

“Never mind. I’ll explain later. It’s not important.”

“Every part of this is important.”

“
You
are important.”

“
We
are important.”

And our future, too.

You aren’t supposed to know, with great certainty, that an idea is true. High school and college philosophy teach that absolute truth is impossible, a sign of weakness, a warning bell that someone is rigging the system in an effort to meet some non-truth goal. Certainty is an illusion, ever-morphing, and in the absence of absolute truth, all you can do is work to be as anti-fragile as possible. Flexibility and pivoting are hallmarks of a resilient mind.

But the heart is different.

Absolute love is real.

Ask me how I know.

“What if I told you I don’t have words to explain it?”

“Andrew James McCormick, if you tell me I have to live with ambiguity, I am going to rip your nipples off and turn them into human jerky.”

I stare at her. “Are you related to a guy named Vince Retigliano, by any chance?”

“What?”

“Nothing.” I blow out a puff of air, buying time. Willing my shoulders to relax, I try to go blank, so I can find some space for my emotions to line up and make sense.

Fat chance.

Instead, they all dance and hoot and holler like they’re at a Mardi Gras parade, flashing boobies and beads and everything.

Emotions Gone Wild.

“I am a walking paradox. My life is about reducing uncertainty. Carefully crafted procedures weed out as much fragility and exposure to risk as possible. In business, I can go on gut instinct. In life? No.”

She just watches me, carefully silent. Some part of her knows I need space. Lots of space. If she talks, the space fills, and then there’s no room for my heart to roam and find its way to the end game.

In space, no one can hear you scream.

But they sure can watch you fumble for homeostasis.

Bzzzzz.

“Damn,” I hiss, all the bravado leaking out of me.

The spell is broken. Amanda stands, straightening herself, and gives me a hard-to-read look.

“I have to get back to my office. Greg’s going nuts with all the procedures involved in selling the company to you. By the way, what’s going to happen to the cars?”

“Cars?” The topic change has me reeling, but I harden. Go with it. Don’t show any weakness. She’s probably weirded out by me already. I don’t understand how I can manage a nine-figure deal but can’t get a single conversation about love to make sense.

“The promotional cars?”

My mind goes blank.

“Turdmobile?”

“Ugh. What about it?”

“The contract for the cars lasts for nine more months. Greg has a marketing contract for—”

“Anterdec sure as hell doesn’t want them!” I say dismissively. If I don’t look at her, I can pretend she’s just another worker.

One eyebrow twitches. “That’s a hard no?”

Our eyes meet. I can’t help it. “A hard no?” I repeat, my voice turning up in a question, but my jaw’s clenched tighter than my dad’s tennis grip. Great. I’m turning into an angry Gina.

Her gaze locks with mine for seconds, then minutes, an eternity passing between us in the blink of an eye. I keep my eyes hooded and impartial, steely and protected.

“A hard no. I’ll act accordingly.” She repeats my words in the declarative, turning away, leaving the faintest scent in her wake, and the firm
no
that feels like a stone slab across my chest.

No.

Ridiculous.

Chapter Eleven

Six days after returning from Vegas, I’m no longer wearing a wedding ring, the Sultan has agreed to an in-person meeting with me in Dubai, and I am surrounded by Subaru Outbacks with roof racks and COEXIST bumper stickers. 

Still better than Amanda’s Turdmobile.

My brother Terry lives in Jamaica Plain now, where Dad claims young hippies go to turn into parodies. He owns a duplex I’ve been to exactly once before, and that was a few years ago, when he insisted I come up and see some painting he did in Mom’s honor. He travels a lot, a guy in his mid-thirties who looks like he was the first hipster ever. For years, he rented out both apartments in his building, but he’s returned to the city recently. Dad doesn’t do big family holidays, and as we’ve gotten older, we’ve just drifted.

We’re not exactly close.

He was in college when Mom died, and never came back.

With Declan gone, and Vince out of town on some fitness boot camp retreat thing, I have two choices for hanging out with friends.