Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee (20 page)

“Couldn’t, or wouldn’t? Because yes, I can, and yes, I will.” I give her a very lewd once-over.

Excited terror fills her eyes. She chugs her drink and grabs my ass.

“You need to slip a dollar in my pocket every time you do that,” I inform her.

Her hand slides into my front pocket. I inhale sharply.

“Like this?”

“
Exactly
like that.”

“What if I don’t have any money?”

“I’ll take an IOU.”

“Can
I
get a lap dance if I give you an IOU for a hundred?”

“I’ll give you one hell of a pole dance for free.”

“I assume
you’re
the pole?”

I wink at her. “You’re quick. I knew there was a reason I fell in love with you.” I pull her close, grinding our hips together, her softness in contrast to my hard self. “Brains and beauty, all in one delicious package.”

“You’ve got quite some package, too,” she whispers, rubbing against me, hot breath on my ear.

“Want to unwrap it?”

Her kiss is a promise that rolls out like an introduction to the rest of my life.

“Get a room,” Terry says, his voice making us both startle. I look over to see him holding Spritzy in one hand, a shot glass in the other.

“How about a closet?” I whisper, as Amanda takes my hand and we slowly peel off from the edge of the crowd, most of whom now bicker about the finer details of social class and wedding traditions in twenty-first-century America.

We’re eloping.

Whenever she lets me marry her.

All that alcohol must have soaked into my bones, because by the time we find Declan and Shannon’s bedroom, all I can think about is sinking into Amanda. I push her against the wall next to the door and kiss her, hands sliding up under her skirt, pushing the fabric up to nirvana, where I find her bare as can be, smooth as silk.

“What a lovely surprise,” I say, with meaning.

“Great minds think alike.”

“You planned for us to sneak off and have sex in the walk-in closet?”

“I’m a fixer.”

“Fix this.” I take her hand and put it where I need a handywoman most.

“Declan is going to kill us if he finds out we actually came back and had sex in his closet,” she whispers as her hands work my belt, unleashing me. “Remember how angry he was at the rehearsal dinner when he caught us in here?”

“I don’t care.” She’s made this so easy I almost groan as I pull her down to the ground and she balances herself over me, her hair a wall of fire blocking out the light. All I see are her eyes, all I feel is her soft silk above me, mouth on mine, sweet wetness and warmth enveloping me as we reinterpret the very notion of a pole dance.

I like my version best.

Neither of us has any illusions about what we’re doing. This is a quickie. A check mark on a list of wrongs to be righted. A few months ago we were in here, on shaky ground, trying to figure out what we were to each other. As Amanda and I move in perfect rhythm with each other, my hands pulling down the neckline of her wrap dress, her body arching and curling in so my mouth can take one nipple in and give her just enough attention for her sex tell to emerge, I realize we’re being about as authentic as you can get, amidst Declan’s suits and Shannon’s shoes, the rumble-tumble of their domestic life surrounding us, witnessing the silly playfulness of a very serious lovemaking session that has one singular purpose.

To reclaim.

The familiar tightening, the thready leap of blood in a vein on her neck, and the sudden silence that comes as she holds her breath give me permission to release, to give, to give in and give up and give over as we ride each other into a fit of loose giggles and clandestine raunchiness.

“You’re the first person I’ve ever had sex in a closet with, Andrew.”

“I thought you had a gay boyfriend.”

“
He
was in the closet. Not me.”

We dress quickly, Amanda making little sounds of worry about her sex head, the cock-eyed angle of her dress, the need to rush to a bathroom and straighten up.

“Did we really just do that?” She holds up her palm and I meet it with mine, our fingers cascading down into a grown-up version of a kid’s game, entwining.

“Yes.” I sigh, pleased and relieved, loose and happy.

“We’re a little kinky.”

“No. If we were kinky, we’d have used one of Shannon’s high heels.”

“You’d look good in them.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I growl, tickling her.

“I think I heard voices back here,” Pam says from just outside the door. Spritzy barks. Amanda pulls back from me, lips pressed together, eyes wide.

“We smell like sex! If someone catches us, it’s so obvious,” she whispers in my ear. “The closet reeks of us!”

Pam’s voice fades out, followed by a man’s rumble. Sounds like Dad.

I carefully turn the doorknob, not making even a click, and we slip out, tiptoeing, grateful for the carpeted bedroom. As we enter the hallway, Terry greets us with a very excited Spritzy and a lecherous grin.

“Checking out Andrew’s etchings?” he asks.

Amanda blushes.

“Just, um, getting some fresh air,” she babbles.

“In a hermetically-sealed high rise condo bedroom?”

“Right!”

Terry just laughs, nudging Amanda with his elbow as she passes. “Have to get rid of the taste of Jessica in your mouth somehow.”

“Hey,” I bark. Spritzy joins me.

“You might want to go give Dec some support. He’s out there fighting with his mother-in-law.”

“Over the gifts?”

“No. They’ve moved on to her preference for a grandchild.”

“You think I want to wade into that toxic sludge of a conversation?”

Amanda practically sprints down the hallway, muttering, “Poor Shannon.”

“Poor Shannon?” Terry and I say in unison.

“He married her. Marie was part of the bargain,” I say.

“What’s wrong with Marie? I think she’s hilarious.”

I stare at him.

“You have a really unique perspective on the world, Terry.”

“No. I have a normal perspective. You, Dec and Dad are the outliers. You just don’t realize it.”

“You grew up in the same family.”

“And I broke away from it.”

“We still haven’t talked about that. Jessica interrupted us, remember?”

“Now is not the time. Not with Dad here. Not when I have to play nice.”

He walks away.

Play nice?

The glow from sex fades as I watch him walk toward the chattering crowd. I can’t see anyone because of the angle of the apartment’s layout, but I can hear them, feminine voices a mix of pleasant and terse, some high with anger and some low and casual. The men’s voices banter and spar, the resulting blend of sounds just a social signal, one that comes with gatherings like this.

It means everything, and it means nothing.

Straightening my tie, pulling my cuffs down, I center my shirt at my belt buckle and take a few deep breaths.

Closet sex achieved.

Family mystery still unsolved.

Chapter Fifteen

Vince drives a yellow Hummer that has a huge logo on the side that says, “ELECTRIC HUMMERS FEEL BETTER.”

How do I know? Because he pulls into the parking spot next to my Tesla as we meet here at the soccer field.

Yeah, soccer field.

We’re managing my risk aversion with a logical, rational plan designed to increase quality of life. Our outdoor session has been rescheduled for this fine Monday morning. 

“Ready for your Wasp Session?” Vince barks out as he leaps down from his yellow perch, clutching a bottle of MCT oil.

“Nice ride.” Like I do at the beginning of every outdoor session, I hand him two EpiPens. He shoves them in pockets on his running vest without comment.

“Thanks.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“I ignored that.”

“Why would you drive that thing?”

He points to the Tesla. “Why you driving
that
?”

“Because it gets nearly two hundred miles to the charge.”

“No, you drive it because Teslas indicate status. It’s like an electric dick.”

I give his Hummer a skeptical look. Pot calling kettle black. “And a day-glo yellow representation of gluttony converted to electric isn’t a symbol?”

“My car says
Fuck the Man
. Your car says
Bend Over
.”

I start to argue, but he shoves the bottle in my hand and says, “Drink.”

“Drink...oil?”

“Yes.”

“From the bottle?” I recoil.

“What? I don’t have cooties. This isn’t third grade. Chug some. We’re running an eleven-mile trail along the river. You’ll need it.”

“I need electrolytes, not petroleum.”

He snorts. “It’s coconut and palm based.” He hands me a backpack. “And here’re your electrolytes.” It’s a hydration backpack with a drinking hose that comes out of the back, behind the neck.

“Eleven miles, huh?”

“We’ll run so fast the wasps can’t catch up, Andrew.”

I give him a sour look. “That’s not the point, Vince.”

“The point is to get you outside, moving. Everything else is window dressing.”

“I don’t need a trainer to do that.”

“Then why am I here?”

Because I’m scared shitless. The minute we leave the relative safely of the paved parking lot, we’re on nothing but grass and path, weaving between potential death and certain humiliation.

Not that I’m admitting any of that to Vince.

“You’re here to help me train.”

“For what?”

“Life.”

He nods, corners of his mouth turning down in an evaluative look, hair off his face with a combination headband and ponytail holder that would look extremely effeminate on any other guy, but on Vince it looks downright
300
. I half expect Gerard Butler to come crashing through the bushes screaming “Spartans! What is your profession?!”

“Water on?”

I adjust the backpack hydration system. “Yes.”

“Go.”

For the first mile, I’m Frankenstein’s monster, an assemblage of parts stuck together with nothing but adrenaline and testosterone. The combination sucks.

Mile two, the first dive-bomber appears. I twist out of the way of a big, black drone of death and trip, skinning the hell out of my knees, covering half the front of me with regurgitated electrolyte solution from the hydropack.

“Get up,” Vince huffs from ahead of me. “Keep running.”

I do. As I stand, the damn wasp lands on a small puddle of the liquid I’ve spilled, pausing on the water.

I hold my breath and stare at it. Knives jab my exposed skin from a thousand angles. My breathing takes on an even more labored quality, like my throat is closed by a boulder in an Indiana Jones movie, my will squeezing through in those final few inches that allow for escape.

I catch up to Vince.

“You still married?”

I show him my bare hand. “No.” Talking helps. Talking makes about half the knives stand down.

“But you love her.”

I give him a look of disgust. “You want to talk about love now?”

“No better time.”

“We’re not here for love. We’re here to burn.”

“Same thing. Just a different kind of pain.”

He has a point.

“Hey, man. You’re a risk taker. You always know what you want, and go for it. Why should this be different?”

“Because the stakes are higher.”

“Are they really?”

“It’s my entire life.”

“And business isn’t?”

I hate when he’s right.

But when he is, my life improves.

“Business is different. It’s calculated risk based on known and unknown variables, and—”

“I know a variable.”

“What?”

“You wore that wedding ring for days longer than you needed to.”

“Not this again.”

“The fact that it’s ‘this again’ is exactly why that fact is a variable, Andrew.”

“You’re ascribing too much meaning to it.”

“I think you need to think that.”

“Why would I?”

“Because you’re scared shitless.”

“Scared of what?”

“Wasps.”

I shrug.

“And scared to admit you know she’s your woman. Forever. Done. You’re scared because it’s too easy.”

I would scoff, but my heart is stuck in my throat, along with a frightening amount of bile. Vince must be running at a four-minute mile pace. The greenery is a blur and my calves are threatening to turn to butter.

“When did you become so wise?”

“Since I cut out carbs and started the green coffee bean enemas.”

“Jesus, Vince.”

He shrugs. “I don’t really do that shit, but I thought this conversation was veering into
Fuller House
territory.”

“DJ grew up and got hot, didn’t she?”

Vince’s face splits into an evil grin. “I knew you were a closet pervert, Andrew.”

Closets. If only he knew....

“Why would you think otherwise?”

“You know what I do with pervert clients?”

Gina’s comment from the other day flits through my memory. “What?” I ask, with great caution.

“I make ‘em row until their lats peel off one by one so I can make human jerky out of them.”

“Are you related to Amanda Warrick?” She made the same joke. This is getting creepy. 

“Who?” 

“Never mind.” 

He shrugs. “And just for you, I’m queueing up the first episode of
Fuller House
in front of the rowing machine next time we train. In public, at a gym. That’s your penance.”

“Dude, I was joking. Don’t make me actually watch that shit.”

Evil grin.

That’s what I get for changing the topic.

Wait.

He
changed the topic.

I think I’ve been had.

“Can your limo dude drive us back here and get our cars?” Vince asks. He’s not even panting. His voice is as even as if we were lounging by a pool.

“Sure. Why?”

“A little adjustment and we can just run back to your office. You care about being seen all sweaty and pussified?”

“Don’t care about sweat, and the other won’t happen.”