Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee (22 page)

Way easier than dealing with women.

Chapter Sixteen

Gina’s report is on
regency-era
courting. Reading through the seventeen-page report, which is meticulously organized by subsections such as “How to Give Your Daughter a Season,” “Proper Chaperone Techniques,” and “Elopement to Gretna Green,” I realize the entire file is nothing but bits and bytes of sarcasm designed to meet my exact request within the letter of the law.

Or, to put it another way, she’s being maliciously obedient.

“Gina.”

“Yes?”

“Great report. Make it happen. If we were near Scotland, I’d take the Gretna Green option, but we’ll have to settle for the rest.”

“Make it happen?” she squeaks. “Make
what
happen?”

“All of it. The outfit, the carriage, the whole bit. No budget. Just do it.”

“No budget? But Mr. McCormick, I—”

Click.

Twenty-five minutes later, Gina buzzes me.

“Professor Victoria Kensley-Wentingham from Boston University on the line for you, Mr. McCormick?”

“Professor who?”

The line changes over. A sweet, chortling older woman’s voice fills my ear.

“Mr. McCormick! I understand you have a grave costume emergency. I am a historical costumer and here to help. I understand you need a bespoke 1809 duke’s costume and carriage with liveryman?”

I’ve underestimated Gina.

Gravely
.

“Yes. I have been asked to court my partner, and—”

“Court your partner? Impossible!”

“Excuse me?”

“One cannot court one’s partner. If one already has a partner, then the courting is redundant.”

“Exactly! That’s what I said.”

“If you wish to marry, however, then courting is essential.”

Wife.

The professor rattles off a list of clothing, accessories, horse and carriage requirements, and names a price tag that doesn’t even register.

Wife.

“Yes.”

“Yes to all of it?” The professor’s elation pours out of the phone like a honey factory exploded in my ear.

“Yes.” I’m too distracted to sort through the details. It’s easier to just agree and make this master plan work.

“Can you come to the university costuming department for a fitting? We’ll need your exact measurements, your inseam, which way you dress—”

My schedule is insane.

“I’d prefer you come to my office. I’m very busy, and—”

She instantly quotes a higher price.

“Fine.”

She clears her throat as if the act is a form of supplication. “Your attention to historical accuracy is admirable,” she declares.

I’m sure my wallet is, too.

“I must say, Mr. McCormick, I haven’t had an assignment like this since the Sultan of Al-Massi asked for a re-creation of
Pride and Prejudice
in Dubai.”

I perk up. “He
what
?”

“I suppose I shouldn’t mention it, but I’m not violating confidentiality. The Sultan is an enormous Jane Austen fan. He has an entire wing of his palace devoted to an exquisite—and exact—replica of Pemberley.”

Tucking
that
detail away for later, I give the good professor over to Gina to make arrangements.

In exactly one hour, there’s a knock at my door, and then Hyacinth Bucket enters the room.

Mom’s favorite show, when we were kids, was this crazy British comedy,
Keeping Up Appearances
. I do a double take as a matronly, confident, curvy woman with a slightly pinched face but bright, cunning eyes marches into my office carrying a sewing basket, trailed by a frail, terrified teenager with long, blonde dreadlocks who is dressed like H.G. Wells has a clothing line at Hot Topic.

“Mr. McCormick! Victoria Kensley-Wentingham. So good to finally meet you.”

I stand and approach her, Professor Kensley-Wentingham taking both of my hands in hers and giving such good eye contact I feel like a lab specimen.

“Finally? We only spoke for the first time an hour ago, Ms. Kensley-Wentingham. Or is it
Dr.
Kensley
-
Wentingham?” I shake her hand and mentally reprimand Gina for letting this woman in.

“Oh, and this is Patience Overton,” she says, waving blithely at the waif behind her. “She is my intern.”

Patience gives me a wan smile and zero eye contact.

“Nice to meet you,” I lie.

“I said
finally
with great intent, sir,” the professor announces, “for any man ruled by such traditionally romantic passions must have his needs quenched in a timely manner.” She grins broadly. “And it is, in fact, Dr. Kensley-Wentingham. Thank you for your attention to detail with the honorific. So few people understand true respect.”
Sniff.
 

I’m going to kill Gina.

“But please, call me Victoria.”

“And I am Andrew.”

She nods, half in indication that my words are appreciated. “Let us begin your extraordinary transformation into the external manifestation of the greatest man—a true man, if ever there was one, even if he is fictional. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

“Excuse me?”

“You asked for a duke’s costume, but you do realize Mr. Darcy was no duke.” 

“I—”

“With
no
expense spared, I’ve taken the liberty of bringing only the finest period replicas, made with cloth that is as close as possible to the original. Your need for authenticity drives you to new heights of boldness in your attempt to woo, does it not?” Her eyes comb over me, from shoe tips to forehead cowlick. I can’t tell whether she’s calculating revenue, taking measurements, or eyeing me for her secret Red Room of Pain.

Or all three.

She continues. “I am, of course, most flattered that you would choose me for your costumer. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a barouche for you—”

“A what?”

“A carriage. A horse-drawn barouche is difficult to find this time of year, but I have one on hold. The owner is awaiting the date, time, and location for his arrival to be at your service.”

“Were horse-drawn carriages part of courting?” I explicitly told Gina that none of this should take place outside. A muscle in my jaw starts twitching. 

“Of course! Your administrative assistant is printing your calling cards, as we speak, unless you would prefer hand-drawn calligraphy. As you said that time was of the essence...”

“That is fine.”

“Rise!” she shrieks, looking at my crotch like Marie looks at my cousin Hamish. “You have a freakishly long rise!” The satisfied chuckle that erupts from her makes Patience twitch as the intern hands over two pairs of pants. 

I stand tall. That’s right. I sure do. Too bad Vince isn’t present to hear
that
.

“This will take some adjusting, Mr. McCormick.”

I repress the bizarre urge to mutter,
That’s what she said
.

“Call me Andrew.”

“Andrew,” she purrs, putting on a set of tiny glasses, peering at my package. “I’m afraid all of our existing costumes are for men considerably shorter than you, but we can do a fitting with my samples. This will require made-to-order trousers after we find your exact measurements.”

Meanwhile, little Emo Patience is taking notes suddenly while chewing on a fingernail until it bleeds.

“Fine. My tailor in Milan can give you my measurements.”

The woman titters. “Oh, dear, no, that won’t do at all. You see, Regency-era trousers are quite different from any bespoke modern day suit.”

She’s holding that tape measure like a dominatrix with a whip. “Or shall we fit you with breeches?” Her eyes narrow as she circles around me, taking in my body, the tip of her pink tongue poking out to lick her lips.

“Breeches?”

“Pantaloons?”

“I want whatever’s in Gina’s report.” What started out as a silly joke to call Amanda’s bluff has turned into something more annoying. I should call this off.

“She calls for the full Mr. Darcy treatment.”

“Fine.” I widen my stance. “Let’s get my measurements and just do it.”

Ten minutes later, the professor has recorded all my inches along with whatever last vestiges of innocence I used to possess. I feel like I should offer her a cigarette. I’ve had less intimate sexual encounters at frat parties.

“Did you have to be that...thorough?” I ask, resisting the urge to adjust everything.

“Nothing but the best for you, Andrew.” She hands me one of the pairs of pants she’s brought. “Please change into these. They are made of a fine wool and while the length is unacceptable, I believe the rise will be a near-perfect fit. We will recreate the design.” 

I sigh and walk into my bathroom like I’m on Death Row, then repeat the walk two minutes later to show her the result.

Only this time, my stride is about six inches. I walk like a nineteenth-century upper-class Chinese woman with bound feet. 

“These are—”

“Perfect!” the professor squeals.

“—cutting off blood supply.”

“One must suffer for historical authenticity. Men in Regency England were unashamed of their stallion-like figures.” She gives me a long look, eyes hooded. A long sigh ripples out of her. “And yet, we do have an issue with the front flap buttons.”

“Flap?”

She drops to her knees in front of me and pulls out a small measuring tape and a magnifying glass. “One moment,” she declares with a sigh, holding up a flap of fabric with buttons on it.

Just then, the door to my office opens. I look up.

And in walks Vince.

“I am having a hard time finding it,” Professor Kensley-Wentingham announces in a breathy voice. “I might need to get my tweezers.”

Vince crosses his arms over his chest and leans one hip against a chair near my desk.

“When dealing with a freakish rise like yours, Andrew, I am forced to be creative.”

“Freakish?” Vince asks.

“Freakishly
long
,” I clarify.

“The magnifying lens in her hand tells me everything I need to know, Andrew. No need to elaborate.” His tone tells me I’m never, ever living this down. At least he’s not Declan.

Professor Kensley-Wentingham looks up. “Oh, my goodness! You’re not the person he’s proposing to, now, are you? Because fitting a body like yours into breeches will require a crowbar!” she chortles.

“Proposing?” Vince asks, eyebrows up.

“Oh, dear. Have I ruined the surprise? Were you going to pop the question to your boyfriend? You used the term ‘partner’ and I—”

“Girlfriend,” I say tersely. It’s hard to be angry when a woman has a pincushion millimeters from parts of me that should poke, not
be
poked.

Professor Kensley-Wentingham stops what she’s doing, hand in mid-air, and slowly drops every implement, including the thimble perched on the tip of her tongue. She stands and gives Vince an aggressive visual inventory, taking in the broad muscles, the long black hair. It takes her a while. It should. He’s the size of a small mountain.

“You,” she finally says, “are a biological female?”

“No.”

“Then by
girlfriend
, Andrew’s referring to...?”

“Not me.”

“I am quite confused.”

“We noticed,” Vince and I say together.

“You’re not a couple?”

Gina walks in at that exact moment, eyes twinkling, pinging between me and Vince before settling on the professor. She punctuates that question with a shrug.

“Isn’t it obvious?” she asks the professor. “You see it too?”

Vince glowers.

“I’m preparing to propose to Amanda. My girlfriend.”

“Amanda Warrick?” Gina peeps. “The woman from Consolidated Evalu-shop who has all those two-hour meetings with you three days a week? Ohhhhhhh.” Her face twists with disgust. “Meetings?” she asks, using finger quotes. “I need more Lysol in my desk drawer,” she says out of earshot.

Except she’s not.

“And my sexuality is none of your business,” Vince declares. “But Andrew’s not my type.”

“I could be your type,” I insist, a little offended.

He gives me a funny look.

“Not that I want to be,” I quickly add.

Professor Kensley-Wentingham claps her hands twice and shouts, “Boys! Boys! As lovely as this sweet argument is, we have more important issues to attend to, such as your leggings.”

“Leggings?” I keep my voice nice and low. Masculine.

“Yes. In theater, the men wear thick pantyhose—”

Vince snorts.

“But for this custom fit, I suggest thigh highs.”

Gina snorts.

“Thigh what?”

“Thigh highs. Long leggings much like dress socks for men of your stature. They need to go far above the knee to fit the look. The fine wool we’ll use for the pants will be dry-clean only. Wouldn’t want to wash it and have it shrink!” she adds, with a laugh that sounds like a happy teakettle. Not that I would know, because I’ve tuned her out. The only sound I really hear is the mocking laughter radiating off of Vince. 

“You are literally a walking vagina, Andrew,” Vince mutters.

“Why are you here?”

“To torment you.”

“That’s it? This isn’t our regular time.”

“Your Human Resources department hired me to do a wellness program.”

“On what? How to kill people through spin?”

“Reiki.”

“Reiki?”

“Yeah. Reiki. I’m a master.”

“You believe in that shit?”

“You don’t? You’re the one paying for it, Andrew. Anterdec’s writing me a big fat check.”

And with that, he walks out, leaving plenty of life force energy in the room.

“What a fine, strapping young man,” Professor Kensley-Wentingham says, craning her neck to watch Vince as he exits. “If he is ever interested in performing in a production of
Beauty and the Beast
, I would love to stay in touch.” At the word
touch
, she flutters her fingers on my forearm.

“How soon can the courting materials be ready?” I snap.

“During our earlier call, you said you needed this in three days. That was your request.”

“And?”

“I can do this in one week, exactly. I do need your girlfriend’s measurements.”