Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee (23 page)

I mull this over. One week works. “Gina!”

“Yes?”

“Get the tailor from my brother’s wedding on the line and ask for Amanda Warrick’s measurements. Give them to the professor.”

“Oh, she will look delightful in a sheer bonnet! Or shall we do a capote? You are breathtakingly efficient, Andrew!”

So efficient that I escort her to the door—and make her Gina’s problem.

Jessica’s at it again
, a text from Amanda declares as I read through my phone.

Sighing, I check out the Twitter stream. Jessica’s posting pictures from the Turkish restaurant and my hashtag:

#mccormickmendipitincrazy

“Ugh.” I click on the hashtag and find thousands of retweets, comments about Amanda and Shannon, links to the YouTube video of Amanda rescuing that dog from the hawk, and pictures from Dec and Shannon’s failed Boston wedding.

See?
Amanda’s next text reads.
She has more power than you think.
 

No, she does not
, I text back.

I’m ending this. Now.

“Gina!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Call me Andrew, damn it.”

“Uh....yes, Andrew?”

“Get the local media buyer on the line.”

“The media buyer for all of Anterdec?”

“Yes.”

This is simple. Jessica’s power comes from being an influencer. If you want to cut an influencer off at the knees, you take away their ability to influence. Local restaurants, public relations firms, marketing specialists and more all feed Jessica a steady stream of information and magnify her importance by referring to her on Twitter, re-tweeting, and elevating her importance in social media.

Remove all that and she’s the peak of a pyramid of cheerleaders without a base.

And comes tumbling down.

“Cassandra Horning, Mr. McCormick. I do most of Anterdec’s Boston-area media purchases,” says a confident woman. I close my eyes and conjure up an image of a woman about my age, short brown hair, smart eyes behind glasses.

“Cassandra, I have a project for you.”

Within thirty minutes, we’ve banged out the details.

Amanda’s about to see exactly how powerless Jessica really is.

Chapter Seventeen

In the time since Declan and Shannon’s wedding, I haven’t gotten a haircut. The professor comes to my apartment this afternoon, exactly one week after our first encounter, for the final fitting and proclaims, “Your countenance suits the character! Dark, angelic hair with a touch of curl about your face. Pity you couldn’t grow out your sideburns enough to give yourself more authenticity.”

I think I paid her too much.

She insists on having me tuck my shirt into the breeches, and uses needle and thread to tighten the waistband, adding a few stitches at the back.

“Is that necessary?” I ask.

She seems offended. “I wouldn’t do it if it weren’t necessary.”

She sounds just like Dad.

By the time I evacuate her from my apartment and take a good look in the mirror, I realize she was right:

I could be a movie actor.

Amanda’s empire-waist dress, a dark beige on top and a billowy white skirt on the bottom, is slung over my arm, with a bonnet on the hanger. If I’m going to court her, she has to play the part, too.

Like it or not.

I arrive at the agreed-upon corner around the block from Amanda’s duplex just as the horse-drawn carriage makes its entrance. I drove here myself, in full costume, and I park the Tesla on the side of the road, hoping Newton is a decent town with low crime.

“Mr. McCormick? Will Sawyers.” The carriage driver is dressed in similar fashion to my own sartorial flair, though Professor Kensley-Wentingham was quite clear that my 1809 suit replica was one that an aristocrat would wear, while the liveryman’s suit was “for one of his station.”

Sniff.

I shake Will’s hand and look at the carriage. A throng of kids stands across the street, gawking. A few adults come out onto their front stoops and curiosity makes a few pull out their phones, snapping pics.

“We need to move fast, before social media beats us to Amanda.”

He doffs his hat and opens the carriage door. It’s an open-air barouche, with a single horse pulling the entire load. Lightweight and made of thick black material with huge metal wheels, it reminds me of a spider in carriage form. Amanda and I will sit next to each other, facing front.

Riding in a horse-drawn carriage along the streets of Newton, Massachusetts is a surprisingly uneventful process until you reach a stoplight. We’re stuck behind two cars, unable to make the quick right turn to go three houses down to find Amanda’s driveway.

“Filming a movie?” someone shouts from a group to our right.

I ignore them.

“Are there zombies? I loved that historical zombie movie!” a kid in a baseball cap screams.

“ZOMBIES!” a little girl shrieks. “I hate zombies!”

She bursts into tears just as the light changes.

“I hate zombies, too!” I call back, fist in the air. “Don’t worry.”

Her startled expression makes me laugh.

At least I don’t have to worry about the pictures finding their way to Jessica’s toxic stream of hatred in 140-character chunks.

A crowd follows, mostly full of pale kids who still have enough curiosity left in them to be peeled away from their video games, and by the time I climb out of the carriage, Will holding the door for me, Amanda and Pam are at their front door. Pam’s laughing as Spritzy barks.

Amanda is blushing, wearing a tight tank top and shorts that are about as long as my breeches.

And far looser.

“Mr. Darcy!” Pam calls out. “Does this make me Mrs. Bennet? Please tell me your per annum income.”

“I see you’ve read Austen.”

“Who do you think introduced Amanda to
Pride and Prejudice
?”

“Then I can blame all of this on you, Mrs. Bennet,” I say, as she comes in for a quick hug, pulling back and touching the lapel of my tailcoat, eyes wide.

I see the resemblance to Amanda when Pam smiles.

“Blame all of this on what? Because I think you’ve gone half mad, Andrew,” Amanda says. “Or you’ve been drinking. Maybe both. Did Lüq send Declan and Shannon another bottle of entheogenic wine?”

I ignore that. “You told me we haven’t dated long enough for me to think long term,” I say, making Pam’s smile freeze as if she just bit into a live lizard. “And that I needed to court you.”

“I meant go out on a few more dates before asking me to move in with you!” she contests hotly. “Not....this!”

I shrug. “I took you at your word. I am a man of mine.”

“Oh, brother.”

“Neither of them had anything to do with this, I assure you.”

Will approaches with the dress and bonnet Professor Kensley-Wentingham made for Amanda.

“What’s this?” she squeaks.

“Your dress and bonnet.”

“Bonnet? I’m not wearing that!”

“Let me go get my iPad so I can take pictures,” Pam says, clapping her hands with glee. Never seen the woman run like that.

“You brought an actual horse-drawn carriage from the Seaport District? It must have taken you hours to get here.” Her sense of marvel is not, I realize, because she’s impressed with my fine attention to detail.

It’s at the idea that I would actually spend hours doing this.

“No. My Tesla’s around the corner.”

She chortles. “The idea of you tootling around town in this—” she points to the carriage—“is absurd.”

“It’s still a better vehicle than your Turdmobile.”

The damn horse picks that exact moment to produce a giant pile of steaming manure.

“Looks like you’ve got a turdmobile of your own, Mr. Darcy.”

“Quit stalling.” I nudge her. “Go get dressed.”

“Get dressed? You’re serious?”

“I take my courting very seriously.”

“Andrew.”

“Amanda.”

“Mr. McCormick.”

“Ms. Warrick.”

Her eyes narrow and she throws her hands in the air. “Most guys would take my request for more courting and put a modern spin on it. You know. Dinner and a show. A Boston Harbor Cruise. A weekend in the Cape. Stand outside my bedroom window with a boom box playing Boston’s “Amanda.”

“I’m not most guys.” I make a note to get her that Boston album on vinyl, though. Nice touch.

“You’re really going to make me do this?”

“I’m not making you do anything, Ms. Bennet.”

She groans, but she does take the dress and bonnet with her.

Pam appears carrying an iPad and with the look I imagine most mothers have on their face when their kid goes to prom.

I wouldn’t know, because my mom died before I went to mine.

“I assume there is quite the backstory on this, Andrew.” Pam’s face lights up, her eyes smart and savvy, even if the way she carries herself is meek. Spritzy pants at me, beady little eyes blinking like he expects an answer, too.

“There is. It’s all Amanda’s fault.”

“Do tell.” Pam walks over to a cheap white plastic chair that’s on her porch and gently lowers herself, careful not to dump Spritzy out of the crook of her arm. Amanda mentioned her mom has fibromyalgia, and Dad’s mentioned Pam needing to rest more than most people, but I’ve never really noticed it.

I’ve never really been alone with Pam, either.

A jumble of thoughts race through my mind as I realize that needs to be rectified. If I want to spend the rest of my life with Amanda, Pam’s part of the deal.

Just like my dad is for Amanda.

I think Amanda gets the short end of the stick in this deal.

The expectant look on Pam’s face turns to mild concern as seconds tick by and I don’t answer. Damn. Need to come up with something other than,
I want to marry your daughter after that mess in Vegas but she doesn’t believe me.
 

Pretty sure that would be a mistake to blurt out.

“Amanda has informed me that she requires a proper courting.”

“She has? You mean, practically marrying a cat after drinking entheogenic wine in Vegas wasn’t enough?”

“Apparently, she requires more.”

“She always was a demanding child,” Pam says. “Ice cream was never enough. Had to have her jimmies on top, too.”

I see where Amanda gets her dry wit.

I’ve never talked to the mother of someone I’ve dated, much less bantered with one, so this conversation feels about as comfortable as my breeches right now.

“Courting is a tradition done in preparation for marriage,” she says softly.

“Yes.”

“Is that...are you two planning for this?”

One of us is.

“Mom!” Amanda calls out. “Can you help me with these buttons?”

Saved by the costume.

Pam starts to stand, her body achingly slow as she rises up. It’s like watching the Tin Man stand before having his hinges oiled.

“Coming!” Pam calls out.

I break out into a sweat instantly.

Damned thick clothing.

A minute later, Elizabeth Bennet walks through the front door, Amanda’s hair tucked up in the bonnet, her face framed by a three-quarter-circle hat with ruffles.

She looks, well...

Ridiculous.

“Charming. Shall we?” I hand her two EpiPens. She tucks both in her purse.

“Where are we going?”

“Courting.”

“I meant, where specifically?”

“I thought we’d visit Louisa May Alcott, then Henry David Thoreau.”

“How about Shakespeare?”

“Wrong century. And continent.”

“Where are you really taking me?”

“‘
I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you see that your reproofs had been attended to,’” I declare, pulling out the first of about five lines from
Pride and Prejudice
that I’ve memorized.
 

She looks at me like I just answered her in Mandarin Chinese.

“Excuse me?”

“Say ‘Darcy’!” Pam announces, holding the iPad up.

“Crazy!” Amanda gasps.

“Close enough,” I mutter, taking her hand and placing it on my forearm in a formal style, giving the camera a closed-mouth smile. I’m doing my best to look like Colin Firth, which means pretending to look constipated.

These pants have about an hour of life left in them. It’s not that hard to pretend.

“You kids have fun!” Pam says, chuckling. “I’ll email your dad a photo.”

“Why?”

She seems genuinely perplexed. “Because you two look cute.”

“I don’t understand.”

“And because he’s your father. He must like seeing you enjoying yourself.”

“Still don’t understand.”

Pam’s shoulders lower and the look she gives me deepens. “Don’t you—”

“Mom. It’s fine. Go ahead and send the picture to James.” She peers down the road. “At the rate the neighbors are recording us, the pictures will be all over social media in a half hour anyhow. James can just log in to one of his accounts and download whenever he wants. Jessica Coffin’s going to have us all over her Twitter stream within the hour.”

Not if I have anything to say about it. I wonder if Cassandra’s completed our little project yet. If not, soon.

Amanda squeezes my forearm with a sigh of recognition. “How about we just go on to whatever the next crazy stage of this set-up involves.”

“You asked for it.”

“I asked for courting. Not
nineteenth-century
courting.”

“Blame Gina.”

“Gina? What does your admin have to do with this?”

Shit.

“You look so beautiful in that dress.”

“
Gina
arranged this?”

“The sunlight makes your eyes look like honey.”

“Honey made by
bees
,” she says savagely. I start to correct her. Shannon’s allergic to bees, not me, but I’m not stupid. Don’t correct a woman when she’s angry. 

Especially when she’s angry at
you
. 

“Gina arranged this? You handed over your courting plans to your administrative assistant?”

Will reaches for Amanda’s hand and helps her up into the carriage, where I hastily get us settled and shut the door.