Shopping for a Billionaire's Fiancee (Page 33)

“No,” I snap.

“I just meant were you—”

“No.”

“Are you sure? Because I understand that some men are squeamish—”

“No.”

“Do you mean no, you don’t, or no, you—”

“No. I’m not going to talk about this with you, Marie. No, I draw a boundary around certain topics with you. No, I refuse to let you bulldoze over my privacy, no matter how good your intentions.” The whispering in the other room has stopped.

My voice rises as I add, “And no, I’m not going to talk about my unwillingness to talk about it.”

I engage Resting Asshole Face.

Marie blanches.

Then she blinks slowly, turning to Shannon with a pale face but resigned eyes.

“Any Pad Thai left?”

“Declan’s half,” Shannon says, pointing to the abandoned carton on the table.

Ouch. Now I feel like a jerk. How can I go from being the Period Errand Savior to a jerk in an hour?

Because I’m in a relationship. That’s how.

I lean over and give Shannon a kiss on the cheek. “I love you. I’ll…we’ll talk later.”

“Yes. We will.” She sighs. “Love you, too.”

“Oooooooo!” Marie squeals as she holds the carton of noodles in one hand and a DVD case in another. “Return to Me. One of my favorites!”

That’s my cue to leave.

CHAPTER TWELVE

A few phones calls on the way home and by the time I get there, Andrew’s made himself comfortable on my couch, feet up on the leather, a beer sweating in his hand.

“Make yourself at home,” I grumble.

“Always,” he says with a smirk. His hand fishes around a bowl of chocolate-covered pretzels and…cheese curls.

Combined.

“You on your period, too?” I ask.

“What?” he calls out, distracted by the baseball game on my television.

“Never mind.” Beer sounds good. Great. Give me ten of them and a memory wipe and maybe I can salvage the night.

The first cold swig turns into gulping half the bottle and I plop down next to him. “So what the hell’s going on with you and Amanda?”

Have you ever seen a spit take in the movies? Yeah, me too. In the movies.

I’ve never been the recipient of a spit take.

Until now.

Andrew sprays my legs with beer.

“What?” he chokes.

I grab a fistful of his snack monstrosity and dump it in my mouth. A few chews later and I have to grudgingly confess it’s damn good. If I were a woman with monthly cycles I’d chow this stuff down.

Andrew has no hormonal excuse.

“The estrogen crew were having an Asshole Boyfriend Summit and you were the guest of honor. In absentia.”

If he had another mouthful of beer it would shoot across the room and spoil my screen. “What are you talking about?”

I shrug. “No idea. But Shannon and I are fighting now and your DNA is infecting me.”

“Speak English.” He finishes his beer and snatches the snack bowl away from me.

“I am an asshole by association. You’re a McCormick, I’m a McCormick, and you pissed them all off.”

“I’m not—I just—I…hell. What did they say I did?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, that explains everything doesn’t it?”

“What kind of ‘nothing’ did you do?”

He shifts on the sofa, suddenly uncomfortable. Uh oh. This is deeper than I expected. If Andrew were shtupping Amanda he’d make a joke, or brag about it. The quiet discomfort is unsettling.

He’s going to talk about his feelings.

I’d rather talk about riding the red tide with Marie.

“I never called. That’s all.”

“Since when?”

His face tightens. “June.”

“Two months?” Ouch. Poor Amanda, but…

“Wrong June.”

“Fourteen months? You slept with my girlfriend’s best friend and didn’t call for fourteen months? You sick bastard. I’m ready to go back to Shannon’s with a tray of crab rangoon and three dozen chocolate-dipped Oreos to beg forgiveness for my genetic waste of a brother on behalf of all men.”

“I didn’t sleep with her.”

Oh. Huh.

“Why not?”

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Andrew looks like a nervous teen.

“It’s…um…”

Aw, shit.

“You’re in love with her?”

“No!” The word is fierce and desperate. Aha.

“You’re in love with her tits?” I shove the beer bottle in my mouth before he can scream at me. The long line of beer, like an unfurling ribbon, feels so good.

“I, no, well…yes. I mean, you know.”

We nod and say in unison:

“Breasts.”

“Right,” he adds. “We just had this moment and then it felt like it might turn into a thing and I don’t want a thing.”

“You don’t want a thing? You have things all the time.”

“Things without strings, sure. But not things with—”

“Women who expect actual reciprocity and mutual respect.”

“Exactly.”

For the second time tonight, I’m left wondering if I’m in a Tommy Wiseau movie.

“So you dumped her—”

“There was nothing to dump! We shared a kiss.”

“A kiss.” I snag a chocolate-covered pretzel from the bowl and ignore him as we watch the Sox score a run.

“Just a kiss,” he says absentmindedly as we watch the slow mo repeat. “And it’s all your fault.”