Shopping for a CEO (Page 57)

Andrew.

He did follow, after all.

I wonder what he thinks when he walks into the kitchen to find two orange-stained-finger women crying their eyes out in the darkness. Whatever his internal reaction, on the outside he’s polite. Concerned. Downright courtly.

“I’ve been calling and texting for the past few hours. Are you okay?” He crosses the room and stops a few feet in front of me. His eyes take in my mom. Then me.

Then the tray of Cheeto treats.

Mom smooths her hands on her slacks and gives me a hopeful smile. “I’ll leave you two alone,” she says, grabbing me for a very tight hug.

“No, Mom. I—”

She looks at Andrew, then at me, then back at Andrew. “Glad you’re here,” she says to him. “Amanda needs someone right now.”

“Mom, but—”

“It’s all old territory for me, honey. But it’s new for you.” And with that she steps out of the kitchen, leaving me with a very perplexed Andrew.

“What’s going on?” he asks in a voice filled with grave alarm. His tone drops down to a low, sedate level.

I tell him. The whole story, from the moment in the pavilion suite until just now, right before he came in the house.

I spill it all in one long, crazy ramble. It’s the kind of story I’ll have to tell many times going forward, so the telling from start to finish feels good in its own odd way.

By the time I’m done, we’re standing in complete darkness, the only light peeping in from other rooms in the house and digital clock displays on appliances in the kitchen. We’re bathed in a strange greenish glow.

“That’s one hell of a story.” He exhales as if he’s been holding his breath. “I’m so sorry I didn’t understand earlier.”

“It’s fine.” It isn’t. Not really. But I don’t know what else I can say.

“I’m here now.” He opens his arms wide and I walk into them, my drained eyes resting against the soft fabric of his fleece top.

“You know what’s funny?”

“What?”

“Those naked-in-public dreams I have?”

“Yeah?”

“They started when I was five. Now I know why.”

He squeezes me tighter. “Oh, Amanda.” He gives me a soft kiss on the temple and moves me, slowly, to an oversized chair in the living room. It’s the one mom used to sit in with me when I was little and we’d read picture books from the library, one after the other from a big basket she always kept next to the fireplace.

Andrew sits down and pulls me into his lap. I curl up, my cheek pressed against his heart. His breath is my anchor.

I cry for everything I didn’t know I’d lost and gained until I fall asleep in his arms.

And do not dream.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The man sitting across from me at this lovely bistro is remarkably normal. Better than normal, in fact. He’s downright hot.

“What is someone like you doing using an online dating service like this?” Chris asks, bringing his beer to his lips. We’re in a brew pub, with little wooden boards containing six little glasses of beer samplers. So far, we’ve determined we have the same taste in brew choices.

Dark and hoppy.

On this, my ninth DoggieDate date, I have found the Holy Grail of men: a decent one. A better-than-decent one.

A guy I, Amanda Warrick, for real, would actually date.

Lord have mercy.

Chris Stieg is taller than me, with the slim, toned look of a tech guy, which he is. He’s the lead architect for some new publishing technology that analyzes books to track narrative arcs and reader engagement.

The man has read Italo Calvino.

And Jennifer Weiner.

Avant-garde lit fic and commercial fiction? He’s someone’s wet book dream.

Maybe even mine.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m technically still dating Andrew. But after that weird blip at the baseball game, and after he finally found me at home that night, things have been bumpy. He’s been in Tokyo for a week and our texts have been erratic. Falling asleep in his arms in my comfy chair in the living room was wonderful.

But I had awoken alone in the daylight, in my own bed, with a text that simply read: See you soon.

Mr. Hot and Cold is blowing more chilly arctic air these days, and it’s killing me.

Besides, this is a DoggieDate date. It’s for work. I’m just doing my job.

Is it my fault that some days I love my job more than others?

“I, well, you know. It’s not like Tinder or Ashley Madison are my speed,” I reply.

Chris laughs, throwing his head back just enough for me to take in the golden blonde hair. He wears glasses and has these sweet eyes the color of honey lager.

“Let me guess. Loads of disgusting come-ons from guys who think that crap works.”

“I have quite the collection of unwanted dick pics.”

He chokes through his laughter.

“And all I did was send you a picture of my dog,” he says with a smile that reaches those warm eyes.

The beer is loosening me up. I lean back and stretch, pushing my breasts out inadvertently. Chris is too much of a gentleman to look. We’re seated right by the big, plate-glass window along the sidewalk. Outside, the streets are filled with people straggling back from an art-in-the-city festival.

Chris reaches across the table as I go to taste another sample, and our hands bump.

“I’m grateful for that. Snoozer is a real cutie, by the way. I love affenpinschers,” I say.

Chris smiles, looking down at our hands, which are an inch away.

And then a rush of memory hits me, of Andrew and I naked in bed.