Shopping for a CEO (Page 58)

Heat runs from my belly to my mouth like a brushfire. I hastily grab the final glass of beer from the taster board and chug it.

Chris’s eyebrows shoot up. “That good?”

I realize my mistake. We’re sharing this, to decide which pints to buy. “Oh. Um, I’m so sorry.” I look at the empty glass and make a face. “It actually wasn’t.”

“You saved me from bad beer. Friends don’t let friends drink bad beer.”

“Then I had some really bad friends back in college.”

He laughs, and I see him watching my hand. Oh, boy. He’s sending all the good signals now.

When Greg informed me I was perfect for the DoggieDate account, I figured I would slog through twenty insufferable dates with weirdos who use a site like DoggieDate for a reason. Because they’re weirdos.

I never—not once—thought I’d meet an actual hot guy who I’d want to date.

And here I am.

Andrew.

His name slides through my mind with an echo of need. My eyes take in Chris as the waiter comes over and he orders pints for us, picking our two professed favorites. I could date him. Kiss him. Maybe even sleep with him.

There really are plenty of fish in the sea after all.

Too bad the fish I want is in Tokyo right now.

I have a choice here. If I’d met Chris on the very first DoggieDate, life might be very different.

Then it hits me.

I don’t want different.

I want Andrew.

At that precise moment, warm fingers take my hand. That zing? The one you’re supposed to feel the first time you experience affection from someone you’re getting to know romantically?

It’s not there. Holding hands with Chris is nice. It’s comfortable and sweet, and as I look up and meet his eyes and smile, I remember that I am playing a role here. We’re supposed to be talking about our dogs and bonding over my teacup chihuahua and his little affen puppy.

“What’s Snoozer like?” I ask, bringing this back to my actual job requirements. The mystery shopping evaluation form has been taking shape slowly as I go through enough of these dates to start to form an idea of what we need to evaluate in terms of customer service and client experience.

Chris gets an uncomfortable look on his face. His eyes drop to my boobs. I’m wearing a shirt that could pass muster in a convent, so I’m not sure what he thinks he’s actually looking at.

“I have a confession to make,” he says in a sheepish voice, squeezing my hand. I have to lean forward slightly to hear him.

Outside, cabs stop and go, dropping off and picking up customers right outside the window. The brew pub takes up nearly half a block in this trendy neighborhood, and it’s a bustling area that’s gentrifying. Enormous old factories are being renovated into new lofts, hotels, and business spaces. I’m guessing the brew pub has two to three years, tops, at this location, before the rent increases drive them away.

“I, um…” Chris stumbles, then sits back with a long sigh, letting go of my hand. The waiter brings our pints and we clink glasses, then each chug about half our respective beers. I fight back a belch.

Chris leans forward again and puts his palm on my shoulder. Our faces are half a foot apart.

“Are you okay? Is something wrong with Snoozer?” I’ve learned to direct all the attention to talk about the dogs whenever anything gets strange on these dates. Works like a charm.

“No, no. Nothing’s wrong with him. Actually, though,” he says, leaning in another inch. “This is about Snoozer. He, um, he’s not my dog.”

I press my lips together and frown. “Huh?”

“I don’t actually have a dog.”

“You don’t?” My voice contains a little more glee than it should, because I predicted this exact scenario when I spoke with the client. I said there would be fakers, and my God, here we are. The thrill of being right mixes with the beer, which I grab and finish off with a flourish.

“No. I just invented him so I could join this dating service,” he says as he gets closer. Any closer and my eyes will cross to a blur.

But just then, he freezes.

“Don’t look,” he whispers, “but there’s a creepy guy outside staring right at you.”

I turn and look in defiance of his order and—

Andrew McCormick is standing three feet away, his limo behind him.

And if looks really could kill, Chris would be dead right now.

Chris pulls back and gives me a menacing stare. “You know him? Because—”

I’m on my feet, throwing the napkin down before he can finish. “Hang on,” is all I say as I fly through the warehouse-style restaurant, the enormous painted duct work above me, metal ceiling fans dropped along thick wires that lend the place the feel of a hipster brew pub.

I run out the door and find Andrew exactly where he was seconds ago, his hands in his suit trouser pockets, his face a grim scowl.

Directed entirely at Chris.

“What are you doing here?” I cry out, fighting twin urges to smack him and hug him.

“Interrupting something, apparently,” he answers, eyes staying on Chris, who has pulled out his phone and has a bad case of self-invoked text neck as he pretends to ignore Andrew’s ire.

“No, I mean, aren’t you in Tokyo?”

“I came back early.”

“What are you doing here? In this part of town? Did you come to find me? Are you stalking me?”

His nose pugs up, jaw tight, like he’s trying hard not to let his temper fly. He still won’t look at me. “Gerald had to take the limo on a detour. We were stuck at the light. I looked out the window to see you on your….” He clears his throat like he’s eaten a bug. “Date.”