Shopping for a CEO (Page 65)

She wasn’t planning to leave the house anyhow, and while Spritzy isn’t technically a service dog, Mom won’t leave home without him. I once joked she should rename the dog American Express, but Mom didn’t laugh.

I slip Spritzy a tiny piece of bread and he munches down, happy.

I wish I could be made happy with a simple bite of bread.

I’m sickly aware of Andrew’s pending arrival in town and hoping to get through this dinner in two hours, tops, so I can go home to—

Andrew?

“Amanda?” he asks, standing a safe distance away from me. In his arms is a tiny little terrier wearing a pale green ribbon. The dog is freshly groomed and the incongruity of:

a) Andrew standing there

b) a dog in his arms

c) Spritzy jumping up to hump Andrew’s ankle

makes the room spin for a moment.

“What are you doing here?” I hiss, searching the room for witnesses, as if Andrew might appear again like he did on my date with Chris and crash it.

“I’m your date.”

“You’re my date?” I fish around my purse for my DoggieDate paperwork and ignore Spritzy’s sexytime with Andrew’s wingtips. My mom’s dog is having more sex with Andrew than me.

If Mr. Spritzy keeps this up, I’m going to have to offer him a cigarette. Whoa.

“Could you call your dog off?” he asks, gently nudging Spritzy off him. The movement just makes the little chihuahua redouble his efforts. “Spritzy has good taste, but I’m not a foot fetish guy.”

I reach down and grab the little dog, tucking him back in Mom’s purse and shoving a thin breadstick at him.

“Who’s this?” I ask, seething but pretending to be someone capable of behaving in public without becoming a screaming banshee. My cover is clearly blown. Someone’s told Andrew the truth. I hope to God I don’t lose the account for the client and that Greg doesn’t fire me. Then again, I didn’t break any of my NDAs.

“This is my dog. Mr. Wiffles.” He is holding the calmest little Yorkie I have ever seen. Its eyes are sharp and alert behind long, beribboned hair that frames the most adorable face. Mr. Wiffles looks like something out of the Westminster Dog Show, like a well-pampered beast of luxury, and he’s sweet, to boot.

“You have a dog?”

His eyes go shifty. “I do.” Andrew looks about as comfortable holding the dog as I do being naked in public.

“I’ve been to your apartment numerous times and never saw him.”

“He’s quiet. Well trained.” Andrew pats his head like he’s blotting a spot of ketchup off a shirt.

I snort. Spritzy imitates me. Mr. Wiffles joins in.

“Andrew. I have stayed at your apartment for more than twelve hours at a time and never heard a dog.”

As I talk, Andrew takes a seat across the way from me. He sets Mr. Wiffles down on the chair next to him and pulls the linen napkin out, spreading it on his lap. Andrew’s basically acting like nothing’s wrong. Nothing to see here.

We’re just two nobodies.

With dogs.

He looks up, eyes hard yet amused. “How many dates?”

“How many what?”

“How many of these dates have you been on?”

“That is privileged information. And how did you find out about all this?”

His mouth tightens.

“I’m a smart guy.”

“What did you promise Marie in exchange for the info?”

He has the decency to pretend to be offended, then gives up the ruse. “I told her I’d make sure the guys go commando for the wedding.”

“How’d you get Declan to agree to that?”

“Don’t ask. But I’ll be spending a lot of time in Indonesia with tech support people next month.”

“You went through all that to stalk me?”

“I’d hardly call this stalking.”

I’m about to reply that this is, pretty much, the very definition of stalking when an enormous man who looks like an angry bear comes barreling through the restaurant like his ass is on fire. He’s dressed in well-loved Birkenstocks, a torn concert t-shirt, and jeans that look like they were being worn when Bruce Springsteen made “Born in the USA” a hit.

“Where is my Mr. Wiffles?” says a deep bass voice that sounds like it’s percolating up from the ground.

Oh. It’s Terry. Andrew’s brother.

Andrew pretends he isn’t there, which is pretty hard to do when the human equivalent of a subwoofer is standing three inches from your head and about to blow.

“Your Mr. Wiffles?” I ask. Ah. This is starting to make more sense.

The Yorkie perks up and begins wagging its tail. Terry bends down and picks it up, kissing its little head between the ears. This is like watching big, shirtless, cut firefighters collect kittens from trees or a police officer nursing a baby bird with a broken wing.

It makes my ovaries not only leap out of my body and do jumping jacks, I’m pretty sure they’re desperately searching for a baby registry right now.

“I can’t believe you stole my dog, Andrew!” Terry bellows. The salt shaker on the table quivers.

“I did not steal your dog.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying. I did not steal your dog.”

Terry’s nostrils flare. “Fine. Your chauffeur stole my dog.”

Andrew says nothing, but his eye roll is epic.

“You had your chauffeur slip Mr. Wiffles’ trainer a fifty and you stole her! She’s a very nervous type and can’t handle this.”

Mr. Wiffles wags her tail and licks Terry. She looks about as nervous as Marie is discreet.