Shopping for a CEO (Page 75)

“Too bad ‘Shannon’ and ‘Declan’ don’t rhyme,” Marie says sadly. Is she pouting? Her lower lip pokes out like a cash register drawer.

“Where’s that sword that goes with the kilt tuxedo? I need it sooner than later,” Declan whispers to Shannon.

“Quit joking,” she says, poking him in the ribs.

“Who’s joking?” he, Andrew and James say in unison. Andrew pops back all the whisky in his wine glass and slams it on the table.

And then the caterer begins the next course.

We manage to eat in relative peace for an entire four minutes or so before someone—okay, me—opens her big, fat mouth and says, “Jason and Marie don’t rhyme.”

“Your names don’t need to rhyme to have a fabulous marriage,” Declan says, giving Shannon a lovely kiss on the cheek.

My eyes tear up.

“That was fucking beautiful, Declan,” Andrew says, giving him a slow golf clap.

Declan gives him a look that silences Andrew.

“I would like to make an announcement,” James says, handing Spritzy off to my mother and standing slowly, with the grace of a man who is accustomed to being watched.

“Is this about your cancer?” Andrew asks, the words coming out of his mouth with little tethers on them, and as they roll out you can see in Andrew’s eyes a series of tiny little men desperately yanking on the ropes as they try to put them back behind his teeth.

“What?” Declan gasps. The table erupts into chaos.

Andrew has the wherewithal to just close his eyes and wince.

“I’m sorry, Dad.” He bows his head like a toy being powered off. My heart softens for him and I reach under the table to take his hand, but stop myself. I don’t really know what role I play in his life right now and the boundary between us is there. Undefined, but there.

James is blinking, his face a neutral mask as he stands above the seated group, clearly trying to figure out the best approach to salvage the situation.

“I was about to propose a toast to Shannon, but it looks like I will make a quiet personal announcement instead,” James says in a jovial voice. Either he’s really this grounded and centered about the cancer, or he’s a damn fine actor.

“Yes, it’s true. I have very slow-growing prostate cancer.” He looks at Declan with the closest thing to love I’ve ever seen him express toward his son. “And I wanted to tell you privately, Declan, but this is how you’re learning.”

Both Terry and Andrew shift uncomfortably in their seats.

Ah. Terry knows, too. Sympathy for Declan makes me pour myself another glass of wine, because…well.

Because I’m pretty sloshed here.

Declan stands and looks across the table at his father, who is already on his feet for the aborted toast. “Are you sick now? Do you need chemotherapy? What do the doctors—”

James’ eyes go soft and concerned. Fatherly. “I’m fine, son. My prognosis is fantastic. I’m one of those old coots,” he says with a laugh, exchanging a look with Jason that makes my throat ache, “who will be around to watch my grandchildren graduate high school. As long as you two get cracking,” he adds, giving Shannon a wink.

The table erupts into polite chuckling.

My mother and Shannon have one thing in common: when they get nervous, they babble. This is important, because Mom, who is sitting right next to James, turns to him and says,

“I recently did an analysis on prostate cancer issues for health insurance purposes. New research shows that men who orgasm more than twenty times a month have reduced prostate cancer rates.”

He smiles, giving her a look like he’s seeing her in a new light. “Is that an offer to help?”

Mom turns the color of my lipstick and mumbles into her wine. She’s blushing. James reaches down and touching her shoulder with a gesture that strikes me as friendly.

James doesn’t do friendly.

Then again, people change. Especially when they have no choice.

I look at Andrew.

“I’m so sorry,” numerous folks at the table murmur. It’s hard to tell who says what because I can’t drink wine and listen at the same time. Sure, I was a cheerleader in high school and was able to be the base of three-person-tall formations, but get six (seven?) glasses of wine in me and it’s a freaking miracle if I can remember to—.

Andrew’s hand goes on my knee.

Apparently, my body remembers how to respond to his touch.

“May I have a word with you?”

“Now?”

“Yes. In private,” he says through the corner of his mouth.

I start to crawl under the table. He pulls me back.

“Not there.”

“Oh.”

We stand. The ground got way lower since I sat down at the dinner table.

“I know you’re not taking me outside,” I say with far more cynicism than I should. He winces. I bite my lips to shut up.

He directs me to Shannon and Declan’s bedroom.

“Oh, no, bud. You’re not having sex with me here. Mr. I Don’t Have Time for a Quickie isn’t getting any.” I use a mocking tone that feels right when the angel inside me whispers sweet nothings in my ear, but that feels wrong when the devil tells me I should just shut up and unwind.

“What are you talking about?” He sounds genuinely perplexed.

I reach between my boobs. He stares. I pull out my phone. He smiles.

“What else do you keep in there?”

“Not quickies.”

His face falls. I shove my phone in front of him and show him his earlier text.