Shopping for a CEO's Fiancée
“No,” I say softly, mournfully. “We’re not.”
She reaches for my left hand and strokes the ring. The movement of her steps, the new proximity to her, brings a whiff of our mingled scents, hers rosy and sex-laden, mine sweaty and metallic. Minutes ago, I was buried so deep inside her that I could push up and skim heaven.
And now I feel like I’ve descended into hell.
Her brows twitch, pulling down and in, and her wide eyes search mine. “Why are you so upset? You were really weird on the plane ride. And,” she asks, faltering, her fingers seeking my ring, “why are you still wearing yours?”
“Maybe I don’t want to take it off.”
She pales.
“Why not?” Amanda’s breath quickens.
“Maybe I’ve gotten used to wearing it.”
“Maybe? Andrew, you don’t use the word maybe.”
Maybe she’s right.
Chapter Ten
“You said the idea of being married was ‘ridiculous.’” I resort to finger quotes.
Yes, I’m desperate.
“I did.”
“What if there is no conflict?” I ask.
Her eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”
“Why do we need to have some big dramatic moment about this? You confessed that the idea of already being married is terrifying, yet I think you also find it appealing. I didn’t take my wedding ring off until my trainer hassled me out of it—and then I put it right back on. Maybe we both want this.”
“Want to be married after kissing in closets for two years, only dating for a few months, breaking up horribly, and reuniting when I took a dog and kitty bath and nearly drowned?”
She’s got me there.
Truth always wins, though.
“Yes.” I shrug. I reach for her, my finger tracing the strong line of her jaw.
She manages to frown and widen her eyes at the same time. “That is crazy, Andrew! People don’t magically just go and get married like this, and have it last.”
“Says who?”
“Says everyone.”
“I don’t care about everyone. I care about you.”
“But we can’t just—”
“Says who?”
“You truly want to just run off and marry me? After rejecting me less than two weeks ago during Shannon and Declan’s wedding rehearsal fitting? What happened to the man with the cold eyes and the closed heart who told me he wouldn’t let me love him?” Her throat makes a strangled, hitching sound that feels like a line to my heart, which twitches in response. Amanda’s palm begins to sweat.
I hold on.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I strain to find the right tone, the right words, that match the utter fury I hold inside toward myself. That day of the wedding party fitting, when I stormed out half dressed, needing an excuse to be angry and finding it in the paper-thin argument that no one had told me the wedding was outdoors, in daylight, in July, the beast inside me was looking for a fight, and invented one.
“When I told you I wouldn’t let you love me, it didn’t mean I didn’t love you,” I confess, trying to find a lifeline here, a rope attached to a buoy as I drown in memories of my own stupidity. “I knew that so long ago.”
“Knew what?”
“That I loved you.”
“How long ago?”
This tell-the-deep-truth part is hard, isn’t it? Few aspects of my life are truly new these days. Information, sure. Details and experiences, travel and people are new.
Emotional realities, though—going into new territory is rare.
With Amanda, it’s become the rule. I don’t know how to be in a relationship with her and not explore new layers of love with her. Holding back from that journey feels unfair. False. Fake.
If I wanted fake, I’d date Jessica Coffin again.
I want real.
I close my eyes, remembering the moment she walked into the boardroom as Dad, Declan and I conferred before Greg and his staff appeared for the mystery shopping account meeting. More than two years ago. A lifetime. An eternity.
A blip.
“The day we met, you were wearing a long, gray pencil skirt that hugged your hips like a treasure map for my palms. The slit up the back was a portal into another world. Red silk shirt under a black blazer, and your lips matched the silk. I wondered if you were wearing a red lace bra underneath.”
She’s spellbound, eyes watching me as if my words hypnotize her. “I was,” she rasps.
I knew it. “You were the epitome of ‘fuckable secretary’ from every fevered fantasy I’ve ever had.”
“You really are a pervert.”
I shrug.
“Hey, if we’re telling the truth…” I pause. “But I don’t have those fantasies about my secretaries.”
“Right.” She’s skeptical.
“I haven’t. Not since the day we met.”
“Really?”
“Yes. You’ve ruined masturbation for me. I can’t even cheat in my mind.”
“You’re such a romantic.”
“I quoted Dickinson to you on our first date!”
She makes a gesture of concession. “Go on.”
“Red silk shell and black blazer. With the black hair and red lips, you had the look down. That day I looked up, expecting to just glance at the client’s staff, shake hands, and sit down for the boring but necessary details before signing the deal. That’s not what happened, though. I did a double take.”
“My breasts made you do that,” she says with a soft laugh.
“No.” I reach for her chin and lift it up until she can’t look away from me. “You did that. You.”