Shopping for a CEO's Fiancée

Her blond hair is like corn silk spread over cadaver flesh as I whisper in her ear. “Back off. Back off Shannon, back off Amanda, back off my family. You tweet about, or to, any of us again—and that includes any Anterdec properties—and I’ll unleash the video.”

“What vid—oh, please!” she says nervously. “That video? Doesn’t exist. I got all the copies long ago.”

I let go of her.

“Fine. If that’s what you need to believe to sleep at night.” I flash her a grin that is usually charming, but I up the malevolent factor enough to make sure I look a little evil.

It works.

Pale on pale makes her turn into a bedsheet.

“You realize that could ruin me.”

“Really?”

“My entire reputation in public health would be destroyed.”

“How awful.” The words come out through gritted teeth and steel. “Can you imagine what it must be like to have a social media shitstorm sent your way? Oh. That’s right. I’m sure you can.”

Her nostrils flare.

“But normally you’re the one aiming the fire hose.”

“I have enough dirt on you and your family to—”

“To what? Dirt?” I laugh. She’s annoying. Shannon and Amanda have built her up to be this unstoppable force but she’s a toddler. A toddler with no one telling her no.

Time for me to be her no.

“I could destroy you,” she says, seething.

“With a tweet? A picture? A rumor? That’s your currency, babe.” She hated that term of endearment in high school, and from the look on her face, I hit my target. “And it’s overvalued. Like you.”

“You think being CEO of Anterdec means I’m supposed to bow before you?”

“I wouldn’t accept even if you did, Jessica. I have standards.”

Her head darts to the left, looking out the plate-glass window.

“Standards like that?” She points and smirks.

I follow her arm to find her pointing at the Turdmobile. Amanda’s in profile, bouncing to whatever song is on her radio, and she’s at a stoplight. Consolidated Evalu-shop is one town over, and this restaurant is right on the main drag of town, on a numbered state route.

“If that’s your baseline, you’re a fool, Andrew.”

“What does it say about you that I’d pick a woman driving a car that literally looks like a piece of shit over you? Bring it on, Jessica.” I spread my arms wide, back to the road. “Do your worst.”

She is steaming, red with anger, her eyes hopping between me and the road. Then her mouth curls into a vicious smile and she does the one thing I never expected.

Throws herself into my arms and kisses me.

Chapter Twelve

Shoving a woman who is not much more than a warm toothpick wearing five-inch heels and a ruined designer dress is harder than you’d think. But I do, and do it with mastery and grace, so she plunks down on the chair in front of me, but not before she pirouettes me into a full three-sixty.

I’m left with the lingering taste of bitterness and anti-aging face cream.

Horns. Lots of beeps, suddenly, from the road.

I whip around to find the source of the cacophony.

Amanda’s stuck in front of the green light, mouth open, staring through the window. It’s that time of day and just cloudy enough that the clean, clear glass shows everything.

“Hmph,” Jessica says with triumph. “Good luck fixing that.”

Amanda gets out of the car. I repeat: she gets out of the car, abandoning it in the middle of a New England town center, with three lanes and five different directions.

Her march is steady, straight, defiant, and dead on.

And she’s not looking at me as she bursts through the restaurant’s main door and goes straight for the jugular.

“Touch him again, and I’ll rip every weave out of that hair of yours,” she says pleasantly to Jessica, a smile on her face and the biggest case of the creeps shining through her eyes.

“Oh, I like her,” Terry mutters, crossing his arms without letting go of his wine glass.

I have never seen Amanda fiery. Pissed. Livid.

Out of control.

“Excuse me? Did you just threaten me?” Jessica squeals, looking around the room as if collecting witnesses.

“Yes. You like those eyelash extensions? Because all I need are some manicure scissors and two friends to hold you down.” She scrunches up her face. “Or a really small blowtorch.”

Amanda’s voice sounds like a serrated butcher’s knife that’s just about to go through Jessica’s trachea.

And…I’m hard.

“You can’t do that! How dare you threaten me?” Jessica protests.

“Just did,” Amanda declares. She still hasn’t looked at me, but her eyes rake over Jessica’s dress. “You’re such an alcoholic, you can’t keep the wine in your glass?” she says in a loud, over-enunciated voice.

Flash.

The people in the corner start taking rapid-fire pictures, and I see someone holding up a smartphone. Videotaping.

“I—what are you talking about?” Jessica protests. “He poured it on me!”

I twist a finger around my ear and say, “We tried to do an intervention.” I shrug. “She wouldn’t listen to reason.”

“Liar! He spilled it on me to get back at me for cheating on him with his brother when we were in high school!”

Titters begin from the other patrons.

“So you admit it,” I say slowly. I want to add, smile for the camera, but I’m not ready to tip my hat just yet.