Shopping for a CEO's Fiancée
“ENOUGH!” I bellow, dropping the Chewbacca pillow, because why not? I have nothing to lose.
I bend down and find the first piece of clothing that will cover my body. It’s the pink robe I bought Amanda when we arrived. The one with lace at the breasts. I’m not picky. I’m not one of those guys whose masculinity is threatened by feminine attire.
Not that I have a history with that. It’s just that pink lace is an upgrade from Peter Mayhew.
True to form, Dad doesn’t budge, Declan shifts his weight to one hip and thinks he can give me a blank, intimidating look and that will work, and the rest of the interlopers actually do move toward the doorway.
Amanda starts to crawl out of bed.
“Not you. Them.”
“But I need to pee. And quit staring at my breasts. You always stare at my breasts.”
“That’s because they’re luscious.”
“Oh, brother,” Dad and Dec say at the same time, finally moving toward the door.
“So firm and supple,” I continue.
Declan glares. Pam looks like she’s starting to faint. Dad grabs her arm and escorts her out of the bedroom.
Ordering them out of the room doesn’t work, but talking about Amanda’s naked body does? Fine. I take a deep breath and ignore the nine-member funk band in my head and start to talk about my favorite subject.
She looks down and screams bloody murder.
“When did I get a Donald Trump tattoo?”
And faints.
“OUT!” I shout.
They listen to me. People do. I have a voice that makes it clear that not following my command is not an option.
Though I’m guessing that the Chewbacca crotch had something do with their exit.
I join Amanda under the covers and pass out.
Match.
Chapter Two
Hours pass. I don’t know that hours pass, because my consciousness is filled with dreams about Sultans in Dubai with rainbow penises having sex with Donald Trump.
“Andrew,” someone says. Someone with a creamy, sexy voice.
“Look at my hands,” I mutter. “Can someone with hands like this have a short chocolate dong?”
“What?” The creamy voice curdles.
I startle. It’s dark in the bedroom, and Amanda’s sitting up in bed, her lap covered by the bedspread, her breasts still orange. The way her eyes catch mine makes the room feel warm and sweet. Protectiveness kicks in even more. She’s tenting the covers and looking at her midsection. Her dark hair spills over her shoulder, but it’s matted with something white and gooey.
No, not that. I lean toward her and sniff. Her hair smells like lemon and salt. For a moment, I close my eyes, trying to regroup. Five days ago, we were broken up. Irrevocably split for one simple reason:
I had a moment of stupendous idiocy. I’ll own it.
More than a moment, too. I’m man enough to admit it. I let risk aversion nearly destroy my best hope for love.
Which meant that I simply miscalculated the risks.
Hence the stupendous, temporary idiocy.
We reunited only five days ago. Five damn days. The bandages on her arms are a stark reminder that the wedding in Boston was less than a week ago.
We’re back together, but there’s still so much left to learn about each other.
Little things, like which side of the bed each prefers. Favorite colors. Food preferences.
Or, you know, like whether we’re married or not.
“How did I get Cheeto coochie?” she asks, pointing to her breasts, which look at me like Sirens on an island in the ocean. Andrew, they croon. Come play with us….
My mouth is cotton. Fermented cotton. And salt. Something salty. “What?”
She peers at me. “Your mouth matches my coochie. It’s orange, too.”
“Coochie?” We’ve only been back together for less than a week. I didn’t know “coochie” was part of her personal vocabulary. “Cheeto coochie” sounds like the name of a tapas dish at a low-end restaurant.
Or a stripper name.
“You know.” She peers down. “If your mouth is orange, and my breasts and, ahem,” she points down, “are orange, then we committed some kinky acts with snack foods last night.”
“You’re the one with the Cheeto-marshmallow fetish.”
She covers her mouth with her hand. “Don’t mention food.”
I wave my ringed hand. “Too much talk. Basics first.” I force myself to stand and walk into the mini-kitchen. Water. I need water. Water and half a jar of ibuprofen-flavored beer.
And my memory.
Bzzzz.
“Your phone!”
“Probably Gina.”
“Who is Gina?” The arch tone gets my attention and makes me smile. Now I know something new about Amanda.
She gets jealous. I grin and smother it with my hand.
“My new admin,” I say, muffled by my palm.
She lets out a cute little huff of relief. “What happened to…Bethany?”
“She was three admins ago.”
“Lucy’s gone, too?” Amanda asks, incredulous.
“She was overly rigid.” I can hear the defensiveness creep into my voice.
“She was great!”
“She lasted ten days.”
“You have an admin problem, Andrew.”
“No, I don’t.” I ignore my phone. If I can keep a Sultan waiting, I can defer my admin back in Boston, the new young woman the temp agency sent me a few weeks ago. What I need right now is water. Water and Amanda. In that order.
“Your admins have an Andrew problem.”
“I’m a great boss!” Irritation sets in. We’ve spent five days trying not to talk about any topic more intense than whether to add cinnamon to our breves, how to handle all the sex chafing, or debating whether jalapeno-flavored aioli is better than bacon-horseradish mayo.