Shopping for a CEO's Fiancée

“Some of them should be for me!”

“What do you call what we just did?”

“Seventeen minutes.”

“You timed it?”

“I happened to look at the clock right as you woke me up, and then, uh, after.”

Seventeen minutes, huh?

I can do better.

I will do better. I reach for her, cupping her sweet, creamy breast, the curve of it so—

Bzzz.

But not now, apparently.

I grab the phone and check texts, fingers flying as Amanda sighs, gets up, and walks out of my bedroom, removing the robe and walking into my bathroom. I hear the shower turn on.

What a difference a few weeks makes. The first time she spent the night, she was more shy, more inhibited, and clearly working to figure out the lay of the land—physically and emotionally.

We’re more comfortable with each other now.

Which is why I can ignore her and work.

The glow of my phone screen is all I need as the storm rages outside. Sitting upright, under the covers, I crawl into the phone, tapping and answering texts from Dad, Gina, Grace, my IT guy, and a host of other people. I try to keep it simple, but within ten minutes my laptop’s on a pillow in front of me, email open and my phone cradled between my shoulder and jaw just as Amanda walks into the room, now hair wet and freshly combed, framing her face in a dark wall, carrying two cups of coffee.

I get an epic eye roll from her.

“Get off that damn phone!” she hisses. “It’s like Shannon’s vibrator!”

“What?” I drop the phone onto the bed, horrified by the comparison.

“Declan calls Edward Cullen her secret lover.” I now know way too much about my sister-in law.

“You’re comparing my working on my phone to my sister-in-law’s electronic substitute for my brother?” Flashing her a smile that I hope makes up for this work episode, I take the coffee, grateful.

Truly.

“Yes. Both are things you turn to when you’re frustrated and need to feel a sense of accomplishment.”

I open my mouth to respond. Women must view orgasms very, very differently than men.

Accomplishment? No.

Therapeutic? Yes.

Amanda grabs my phone from my neck and shoves it down the front of the robe.

“What are you doing?”

“Hiding your phone.”

“And you think I’m not going to find it there?”

“If it’s out of reach, you can’t be on it constantly.”

I grin. “I have no problem playing hide and seek.” Her breasts rise and fall as her anger intensifies.

“And then what? Will you text over my shoulder in the middle of sex? What’s next, Andrew—an emoji instead of a groan?”

“Would that turn you on?”

She takes an angry sip of coffee. Where’s the ire coming from? I always squeeze in work between every other part of life. Amanda should be used to it.

“Is this how it’s going to be?” she asks, faltering, the anger draining out of her. “Dating you means accepting that you live your job.” A crack of lightning punctuates her words as she bends down for a sip, suddenly contemplative.

“I—”

“Shannon told me it’s like this with Declan. Said she comes second most of the time.” Amanda blinks rapidly, her face a series of tiny muscles under the surface that seem to rotate through scores of emotions, trying one on for size and discarding it over and over. “I’ve been sympathetic for the past few years, but now I see I never really understood.”

My hands stop over the keys, mid-stroke, eyes stuck on the screen. Our chief financial officer has a report on a huge lawsuit we’re currently losing, and the financial fallout could hurt our quarterly projections.

But not paying full attention to Amanda right now would hurt even more.

I close the laptop and set it aside. My mind’s in work mode, so this is harder than you’d think.

Much harder.

Compartmentalizing means that Sex Brain Andrew, once satisfied, is ready to move into the CEO Andrew box, and once I’m in that compartment, going into Relationship Andrew is harder than you’d think.

Like learning to play piano while unicycling.

“Talk to me,” I say, unable to find the right words to even start. I drink my cup of coffee and the image of all those unread emails taunts me, each line etched into my mind. The curse of having a photographic memory.

“I am.” She gives me a bitter smile and slowly opens the robe, revealing my smartphone tucked neatly under one breast. She must have magician’s genes in her. How does it stay in place?

I reach for it, the metal warm, the glass slightly wet with her perspiration.

“Tell me what’s going on behind those beautiful eyes.”

She looks up, coquettish yet guarded. “Shannon says they fight all the time about Declan being a workaholic.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

“And that you’re worse.”

“Worse?”

“You work even more hours than he does.”

“I do. That’s how this works. I’m CEO now. It’s not a job—”

“It’s a life,” she says, echoing me.

“Dec says that to Shannon, too?”

She nods.

I tip her chin up. “I work so hard and so many hours because I’m taking over Dad’s legacy. But truly? I’ve always worked so much because I didn’t have anything else in my life. Anterdec was it. Until now. Until you.”

She melts.

I knew she would.

All I want is to spend the day in bed with her, our only interruptions the delivery people bringing food. How many orgasms can we generate in a twenty-four-hour period? My competitive nature rises up.