Shopping for a CEO's Fiancée
“You use a lot of offensive language.”
“Maybe you’re just a sensitive pussy.”
“Jesus, Vince.”
“What?”
“Why are you knocking pussies? Of all the parts of the body you could use for an insult, I don’t get it.” Never got it.
“Right about now, the comparison fits. You’re hot, soaking wet, pink, and you have buttons I can push that make you scream.”
I’m glad my lungs have turned into flopping salmon on a rock by the river, because I have no response to that. Finally, I croak out, “You have a way with words.”
“That’s why you pay me the big bucks. Notice how you haven’t scanned the horizon for the past five minutes, and you’re not flinching every time a mosquito zips past?”
He’s right.
“You’re doing this, man.”
“Shut up, Vince.”
His only response is to pick up the pace and shout over his shoulder, “You’re a walking vagina, man.”
I’ve been called worse.
“And this is my last wasp session with you. You’ve graduated,” he declares.
And then that asshole takes off at a sprint, and keeps the ridiculous pace for the final seven miles.
Ridiculous.
* * *
Vince and I make it back to my building. That last mile nearly killed me, but I can’t admit it. We take the front elevators at Vince’s insistence. He says my employees need to see me being a strong leader.
I think he wants to parade me around like a Derby winner, sweat-soaked and foaming.
“Oh, gross. You’re dripping sweat all over my desk!” Gina exclaims, as we walk past her station toward my office door. Her wrinkled nose makes her look even more like a timid little rabbit.
“That’s not sweat. Those are Andrew’s tears.” Wink.
Before I can smack him down, Gina mutters, “Maybe you should use lube next time,” and walks away briskly, her Bluetooth turned on, arms full of files.
With Vince staring after her, gaping.
Maybe I’ve underestimated Gina.
“Wow,” Vince finally says.
“I know,” I snort, pulling at my soaked shirt, greedy for the cool air that slaps my abs. "Because you’d be the catcher if we were together.”
Vince turns and stares at me as if he’s an eighteenth-century hangman evaluating my neck.
“You’re a dead man.”
“Dead men can’t cry.” I make a fake pouty face.
“But they can spin. See you Friday. Get those chicken legs ready.” He stares at my calves, then punches my arm and walks down the hall, chest so big and wide his forearms graze against the hallway walls. Turning sideways, he lets someone walk down the hallway, coming from the other direction.
Amanda.
“What was that about?” she asks, eyes wide and open, mouth pressed in a prim line. She’s wearing a green wrap dress that makes her eyes extra sultry, and all I want to do is get sweaty with her in my office again. She looks just enough like Christina Hendricks in Mad Men to drive me wild. My pants tighten and threaten to cut off circulation to everything below the navel. I want to turn the glass desktop into a Slip ’n Slide.
“We were talking about Vince and I having sex.”
“So your usual 2 p.m. meeting?”
There’s only one way to respond to that.
I kiss her.
Hard.
She squirms in my arms, hands flat against my sweaty chest.
“It’s like you swam in sweat!”
“Pretty close. Vince had me run eleven miles on the trails.”
Her whole body pauses. “Outside?”
A swell of pride fills me. “Yes.”
“Andrew!” she squeals, pulling me in for a wet hug. “Congratulations! That’s wonderful!”
“I don’t need praise for being a human being. It’s not like I climbed Mount Everest. ” But her sweet softness isn’t a bad prize.
“You need recognition for being brave.”
“I went outside, Amanda. That’s second to respiration. No one needs an I Did It! ribbon for that.”
“How about a celebration at your place? Tonight? I’ll give you a major award.” Wink.
I don’t know why, but I blurt out, “Pack a bag. I’ll clear out a drawer.”
She frowns. “A drawer?”
“You can start keeping some stuff at my place.”
“Some stuff?”
“Clothes. Toothbrush. Stuff. So you can spend the night more.”
“You mean—what—huh?”
“I want you to spend more time at my place. With me.” A single drop of sweat chooses that moment to dangle from the end of one curled-up piece of my hair onto my cheekbone, making me feel like I’m crying.
I’m not.
“Are you asking me to—” Amanda can’t say the words, so she just narrows her eyes and waits me out.
“To bring some of your stuff over. Keep it in my apartment. For convenience.”
“Convenience.”
“Right.”
“How much stuff?”
“As much as you want.”
“For a man whose entire company functions as a result of his painstaking clarity, you really suck at this conversation, Andrew.”
“If I asked you to move in with me, would that help clarify?”
“You’re asking me to move in with you?”
I guess I am.
I shrug.
“We were practically married. I’d marry you if I thought you’d bite.”
“I was closer to being married to Chuckles than you, Andrew. Or should I say, Ayndrough.” She’s using a light tone, but I can tell she’s covering for deep feelings that I’ve stirred up.