Shopping for a CEO's Fiancée
“You don’t have to know,” is all I can croak out. I’m dying. This is how it feels to have blood pump through a heart that is collapsing, cell by cell. Slow motion makes it all so much worse.
And then our eyes meet.
“I propose a traditional courting,” she says, as if a light bulb just went on inside her head.
“A what?” Don’t mind me. I’m just pretending to be alive.
“Court me.”
“Court you? Is that a new sex thing?”
“No, Andrew. It’s a very old-fashioned love thing.”
“Courting? Like something from a Jane Austen novel? You want me to turn into some Regency-era duke with rules and calling cards?”
“And breves. If you’re going to go to the trouble to get calling cards, make sure your liveryman brings me breves, too.”
“I highly doubt the Darcy and Bennet families drank breves during calling hours.”
She arches one eyebrow. “Your knowledge of Austen and Dickinson is so hot.” She fans herself.
“You and the breves. They’re like tiramisu to most women.”
She gives me a coy smile.
Oh, no.
She’s serious.
“Amanda. I don’t have time to play games. Either we’re dating, or we’re not.” Either you love me, or you don’t.
“And if I said ‘not’?”
My entire body turns into a bundle of frozen meat filled with icebergs in my blood. The Titanic crashes on one of them.
“Is that what you want? To not date? To not—” I can’t say it. Not be together.
“No.”
“No, you don’t want to date, or no, you—”
“I want to be with you.”
I breathe again.
“But with courting,” she adds brightly, giving me an amused grin, eyes flashing.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I need clarity, too. You already have it. I don’t. Figure it out, Mr. CEO.” She gives me that damn finger-shoot Declan uses when he’s being extra sarcastic. “You’re a sharp guy.”
And with that, she walks out of my office, the view of her sashaying ass turning the ice in my blood up to a boil.
Courting? Courting?
“How do you court someone you’ve already been almost-married to?” I mutter to myself.
“I guess we’ll find out,” she calls back through the door.
Bzzzz.
“Mr. McCormick? An official from the FCC is on your line? He says you’re ten minutes late for a conference call?” Gina’s voice startles me back to reality.
“Gina. I want you to research courting and have a report for me in my inbox by EOB.”
“Courting?”
“Yes.”
“Is that a new sport?”
“No. An old one.”
“Courting?” I hear the tap of keys. “Do you mean courting, as in wooing a woman for marriage?”
“Yes.”
“And you want me to research this for you?”
There’s a distinct tone of sarcasm in Gina’s voice. That’s new.
“Yes.”
“You realize this is something most women want the man to do on his own. Having your admin research how to court a woman is kind of impersonal, Mr. McCormick.”
Huh. That did not sound like a question. Gina’s marked change in vocal patterns troubles me.
But not enough to do anything about it.
“And make sure none of the courting ideas involve being outdoors during the day.”
“But Mr. Mc—”
Click.
I’ve never looked forward to an FCC conference call with so much relief.
Way easier than dealing with women.
Chapter Sixteen
Gina’s report is on regency-era courting. Reading through the seventeen-page report, which is meticulously organized by subsections such as “How to Give Your Daughter a Season,” “Proper Chaperone Techniques,” and “Elopement to Gretna Green,” I realize the entire file is nothing but bits and bytes of sarcasm designed to meet my exact request within the letter of the law.
Or, to put it another way, she’s being maliciously obedient.
“Gina.”
“Yes?”
“Great report. Make it happen. If we were near Scotland, I’d take the Gretna Green option, but we’ll have to settle for the rest.”
“Make it happen?” she squeaks. “Make what happen?”
“All of it. The outfit, the carriage, the whole bit. No budget. Just do it.”
“No budget? But Mr. McCormick, I—”
Click.
Twenty-five minutes later, Gina buzzes me.
“Professor Victoria Kensley-Wentingham from Boston University on the line for you, Mr. McCormick?”
“Professor who?”
The line changes over. A sweet, chortling older woman’s voice fills my ear.
“Mr. McCormick! I understand you have a grave costume emergency. I am a historical costumer and here to help. I understand you need a bespoke 1809 duke’s costume and carriage with liveryman?”
I’ve underestimated Gina.
Gravely.
“Yes. I have been asked to court my partner, and—”
“Court your partner? Impossible!”
“Excuse me?”
“One cannot court one’s partner. If one already has a partner, then the courting is redundant.”
“Exactly! That’s what I said.”
“If you wish to marry, however, then courting is essential.”
Wife.
The professor rattles off a list of clothing, accessories, horse and carriage requirements, and names a price tag that doesn’t even register.