Shopping for a CEO's Fiancée
“You are literally a walking vagina, Andrew,” Vince mutters.
“Why are you here?”
“To torment you.”
“That’s it? This isn’t our regular time.”
“Your Human Resources department hired me to do a wellness program.”
“On what? How to kill people through spin?”
“Reiki.”
“Reiki?”
“Yeah. Reiki. I’m a master.”
“You believe in that shit?”
“You don’t? You’re the one paying for it, Andrew. Anterdec’s writing me a big fat check.”
And with that, he walks out, leaving plenty of life force energy in the room.
“What a fine, strapping young man,” Professor Kensley-Wentingham says, craning her neck to watch Vince as he exits. “If he is ever interested in performing in a production of Beauty and the Beast, I would love to stay in touch.” At the word touch, she flutters her fingers on my forearm.
“How soon can the courting materials be ready?” I snap.
“During our earlier call, you said you needed this in three days. That was your request.”
“And?”
“I can do this in one week, exactly. I do need your girlfriend’s measurements.”
I mull this over. One week works. “Gina!”
“Yes?”
“Get the tailor from my brother’s wedding on the line and ask for Amanda Warrick’s measurements. Give them to the professor.”
“Oh, she will look delightful in a sheer bonnet! Or shall we do a capote? You are breathtakingly efficient, Andrew!”
So efficient that I escort her to the door—and make her Gina’s problem.
Jessica’s at it again, a text from Amanda declares as I read through my phone.
Sighing, I check out the Twitter stream. Jessica’s posting pictures from the Turkish restaurant and my hashtag:
#mccormickmendipitincrazy
“Ugh.” I click on the hashtag and find thousands of retweets, comments about Amanda and Shannon, links to the YouTube video of Amanda rescuing that dog from the hawk, and pictures from Dec and Shannon’s failed Boston wedding.
See? Amanda’s next text reads. She has more power than you think.
No, she does not, I text back.
I’m ending this. Now.
“Gina!”
“Yes, sir?”
“Call me Andrew, damn it.”
“Uh….yes, Andrew?”
“Get the local media buyer on the line.”
“The media buyer for all of Anterdec?”
“Yes.”
This is simple. Jessica’s power comes from being an influencer. If you want to cut an influencer off at the knees, you take away their ability to influence. Local restaurants, public relations firms, marketing specialists and more all feed Jessica a steady stream of information and magnify her importance by referring to her on Twitter, re-tweeting, and elevating her importance in social media.
Remove all that and she’s the peak of a pyramid of cheerleaders without a base.
And comes tumbling down.
“Cassandra Horning, Mr. McCormick. I do most of Anterdec’s Boston-area media purchases,” says a confident woman. I close my eyes and conjure up an image of a woman about my age, short brown hair, smart eyes behind glasses.
“Cassandra, I have a project for you.”
Within thirty minutes, we’ve banged out the details.
Amanda’s about to see exactly how powerless Jessica really is.
Chapter Seventeen
In the time since Declan and Shannon’s wedding, I haven’t gotten a haircut. The professor comes to my apartment this afternoon, exactly one week after our first encounter, for the final fitting and proclaims, “Your countenance suits the character! Dark, angelic hair with a touch of curl about your face. Pity you couldn’t grow out your sideburns enough to give yourself more authenticity.”
I think I paid her too much.
She insists on having me tuck my shirt into the breeches, and uses needle and thread to tighten the waistband, adding a few stitches at the back.
“Is that necessary?” I ask.
She seems offended. “I wouldn’t do it if it weren’t necessary.”
She sounds just like Dad.
By the time I evacuate her from my apartment and take a good look in the mirror, I realize she was right:
I could be a movie actor.
Amanda’s empire-waist dress, a dark beige on top and a billowy white skirt on the bottom, is slung over my arm, with a bonnet on the hanger. If I’m going to court her, she has to play the part, too.
Like it or not.
I arrive at the agreed-upon corner around the block from Amanda’s duplex just as the horse-drawn carriage makes its entrance. I drove here myself, in full costume, and I park the Tesla on the side of the road, hoping Newton is a decent town with low crime.
“Mr. McCormick? Will Sawyers.” The carriage driver is dressed in similar fashion to my own sartorial flair, though Professor Kensley-Wentingham was quite clear that my 1809 suit replica was one that an aristocrat would wear, while the liveryman’s suit was “for one of his station.”
Sniff.
I shake Will’s hand and look at the carriage. A throng of kids stands across the street, gawking. A few adults come out onto their front stoops and curiosity makes a few pull out their phones, snapping pics.
“We need to move fast, before social media beats us to Amanda.”
He doffs his hat and opens the carriage door. It’s an open-air barouche, with a single horse pulling the entire load. Lightweight and made of thick black material with huge metal wheels, it reminds me of a spider in carriage form. Amanda and I will sit next to each other, facing front.