Shopping for a CEO's Fiancée
“All I see is a pile of metal excrement.”
“This was my car for nearly two years!” Amanda says, patting the door’s armrest like it’s a cat. “Nothing wrong with it.” She frowns. “Now that I think about it, you never rode in it with me.”
Coincidence.
“You are so status conscious!”
Amanda says that like it’s a bad thing.
I hunch down as Declan merges into traffic. No one says a word, though Shannon and Declan are giving each other looks like they are stars in a Mexican telenovela performed by mimes.
We cross the Lexington line. Getting closer.
“We need gas. Shannon, can you find us a gas station?”
She pulls out her smartphone and uses an app, programming the GPS to re-route.
“Can’t it wait?” I ask. This car is a tin can.
“No. The car’s on empty and we need to stop.”
Three minutes later, he’s pulling off the highway and into a gas station bay.
“No full serve,” Declan says with a sigh.
Shannon opens her door.
“Why are you getting out?” Amanda asks.
“Because Declan doesn’t know how to pump gas.”
Amanda snorts. “What?”
“Why is that funny?” I ask.
Dec cocks an eyebrow and gives Shannon a pointed look. “See?”
“You can’t pump gas, either?” Shannon asks me, incredulous.
“It’s not that I can’t. It’s just—why would I? That’s what Gerald and Lance are for. They keep the gas tanks full on all our cars. And now I have a Tesla.”
“This is what I have to look forward to?” Amanda mutters, opening her car door with a sigh. “I’ll help Shannon.”
“It takes two people to fill a gas tank?” I whisper to Declan.
He shrugs. “Guess so. I don’t know how it works. Once, I was in the limo when Gerald had to stop and refill it at a regular gas station and not at the Anterdec pump in the building garage. He did it alone.”
“But he’s a professional. It’s his job. I guess Shannon needs help.”
We shrug.
Declan twists in his seat and shakes his head, obviously enjoying my predicament. “What happened back there? Were you about to propose?”
I jolt. “How’d you guess?”
“Andrew, why the hell else would you be dressed like something out of a Masterpiece Theatre presentation?”
“Fine. Yes.”
“And?”
Damn. Better to get it out now while the women aren’t here.
“Don’t say anything to Amanda.”
“She said no?”
“I couldn’t ask her.”
“Lost your nerve?”
“No. Lost the ring and my key fob.”
“You what?” His eyes comb over me. “Holy shit. You re-created the pond scene from Pride and Prejudice? Complete with the Mr. Darcy swimming scene?”
“How do you know that?”
“You’re getting my backseat all wet, and because I’ve seen that stupid miniseries about ten times since Shannon and I got together. It’s on the Top 10 Period Weekend movie list.” He snorts. “You lost the ring? Lost it? Thank God you didn’t have Mom’s engagement ring after all.”
“Dec, you set the bar for proposals in this family pretty damn low. I have to thank you for that. I may have lost my car keys and my engagement ring in Walden Pond, but my woman didn’t end up in the Emergency Room.”
“Yet.”
“You’re such an optimist.”
“Realist.”
“Pessimist.”
“CEO.”
“So am I.”
He looks at my crotch and frowns. “Is something bad going on in your pants?”
“You’re stooping to penis jokes?” But he has a point. Walking has become increasingly painful. Sitting in this backseat is even worse. Professor Kensley-Wentingham’s warning dings in the back of my mind. Something about the pants being made in such a way that they should never, ever get wet.
Tears fill my eyes and I flinch as some short and curlies get caught in a seam while I try to get comfortable in this shitmobile.
“Dealing with some shrinkage?”
I give him a sharp look.
“I meant the fabric. It looks like it’s molding to your body. You’re a human papier-mâché.”
“Let me borrow your phone.” I don’t give him a choice, snatching it off the dash. “What’s Gina’s number?” I snap.
“How the hell would I know your admin’s—”
“Never mind.” One tap and Grace answers.
“Grace! Can you connect me to Gina?”
“Mr. McCormick? This is Denesh, from the temp agency. I am sorry, but Grace has left me with firm instructions that I am never to contact her for any reason, even if you offer me five-figure bribes.”
“Connect me to Gina San Giotti. She’s Andrew McCormick’s admin.” I’m talking about myself in the third person. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
“Yes, sir.”
One minute later.
“Yes?”
“Gina, it’s Andrew.”
“Yes, Mr. McCormick?”
“Get the theater professor on the phone for me.”
“Professor Kensley-Wentingham?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask the reason?”
“He’s about to lose reproductive abilities,” Declan calls out.
If I could stretch forward, I’d hit him, but self-preservation is a stronger instinct than anger.