Shopping for a CEO's Fiancée
The ring is in my front pants pocket, safe and deep in modern, bespoke trousers. Fool me once, shame on Walden Pond.
Fool me twice, shame on me.
Ten minutes pass and my mind races through all the ways I’ll ask her. Imagining her face lighting up the minute the words are out of my mouth has become an endless movie reel in my mind, the flickering images like watching your life pass before your eyes.
Except instead of preceding death, it precedes pure joy.
A lifetime of it.
Now Amanda is twenty minutes late and the server pours my glass of wine. Might as well have a drink to loosen up. I’m sure she’s late, caught up with some last-minute task at work.
Nothing to worry about.
By seven thirty I break down and text her.
Five minutes of staring at the screen does not magically result in a reply.
“Andrew?” It’s Consuela, looking at me with an expression only older European women can manage, a mix between So delighted to spend time with you and I am so sorry your cat got run over.
“She’s running a bit late. Just texted her,” I say with confidence.
Feigned confidence.
Consuela bends and pours me another glass, smiling. “You have the ring?”
I pat my pocket for the umpteenth time. “Yes.”
“I knew when you brought her here for that first date, you know. That you would marry her.”
“You did?”
“Any woman you brought here who also likes cilantro had to be a good match.”
I groan.
“And I could tell by the way you looked at her.”
I’m halfway through this second glass of wine and I halt, our eyes locked. I set the glass down. “You could.”
“I could. And I was so relieved!” Her voice picks up volume and she sits in Amanda’s chair, pouring a mouthful of wine for herself, swallowing it. Animated eyes look back at me. “My God, child, you of all people need a wife!”
“Excuse me?”
“Andrew, you are the kind of man who cannot be alone.”
I frown. “What?”
“Most men are children, content to play with toy after toy, never happy with one that they can use their imagination to turn into a million different playthings.”
“But I’m not that guy.”
“No. You need one toy to open you to the richness of your inner world.”
“One toy.”
“One woman.”
“Amanda.”
“Yes?” The word comes from behind me, low and pleasant, curious and amused.
I jump in my seat, the hand holding the wine glass almost tipping, as Consuela looks up and gives Amanda a grin, standing with her arms open, welcoming my future wife with the kind of gentle openness and sophisticated grace that my mother would have extended to Amanda.
My shirt collar suddenly got tight.
“And now we can start dinner!” Consuela says, giving me a pointed look. “Something other than grapes.” She pours the rest of the bottle of wine into my glass and a fresh one for Amanda, and quietly leaves.
I stand and wrap my arms around Amanda, pulling her in to my chest, inhaling the sweet smell of her hair. She’s wearing a tight cream-colored dress and a lilac jacket, pearls and high heels, and she’s sweet and soft and warm and everything.
“I like this welcome,” she says to my chest. “I thought you’d be angry I’m so late. I had a work meeting with one of those people who wouldn’t stop asking questions that were just about them, and that the other forty of us on the call didn’t need to hear, and—”
I cut her off with a kiss. We kiss until she’s moaning in my arms, pressing against me to the point where I have to pivot so she can’t feel the very hard thing in my pants.
No. Not that.
The ring.
“I really like this welcome!’ she gasps, looking up at me with smiling eyes. “And this is nostalgic. Our first real date.”
“But not our first real kiss.”
“No,” she says, looking out at the cityscape. “That came more than two years ago.”
“Too much time wasted.”
A server delivers a breadbasket and oil, explaining the lavender and sage infusion origins as if I care. A strange chatter fills my mind, as if I’m simultaneously listening to an announcer do a play-by-play of every second of my life while living it.
I’m not nervous.
This isn’t anxiety.
I’m just hyperaware. It’s a skill.
“How was your day? Did the meeting with the Sultan go well?”
I crack a smile and watch her eat the bread. She has this cute way, breaking off tiny pieces, dabbing them in the oil until the piece is completely soaked, then sprinkling salt on it before eating.
I just drink my wine and polish off the bottle.
“Hey there, cowboy. Slow down.”
“Why? Gerald’s driving.”
“I haven’t seen you for nearly a week. I want you functional tonight.”
“Define functional.”
Her leer is all the answer I need.
“The Sultan? I know you were hoping for a win on that.”
“Actually, I have to thank Jessica for her help on that.”
Amanda drops the piece of bread between her fingers. It plops in the oil with a tiny drop of backsplash that lands in the web of her hand.
“Jessica?”
“Funny story. Her Twitter feed—the one I killed—may have helped me close a nine-figure deal.”
Amanda resumes her oil-soaked-bread lovefest. “Explain.”
Every move she makes is enchanting. Every word that comes out of her is intriguing. Has she always been so alluring, or are my senses heightened by the presence of the ring in my pocket? I felt like this at Walden Pond for a split second, but it was tempered by the silly pageantry of the Pride and Prejudice scene.