Shopping for a CEO's Fiancée
It feels exactly like the moment I slide into her when we’re making love.
Magnified by infinity.
“I never have to wonder again,” she whispers, her tone filled with the same marvel that overflows from my blood.
“Me neither.”
“I knew, you know,” she says into the darkness. “I knew the day you kissed me in your office.”
“Me, too.”
“We’re nobody. There’s a pair of us,” she gasps.
“Shhhh,” I say, “Don’t tell.” And then we silence each other with a kiss that seals the deal. Forever. It’s done. I asked, she answered, and the search is over. It’s been over for two years.
I just didn’t know it until I almost accidentally married her in Vegas.
This time is no accident.
Tap tap tap.
“Andrew? Amanda?” It’s Consuela. “I know the rooftop is a bit small for a large party like this, but Andrew has already tested my patience with his cilantro ban. I refuse to serve you in a garden closet as well. I have standards.”
I grab the doorknob and slowly crack the door open to find an audience of faces we know and love surrounding us.
And Declan’s there, too.
Behind the crowd, the white string of holiday lights provides a warm glow against the panoramic view of the city by the port, the moon’s glow infused with a happiness I don’t remember noticing before.
“Where’s the ring?” someone shouts, and Amanda holds up her left hand, diamond facing out. My eyes catch the glitter of light on metal.
Two months ago, I saw sunshine dancing on a different ring on her hand in bed in a hotel room in Las Vegas.
I like Boston moonlight on this ring even more.
Chapter Twenty-One
The engagement party is over. Everyone enjoyed a night of food and wine, and at some point, Consuela hired a piano player to come and we even danced, Dad twirling Pam, Amanda awkward in my arms. “I’ve never actually dance danced with a guy!” she protested, as the piano player pounded out some old dance hall tunes. All the dance lessons Mom forced me to attend came to fruition, Amanda’s body light and fine in my arms, even as she stepped on my feet. Shannon giggled as Declan led her through their own clumsy steps, while Josh turned Terry’s offer down with a blush and a stammer that made Terry’s sonic boom laugh appear.
And then Terry hogged our women, proving just who really is the best dancer out of all the McCormick brothers.
Dad showed him up, though.
Yes, we’re a competitive bunch, but I’m the winner tonight.
The true winner.
My fiancée and I are home now, exhausted and exhilarated. My place. I have to stop calling it that. Now it is our place.
Amanda’s work outfit hangs in the closet. Her toothbrush is on the counter in my bathroom, along with hair-styling crap and a bunch of creams that smell good but that she doesn’t need. She’s beautiful and perfect right out of the shower, no artifice, no adaptation.
Just as she is.
Naked and real.
Like right now.
Amanda and I are in that space that you learn exists only when it finds you. No amount of searching helps you to locate it. This space appears at the intersection of awareness and volition, of love and permission.
Where the wiser mind waits patiently, waiting for you to visit.
We stand at the edge of the bed, the slider door open, the ocean air tickling our bodies. The same air that welcomed Amanda’s yes at Consuela’s rooftop restaurant just hours ago is joining us in this deeper yes here in my bedroom.
Our bedroom.
Her hair falls in straight lines, ending with a slight curl at her shoulder, framing a face with eyes that look at me from galaxies afar. I stare openly, my own eyes eager to take her in, watching my hand as it cups her jaw, feeling the enormity that comes from knowing my skin touches hers, and that we are bonded forever.
Such a revelation seems both impossible and inevitable, a paradox I only reconcile when she kisses me, standing on tiptoe, the press of nude flesh against nude flesh a startling reminder that this is really in the moment. It unfolds before me like an hourglass clock, each grain a kiss, a sigh, a breath.
Moonlight shines on her ring. Soon I will wear one, too. My thumb finds the soft spot at the base of my left ring finger and worries it. Not much longer, I tell myself.
Soon.
“You proposed,” she whispers, her smile a universe of its own. “We’re getting married.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be your wife.”
“Yes.”
“Amanda McCormick,” she says, as if trying on the name like a dress in a store.
I relax. “Sounds perfect.” My body moves closer to hers, seeking the softness, but without urgency.
“You want kids.”
“Yes. 6.5,” I joke as I just watch her.
“Split the difference between four and nine?”
I shrug.
“Maybe we should start practicing now.”
“You told me maybe isn’t part of my vocabulary.” I move her back against the bed so she drops, sitting on the edge, and we love in long, languid shifts until we’re lying parallel to each other. Her breasts drop to the bed cover, gravity pulling them the way Amanda pulls me to her, making me change shape. We’re open and on display for each other, hiding nothing, baring all.
We are real.
“When you touch me,” she says in a low, strong voice, “all the pieces of me that hum throughout the day go silent. All the chatter in my mind halts. You ground me, Andrew. You fix me.”
“Fine praise coming from a true fixer.”