Shopping for a CEO (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 7) (10 page)

I stare at Andrew’s last text. Our living room has an enormous mirror over the fireplace, and as a kid I used it to study myself. As I’ve aged, I look less often. Right now, though, I stand in front of it and really take a look at myself. Mom’s in her office, on a conference call for her job. I can hear intermittent typing as she takes notes.

Maybe I should be taking notes of a different kind.

My cheekbone is raw red, the nasty abrasion filling in with a few spots that will scab, but it mostly looks like a rug burn. My brown hair is wet and I’m wearing no makeup. I slipped into my comfortable jammies after my shower. Victoria’s Secret’s got nothing on flannel ducks. 

It’s like he’s in the room with me, staring back from the mirror. Not in some creepy supernatural way, but like I’m looking at myself through the eyes of Andrew McCormick, as imagined by me.

Which doesn’t make sense, but falling for someone never does.

I sigh. My wide eyes look back at me with an openness, a pleading, a question. Are you going to leap? Are you prepared to go splat, like Muffin would have if you hadn’t been there to catch her? Is Andrew the hawk and I’m the prey?

What will he do with me when he catches me?

Devour me or drop me back to earth?

Only one way to find out.

I pick up my phone and text him back.

* * *

I’m applying makeup for my nine o’clock date with Andrew when my phone rings. I’ve gotten accustomed to texting after being mercilessly teased by Shannon about my actual telephone calling habits, and the sound of my ringtone is jarring.

It’s Queen’s “You’re My Best Friend,” so it must be—

“You’re a YouTube sensation,” Shannon declares as I put her on speakerphone.

“I’m a what?” 

“Hashtags and all!” she crows. “Finally, I’m not the only one!”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, but I feel my voice fade as it dawns on me. All those people recording on their phones. “Oh, no. This is about Muffin, isn’t it?”

“Your hashtag is #doghater.”

“I have a hashtag? What?” 

“Welcome to the club. At least yours doesn’t involve the word poop.”

“Dog what? Did you say #doghater? How can I be a dog hater? I saved the dog!”

“That’s not what I saw. Mom saved the dog. You just threw rocks at it.”

“WHAT?” I’m applying foundation so thick it could be memory foam to cover up the abrasion on my cheek from dive-bombing to catch Muffin. “I injured myself rescuing that dog!”

“The videos show otherwise. They show you throwing rocks at the hawk, the creepy little man screaming for someone to help, my mom grabbing the little kid’s helicopter remote control, and then Mom saves the day. Videos end with the man cradling the dog.”

“I’ve been cut out of my own rescue video! That’s so unfair.”

“Why were you even out there? Who was that guy? Mom says you were on a date with him. He’s
sooo
not your type. I’m guessing this is part of that dog dating site?”

“Who, him?” I say breezily. “Oh, just some guy I met online.”

“You wouldn’t date a guy like that with a ten foot pole and a can of troll spray in your hand, Amanda.”

“Hey! That’s not nice. Jordan’s a sweet man.”

“I heard. Turns out he’s the florist Mom’s been whining about for the past six months. I think Mom only saved that dog so she could get him for my wedding.”

I finish with the foundation and look at myself.

Tears fill my eyes.

“Hashtag doghater? #Doghater? Who started that?”

“Who do you think?”

“Jessica Coffin?”

“Your Twitter best friend,” Shannon says with a grunt. 

“She’s passé. Like Ann Coulter. So self-absorbed she still thinks she’s important.”

“She still has lots of followers. People like snark. And poop, apparently.”

“But you’re not bitter.”

She snorts and sounds just enough like Muffin to scare me.

“Can you come over? I need help,” I beg. 

“Cheetos and marshmallows kind of help?”

“Getting ready for a date kind of help.”

“New guy? What’s his name? Shrek?”

“Andrew.”

“
Andrew
Andrew?”

“Yep.”

“He asked you out on a date?” Shannon’s obvious incredulity makes me laugh and cry at the same time.

“Yes.”

“A real date?”

“He asked me out for dinner.”

“Not just business?”

“No.”

“And not to talk about my wedding?”

Oh.

Hmm.

Hadn’t thought about that.

Spritzy comes into the room and licks my ankle. It stings. I look down. Another abrasion. Great. I bend down and give him loads of attention and even a kiss on the top of his head. Would a dog hater do that?

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“How can you get here in ten minutes?”

“I was already on my way.”

“Why?”

“Because Declan told me Andrew told him he’d asked you out.”

“You pretended you didn’t know?” I squeak. “Did he include a note with a checkbox that says Do you Like Me: Yes or No?”

She laughs. I laugh. I sniffle. I feel like Jordan suddenly.

“I’m almost there and I do have Cheetos and marshmallows.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank Declan.”

“Why?”

“He made me bring them. Said they’re disgusting and doesn’t want them cluttering the kitchen.”

“Tell him he doesn’t know what he’s missing out on.”

Chapter Twelve

When Shannon arrives, I’m surprised to see her actually driving. At the wheel of a Tesla. 

She emerges with a smile, carrying a plastic grocery bag.

I hug her a little tighter than usual.

“Nice wheels.” 

“Not mine. Declan’s new toy.”

“They’ll be half yours, soon.”

She punches me and rolls her eyes as we walk into the house.

“Shannon!” Mom emerges from her home office, a heating pad wrapped around her neck and shoulders. As she hugs Shannon, it starts to slide to the ground. I bend and grab it, my movement effortless and automatic. Mom once watched me do that and explained how jealous she was, knowing I was able to make my limbs move, my joints pivot and bend at will to accomplish a needed task, and to do so without pain.

I’ve never forgotten that moment.

“What are you doing here?” Mom asks, smiling at my friend. “And please excuse the mess!”

I look around the living room. There is a magazine on the coffee table. Otherwise, the house is spotless. Perfectly, utterly, obsessively spotless. Mom moves like a cleaning ninja to the coffee table and casually slips the magazine into the holder next to the couch.

As she lifts up from her slight crouch, her eyelids flutter, half-closed, her breathing hitched.

Pain.

What seems so easy for some people is an entire universe of complexity for others.

“Hi, Pam. I’m here to deliver Cheetos and marshmallows, and to help rescue Amanda from herself.” 

“In other words, the usual.”

The two laugh. Mom’s in good spirits today.

“Which movie are you watching?” Mom asks, then turns to look at me. She pulls back in surprise. “Look at you! You’re more beautiful than usual, aside from that nasty cut on your face.” She picks up Spritzy and gives him a kiss. “The cut was worth it. You were quite the hero today!” She gives me a big smile, then asks, “Are you two going out?” 

I hold my breath. I’m not sure what to say.

Shannon’s face splits with a huge grin. “Amanda has a date.”

“A
date
date?” Mom asks, stretching her neck. Her face goes tight with tension. It’s her muscles, and not me, that she finds troubling.

“I think so.”

“You think so?” Her voice goes high and reedy. She’s on edge again.

“It’s with someone I work with, Mom.”

“Not Josh? He’s gay, right? Or is he bisexual? Maybe that new sex thing you kids do.” Mom turns a furious shade of red. She can’t ask for toilet paper, and she just said the word
sex
.

Shannon and I exchange a look. “New sex thing?”

“Identity. I meant to say identity. I was just on a conference call working on insurance rates for people with nonconforming gender identity,” she says, her voice shifting from nervousness to authority as she talks about work. “And the consultants were explaining that gender and sexuality isn’t black and white like it used to be. It’s all shades of grey.”

“Fifty of them?” Shannon jokes.

Mom’s face goes red again and she won’t meet our eyes. “Not quite like that...that book.”

“Josh is gay, mom. Hard gay. Confirmed gay. Unyieldingly gay, so no, I’m not going on a date with him.”

“Not even a fake date?” Shannon jokes.

“Only if he fake pays.”

Mom’s brow creases, and not in pain. “Then who? Greg?” She bursts out laughing.

“Actually, it’s Andrew McCormick.”

“The closet kisser?”

“Yes.”

“He asked you out?”

“Yes. For dinner.”

“In a closet?” Shannon cracks up.

“At a restaurant.”

“And you...accepted?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because he’s treated you so shabbily! He kisses you and doesn’t call.”

She’s got me there.

Her eyes narrow. “You’ve kissed again.”

“Yes.”

“And this time he asked you out?”

“Yes.”

“Why the change of heart?” Her question is directed at Shannon. “You’re engaged to his brother. Do you know something we don’t?”

I bristle at the word
we
.

“Can we go back to talking about that kinky sex thing you were describing earlier, Pam? I’m still stuck on that,” Shannon says. 

“Not kinky!” Mom whispers the word. “Gender fluid. No labels. We were trying to determine life insurance rates and roll in gender and sexuality self-identification patterns for determining premium rates and it’s quite complicated.” 

Mom is an actuary for high-risk insurance populations and situations. Take a natural worrywart with a highly analytical mind and find a work-at-home job she can do while suffering from fibromyalgia.

Upshot: it pays well and uses a unique skill set Mom possesses.

Downside: she has some really irrational fears now based on statistics.

“What does gender fluidity have to do with me?”

“You
were
married to Shannon, after all, honey, for those mortgage evaluations.”

That joke doesn’t get old for everyone but me and Shannon.

I snake my arm around Shannon’s waist. “And she’s the best wife ever,” I say with a laugh as I tip her back and give her a fake kiss, one hand pressed over her mouth, my lips kissing the back of my own hand.

At that exact moment, the silhouette of a man appears at the open screen door.

“Hello?”

It’s Andrew.

I nearly drop Shannon, who begins laughing hysterically.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“Just kissing Shannon.”

“And not in a closet,” Mom mutters. I don’t know whether Andrew hears her, as Shannon is opening the screen door and giving him a hug right now. An insane cloud of jealousy strikes me, unfolding like Wolverine’s titanium claws sliding out, hidden but deadly. 

Where did that come from?

“Hello, Amanda,” Andrew says, eyes combing over me. Fortunately, I’m ready. Not having any idea where he’s taking me, I went for a smart casual, which means a huge upgrade from my normal fashion sense of shabby chic. I’m wearing an all-black suit made from a shiny silk-linen blend that I got from an upscale boutique mystery shop last year. No stockings. Mary Jane patent leather heels. Bright red dot earrings and red beaded necklace. Dark brown hair and red lips.

And a red shiner.

Concern reflects from those warm, brown eyes the second he sees my cheek. “What happened? Who did that to you?” He’s so fierce, his body tensing, that I almost wish I could name someone for him to go avenge me.

Alas...

“A teacup chihuahua named Muffin.”

He flinches, stepping closer, examining my eye. “I’d say you lost. The dog has quite a right hook.” As his fingertips gently brush against my jaw line as he leans in for a closer look. He smells like limes and cardamom, a fresh, slightly mysterious scent. 

“You haven’t seen him. I gave him a run for his money.” 

He smiles, but his eyes remain filled with worry. His hand drops from my face and I want it back. 

“Are you sure you’re fine for dinner? You could have texted me and postponed.” He bends down for a casual hug, his lips brushing against the skin below my cheek, the kiss a formality that makes me quiver.

Like Muffin.

With a politeness blended with unbridled charm, Andrew gives Mom his full attention. “And you must be Amanda’s mother. I’m so glad to meet you. Andrew McCormick.” He extends his hand, and I hold my breath. Most people think a strong handshake is a sign of good character, but for someone with fibromyalgia it’s a form of torture.

On the other hand, the limp fish handshake that some men extend to women isn’t exactly an improvement.

By watching Mom’s face, I can see he gets the balance just right. Her eyes comb over him, reading him carefully. Whatever she sees as they make a few sentences of small talk seems to please her while my brain turns into a Vitamix on High that drowns out their words.

He smells so good. An undercurrent of soap and leather fills my senses as he retreats. Mom and Shannon are watching us like television producers on
The Bachelor
. Every second feels both awkward and settled as I walk across the room to get my purse. I have no idea where we’re going, no sense of his expectations, I’m trying to rid myself of all of mine, and by the time I reach the front door he’s there, holding the screen door open for me, turning back to my mother.

“Nice to meet you, Pam,” he says with a radiant smile that makes her flutter her eyelashes and wave goodbye.

And then we’re stepping out into the twilight night, leaving behind a curious mother, a bemused bestie, and a plastic grocery bag full of what used to be my favorite thing to do on date night.

Chapter Thirteen