Shopping for a CEO (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 7) (19 page)

“Today?”

He nods. “I’ll be gone for a week.”

My stomach plummets with disappointment, but all say is, “Okay.”

“I want to see you when I get back. I wish I could take you with me.”

“I have to work.”
And go out on dates
, I think. My face must betray my thoughts, because he gives me a questioning look.

I stay silent. No point in telling him I’ll be going on six dates while he’s gone, right?

“Next Saturday, though, you’re mine.”

His words give me a jolt no caffeine could ever manage.

“And for the next thirty minutes, too,” he says, taking my hand and slowly walking me back to the bed.

Twenty minutes later, Andrew’s had breakfast in bed, too. I am a boneless collection of well-satisfied flesh, and the door buzzer buzzes again.

I groan. Andrew gets up.

And returns with a breve latte someone must have just delivered.

“Now that’s what I call breakfast in bed,” I say as I snuggle against him.

“I liked your version better,” he says, giving me a kiss.

By the time we shower and part ways, I realize I never did get a chance to go out on that beautiful balcony and take in the ocean air.

Oh, well.

There’s always next time.

Chapter Twenty

“You are sweating more than a woman in her third trimester of pregnancy in Texas in August.”

“I can’t help it if I’m a stress sweater!” Josh snaps back. “Some of you are stress eaters. I’m a stress perspirer.”

“It makes you moist,” I say, letting go of his hand. For the sake of this childbirth class mystery shop, we’re supposed to pose as a happy couple. Hard to do that when you’re holding hands with a gay man whose palm feels like a wet diaper.

“Don’t say ‘moist.’ I hate that word.”

It took nearly a month, but the childbirth class evaluation is in full force. Josh and I have to attend two of these four-hour classes here at the hospital with a birthing center attached, which means we get the most “natural birth”-oriented class in the city. Andrew is out of town—again—and I haven’t seen him for over a week.

Again.

That night he turned off his phone was the longest stretch of uninterrupted time I’ve had with him since we started dating. He’s supposed to come home today for some board meeting, but so far I haven’t heard from him since he boarded the company jet this morning.

Which means I’m cranky.

“Moist,” I hiss at my fake baby daddy. I am waddling down the hallway to the media room where our hypnotic childbirth class will be held. Josh looks like he’s afraid a giant vagina with teeth is lurking behind every corner, ready to jump out and eat him.

“Is this the right room?” he asks as we stop in front of the clearly-marked Hypnotic Childbirth class sign. His hand is over his eyes as he peeks out between fingers.

“It’s not like we’re watching
It Follows
or
Friday the Thirteenth
, for goodness sake,” I hiss. “It’s just the miracle of birth. And no one is going to ambush you with a beaver in the hallway.”

He wipes his inner elbow across his brow. “I’m sorry, Amanda,” he grouses. “We’re not all perfect little mystery shoppers like you. Frankly, this is freaking me out beyond belief and I really wish Greg could have done this with you.”

“Greg? As the father of my baby?” I caress the baby bump I’m wearing. It’s a weighted pillow underneath a maternity dress, with a layer of loose Spanx between the two. My hips widen as if I’m really pregnant, and I find myself waddling slightly. While I have a few friends from high school who have kids already, for the most part I’m surrounded by twentysomething and early thirtysomething friends and colleagues who remain childless so far. 

Other than Jeffrey and Tyler, I don’t spend time with kids. And no babies. So walking into the conference room where we will sit for this four hour childbirth class catches me off guard, as a giant watercolor painting the size of the entire wall hits me square in the face.

It’s an enormous, layered labia with a red rose coming out of the vagina.

“Oooo, Georgia O’Keeffe!” Josh exclaims, stopping short. His hand is on my elbow now. There’s a male possessiveness to the gesture that gives me pause.

“That’s not a flower,” I whisper. The labia are various shades of beige and mauve, with irregular lines that—

“Oh, my God,” Josh gasps, his grasp tightening. “Is that a vag? It’s the size of a Transformer.”

“It’s the newest female Transformer,” I whisper. “Vulvatron.” 

“But what does it transform
into
?” Josh asks, whimpering as he puts his hand over his mouth and grips my arm.

“Do you like the painting?” says a cloud of patchouli oil. “It’s one of mine.”  

We turn and look to our left to find the last hippie in all of Boston. No, really. She looks like someone age-lapsed a picture of one of the flower children at Woodstock and handed her a plastic baby doll with a...pelvis?

“Hi. I’m Sunny.” She reaches out to shake Josh’s hand. “Congratulations on your blessing.”

Her smile is radiant as Josh lets go of my elbow and shakes her hand. “I’m Josh. This is Amanda. My, uh, wife.”

That just sounds creepy now.

He puts his arm around my shoulder and looks at the wall labia with enormous eyes. “That’s quite a display.”

“Pussies usually are,” she says, reaching to shake my hand. “So powerful. So divine. So innately in tune with the essence of life and the spirit of oneness.”

I’ve read the Hypnotic Childbirth manual in preparation for this mystery shop, and while I know that the program encourages couples and teachers to use “natural” language, this takes me by surprise.

“P—P—P...” Josh sputters.

“Marie calls it ‘Chuckles’,” I whisper to him. 

“That really doesn’t help,” he hisses back. “Now I won’t ever be able to look at that stupid cat without thinking about—” he flails his hands toward the painting “—that.”

“It looks like everyone is here,” Sunny announces, holding up a clipboard. “My hospital board corporate overlords insist I take attendance.” No one laughs except for Sunny, who thinks her own joke is hilarious.

I realize that underneath the patchouli there is a distinct scent of something a little greener.

“We might have some mild interruptions from a big tour going on with the mucky mucks,” she adds as she briefly goes through calling out our names. She waves toward the window to the hallway. “Hospital donors. Something about a new cancer wing.”

We all turn to see a janitor pushing a mop bucket along.

“If they pop in here, just moan like we’re pretending to do controlled breathing for contractions and they’ll go away,” she says, drawing titters from the crowd.

“Please have a seat,” Sunny instructs us. I look around. There are no seats. Only backjacks, like at a meditation retreat, and a giant pile of pillows in the same shades as the labia on the wall.

“Partners, take a seat at the backjack. Mamas, grab as many pillows as you need to get comfy and sit between your partners’ legs.” I dutifully grab a pillow as I watch four other mamas in various states of pregnancy waddle over and grab four or five pillows.

Josh snickers. “This’ll be the first time I’ve had a woman between my legs.”

I whack him with the pillow.

“That’s right,” Sunny says dreamily. “This is all about fun. You had fun putting the baby in there, and we’re gonna make sure you have fun getting the baby out. It’s all a dance, people.” She shimmies her hips. “We’re dancing that baby out.” 

Josh looks up at me, his back nestled against the backjack, his legs scissored open like he’s taking a yoga class and starting to stretch.

I look around the room. There are a total of five couples. One lesbian couple, and four pairs of one man, one woman.

I climb between his legs and as I bend, my pregnancy pillow shoves up between my breasts.

“Breastfeeding comes
after
you’ve given birth,” Josh hisses.  

I turn toward him and hide my wardrobe malfunction, reaching up under my skirt to pull the pillow down. As I get it back in place and pull my arm out, I lose my balance and fall face-first into his crotch.

“I know I need to be a convincing hetero here, but you’re taking this a little too far, Amanda!”

I scramble up—to the extent that you can scramble with fifteen pounds of pillow attached to your belly—and as I turn around, I see a wall of suits in the window. Must be the mucky muck tour. As I straighten my dress and prepare to sit down, I make eye contact with a man in the crowd. 

It’s Andrew.

Who looks right at my belly.

And smiles.

“Sometimes the universe works in mysterious ways,” Sunny says, opening the class. “We can’t know what the divine goddess is thinking when she sends messages our way. All we can do is enjoy the journey.” 

Andrew looks at me and arches one eyebrow. Then he mouths the word “Work?”

I shrug.

He nods. The suits go by en masse, like a pack of gazelles. 

I hold up my hand to my ear and pretend it’s a phone.

He nods and turns away, talking to someone who looks like he belongs in a Fidelity Investments commercial.

Josh yanks my hand.

“Get between my legs,” he murmurs. “We’re supposed to be pretending.”

“If a woman’s between your legs, you’re
definitely
pretending.”

“Was that Andrew out there?” he asks, wrapping his moist arms around me. I lean back. Resting against his chest is like leaning back against a line of horizontal marshmallow roasting sticks. 

“Do you have an ounce of body fat on you?”

“No!” he crows. “Thank Crossfit. Isn’t it great?”

“You’re about as comfortable to snuggle with as a croquet set.”

“That’s not what my boyfriends say!” he retorts, a little too loudly. One of the other dads gives him a funny look.

Josh kisses my temple and says loudly, “I love you, honey.” He strokes my hair like he’s petting a chinchilla, then reaches down to stroke my belly. 

I shiver.

“You’re a really bad actor.”

“You’re a really bad pregnant woman. I wouldn’t trust you to raise a Sea Monkey.”

“Let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves, now that you’re snuggled into the arms of your love muffin,” Sunny announces.

Muffin. That’s what Josh reminds me of. He’s starting to shake, and he is about as soft as a hairless chihuahua.

“I’m Sunny. I’ve given birth three times and have two sons and a daughter. I had water births for all three, and my youngest was born in the ocean, with two dolphins as midwives.” 

“How do you get medical insurance to cover dolphins?” one of the expectant mothers asks. I snort, loving the sarcasm.

Everyone stares at me.

Oh. She wasn’t joking.

Sunny just laughs and smiles beatifically at her. “It’s your body. Your baby. You can give birth wherever and whenever you like.”

“Can you get an epidural in the parking lot?” another expectant mother asks. 

I can’t tell if she’s joking or not, so I don’t laugh.

Everyone else giggles.

Andrew’s in the window again. He waves. I swoon. 

Josh kisses my temple again.

Andrew glowers.

Introductions are made and Sunny moves on to the always-present birth video. You know the kind. The video of the couple arriving at the hospital, the mother wearing makeup and feeling twinges that will soon erupt into controlled groans of intense concentration, the cries of joy, ending with a baby at the breast and the requisite Mylar balloon bouquets brought by happy grandparents.

At least, that’s my understanding of birth from cable television reality shows.

The lights dim, and the movie starts.

“Why are we looking at someone’s toupee?” Josh whispers at the opening frame.

“That’s not a—” 

“
Aieeee!
” Josh squeals as it becomes apparent we’re looking at a crotch shot from 1973.

The frame changes and focuses on the silhouette of a very ripe, pregnant body, the woman wearing a diaphanous gown, her hair long and ribboned with white flowers.

If she weren’t pregnant, she’d look like an ad for a douche product.

“Childbirth is as natural as time itself,” the narrator declares.

“That makes no sense,” Josh complains in a whisper. “Who writes the scripts for this shit?” 

“You’re going to blow our cover,” I hiss. “You need to look like all the other partners.” 

Josh pretends he’s a deer caught in headlights.

“Perfect.”

“I love you, sweetie,” he says in a stage whisper, kissing my temple again.

“You touch my belly with that moist hand and I will make you massage my feet,” I declare.

Josh flinches. He hates feet. It’s an anti-fetish for him. 

A guy behind us taps Josh on the shoulder and says, with sympathy, “Pregnancy hormones are a bitch, dude.”

Josh nods and returns his eyes to the movie just in time for the frame to change to an anatomy drawing of a woman’s genitals.

Then a live-action picture of the same parts.

“Is it always so pink? And wet?” Josh asks under his breath. “Where does the wetness come from? Is it pee?” 

“The
moist
ness, you mean?”

Now I’m just being mean. I blame all the fake pregnancy hormones.

“Stop saying moist!” He looks like he ate a bad peanut. “Why is it so wet?”

“The vulva?”

“The vagina.”

“You’re looking at the labia, the vulva, and the clitoris. The vagina is the tunnel where the baby comes out.” I feel like a tour director on the Vagina Express. Greg does not pay me enough to provide sex education to co-workers. I should put out a tip can. 

“Where, exactly, is the clitoris?” Josh questions. 

“That’s what
every
man asks.” 

“How in the hell am I supposed to know? I’ve never seen one of these,” he bites back. “By choice.” He wrinkles his nose. “And now I know why.”

I snort. “As if penises are aesthetically pleasing.”

He looks offended. “What’s wrong with penises? Penises are awesome.”

“They have two looks. Deflated fire hose or Washington Monument wearing a firefighter’s hat. While they’re certainly useful and sensual and exciting under the right circumstances, they’re not exactly works of art.”