Shopping for a CEO (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 7) (26 page)

Oh. Wait. That’s not cotton. I guess his beard is mostly white, which is weird, because his hair is such a rich shade of auburn.

Marie turns an uncharacteristic shade of pink. She’s embarrassed. I didn’t think Marie was capable of embarrassment, much like the Queen isn’t capable of smiling without looking like she’s constipated.

“Um, we’re going to a mystery shop,” she says in a breathy voice.

Carol gives her the side-eye. “This mystery shop is one of Mom’s favorites.”

“A sex toy shop?” Jason asks, as if he were asking about a garden supply store or an insurance agent evaluation. The level of casual discourse we have these days about anal beads and dildos is disturbing, especially since I can’t talk about tampons with my own mother without needing smelling salts. 

“No. Even better,” Carol says in a voice filled with amusement. “A
department store
shop.”

Jason frowns. He’s picking up on the subtext. “What’s so special about that?” he asks Marie, who is avoiding eye contact.

“Nothing! It’s just a shop,” she murmurs, pretending to paw through her purse.

Carol seems to enjoy tormenting her mom. “This is a men’s clothing experience.” She looks at me. “From top to bottom.” 

My quizzical look must match Jason’s, because Carol bursts into laughter.

“It’s porn for women,” she says, as if that explains everything.

It doesn’t.

“Shopping for men’s clothing is porn for women?” Jason asks in an incredulous tone.

“Have you seen the men’s underwear display lately?” Marie bursts out. “All these models. David Gandy. David Beckham. All wearing underwear and nothing more and their pictures are on the posters and on every single package. It’s like they went and got Minions except instead of a crowd of little yellow beings staring at you, it’s thirty or forty pictures of hot men in underwear all asking you to touch them.” 

“Pick up their package,” Carol murmurs. Marie elbows her in the ribs as Carol giggles silently.

Jason just blinks, over and over.

“Hey, don’t judge. You have your Victoria’s Secret catalog obsession,” Marie says in a threatening tone. 

He throws his hands in the air, one of which is clutching a wrench. “I don’t judge, honey!”

“Then why the stare?”

“I was just thinking that you should stop teaching yoga classes and do this mystery shopping thing full time. It suits you better.” And with that, he walks over, drops the wrench, and bends her backwards, giving her the kind of kiss you see in old movie posters, the kind that curls a woman’s toes and makes her body melt.

I turn away.

Now
I’m
embarrassed.

“Get a room,” Carol mutters, clearly used to this. But I’m not. I’ve never seen my father kiss my mother. I don’t even have a memory of it. Not one, single mental image of my mom and dad touching. Ever.

Now that I know the full story about what happened with my dad, I find myself even more interested in watching men who are about his age. I’ve always struggled with the concept of a father. So many of the men in my life who represent dads are wildly different. James McCormick terrifies me. Jason is a cuddly teddy bear, but I keep my distance with him because, well, I’m not one of his daughters. He reserves a kind of overflowing love for all of them that stands out in stark contrast to what I don’t have.

I keep him at arm’s length because it’s too painful to think about sometimes.

I’ve told everyone the story my mom poured out after the baseball game, and Marie’s been more pleasant to her. Not just because Mom pulled strings to get the bagpipers from Carnegie Mellon, but because, as Marie put it, “Oh, lord, those hours of pure despair. That would shred anyone to the bone. I understand why she’s a hovermother now.”

Yeah. I guess I do, too.

“We’re going to stare at pictures of mostly naked men on underwear packages,” Carol says pleasantly, all dimples and blue eyes and blonde hair. “What’s your work day look like?”
 

“I am dating a man named Eagle,” I declare.

“Eagle?” Jason has pried his lips off Marie and is now looking through receipts on the table with the air of a man who needs a barf bag. “You’re dating a man named—sweet Jesus, Marie, you bought $3,100 worth of tartan ribbons?”

Marie bustles over to the table and physically blocks Jason’s access to the folders by shoving her ample boobage right in his line of vision.

“Don’t worry, Jason. It’s all covered.”

“We have a seventeen-thousand dollar budget and you’ve spent a fifth of it on
ribbons
?”

Shannon closes her eyes in resignation. The moment of truth has arrived. Turns out I’m not the only one hiding the truth from someone.

“Uh, Dad? Our budget is bigger than that.”

Jason frowns. “What do you mean? I took Carol’s wedding fund and split it between you and Amy and—”

“Anterdec is footing the bill, Dad.”

“Anterdec is
what
?”

Shannon and Marie share a look. “Right after Declan proposed, we had a meeting with James, who asked that this be a thousand-guest wedding.”

“A thousand?” Jason’s been involved in some of the details, but for the most part has been happy to let all the women in his life do their thing.

“Yes. And most of those are business associates. He said this will be great, free publicity for Anterdec and if we invite enough business colleagues it becomes a corporate write off.”

“The bastard coopted my own daughter’s wedding,” Jason fumes.

This, I know, is exactly why Marie and Shannon have kept things quiet, though at some point didn’t Jason question some of the arrangements, like the forty-one piece bagpipe band and the ice sculptor from Finland?

“We didn’t want to hurt your feelings, Daddy,” Shannon says, reaching for his hand. I turn away. It’s moments like that that make it hard to be around Jason. What’s it like to reach out and just touch your dad like that, with a father-daughter bond that has been forged by decades of love? 

“Why would you hurt my feelings? It’s obvious James McCormick has a bigger...wallet...than I do.” He sighs and swallows, hard.

“That’s not what this is about,” Shannon pleads.

“I know it’s not, sweetie. I do. I just worry that the love between you and Declan is getting lost in all the tartans and cake frosting flavors and elephant discussions.”

Shannon turns sharply to Marie. “Elephants?”

Marie shrugs one shoulder. “We thought about it. Bring you and Declan to the ceremony on an elephant, but mahouts are notoriously difficult and the dung is big and messy, and it turns out elephants don’t like to wear diapers.” 

“No elephants!” Shannon shrieks.

“Plus, they don’t make tartan-pattern elephant diapers, so—”

“What’s a mahout?” Jason asks. 

Bzzzz.

Marie and Carol look at their phones. “Gotta go! Our mystery shop reports are due by six p.m. and our boss is a real bitch.”

“Hey!” I protest. “
I’m
in charge of that account!”

Carol just laughs as they sprint out the door, leaving a puzzled, slightly hurt Jason.

“Cowards,” Shannon mutters. She looks around Command Central and shuffles through some papers. Frowns. 

“What?” I ask, afraid to do so, but...

“Mom has a deposit for that place. The one you went to,” Shannon tells me. 

“O? The stripper spa?” I’m surprised. Not shocked, though. 

“Yeah.”

“Oh, boy.”

“No. Just O.” 

Shannon makes a sound like Declan makes when he’s displeased with Marie.

“She’s sniping the bachelorette party.” I am stunned. I can’t say I’m truly surprised, because this is Marie, after all. The woman who is turning a cat into a flower girl and making the cat wear a kilt. 

“Oh, no, she isn’t.” Shannon’s expression is smugger than smug. “We’re outwitting her.”

“We are?”

“Let’s find a way around her. Swear Amy and Carol and everyone to secrecy.”

“Yeah,” I say. “About that. The, um, party list.”

“What about it?”

“Josh asked if he could go.”

“Why would we include Josh?”

“Because he likes male strippers, too? Plus he’s technically part of the wedding.”

“He is?”

“Marie made him web developer for your live streaming video channel.”

“My
what
? My wedding is being broadcast live over the Internet?”

“Yes. You even have corporate sponsors.”

“WHAT? Why would we need corporate sponsors when Anterdec is paying for everything?”

“Marie’s trying to get them to sponsor her live yoga channel after the wedding is over.”

“And no one told me any of this? I feel like Dad!”

“Ouch.” We share twin looks of horror because being left out of the loop is one of the most insulting actions you can take against a Jacoby woman. 

A soon-to-be McCormick woman.

“You’re telling me,” she says slowly, a sound of cunning permeating her voice as the gears turn, “that Mom already booked O for my bachelorette party.” She repeats what she knows as if chewing her way through the harsh reality. 

“Yes.”

“And Josh thinks he’s coming, too?”

“Mmmm hmmm.”

She blinks a few times, chewing on her lower lip. Then her mouth curls in victory.

“I know exactly what we need to do next.”

And when she tells me, I execute the plan to perfection.

Why?

Because this problem I can fix.

* * *

My final DoggieDate before Andrew gets home is an eight p.m. dinner date. My date was supposed to be an outdoor lunch on a marina in the Seaport district, but the guy canceled at the last minute. “Eagle” said he forgot a parole officer appointment and sent his apologies, and that Killer would meet Spritzy some other day.

Um, yeah.

Like never.

The new DoggieDate dude wants a dinner appointment, so here I am, waiting at a table in a rather elegant waterfront restaurant behind a glass wall. The night lights from the city and various boats along the wharf cast more bobbing orbs my way. I’ve been asked to bring Spritzy, who is resting comfortably in his little purse. Mom acquiesced when I explained it was a work issue.  

She wasn’t planning to leave the house anyhow, and while Spritzy isn’t technically a service dog, Mom won’t leave home without him. I once joked she should rename the dog American Express, but Mom didn’t laugh.

I slip Spritzy a tiny piece of bread and he munches down, happy.

I wish I could be made happy with a simple bite of bread.

I’m sickly aware of Andrew’s pending arrival in town and hoping to get through this dinner in two hours, tops, so I can go home to—

Andrew?

“Amanda?” he asks, standing a safe distance away from me. In his arms is a tiny little terrier wearing a pale green ribbon. The dog is freshly groomed and the incongruity of: 

a) Andrew standing there

b) a dog in his arms

c) Spritzy jumping up to hump Andrew’s ankle

makes the room spin for a moment.

“What are you doing here?” I hiss, searching the room for witnesses, as if Andrew might appear again like he did on my date with Chris and crash it.

“I’m your date.”

“You’re my date?” I fish around my purse for my DoggieDate paperwork and ignore Spritzy’s sexytime with Andrew’s wingtips. My mom’s dog is having more sex with Andrew than me. 

If Mr. Spritzy keeps this up, I’m going to have to offer him a cigarette. Whoa.

“Could you call your dog off?” he asks, gently nudging Spritzy off him. The movement just makes the little chihuahua redouble his efforts. “Spritzy has good taste, but I’m not a foot fetish guy.” 

I reach down and grab the little dog, tucking him back in Mom’s purse and shoving a thin breadstick at him.

“Who’s this?” I ask, seething but pretending to be someone capable of behaving in public without becoming a screaming banshee. My cover is clearly blown. Someone’s told Andrew the truth. I hope to God I don’t lose the account for the client and that Greg doesn’t fire me. Then again, I didn’t break any of my NDAs.

“This is my dog. Mr. Wiffles.” He is holding the calmest little Yorkie I have ever seen. Its eyes are sharp and alert behind long, beribboned hair that frames the most adorable face. Mr. Wiffles looks like something out of the Westminster Dog Show, like a well-pampered beast of luxury, and he’s sweet, to boot. 

“You have a dog?”

His eyes go shifty. “I do.” Andrew looks about as comfortable holding the dog as I do being naked in public.

“I’ve been to your apartment numerous times and never saw him.”

“He’s quiet. Well trained.” Andrew pats his head like he’s blotting a spot of ketchup off a shirt. 

I snort. Spritzy imitates me. Mr. Wiffles joins in.

“Andrew. I have stayed at your apartment for more than twelve hours at a time and never heard a dog.”

As I talk, Andrew takes a seat across the way from me. He sets Mr. Wiffles down on the chair next to him and pulls the linen napkin out, spreading it on his lap. Andrew’s basically acting like nothing’s wrong. Nothing to see here.

We’re just two nobodies.

With dogs.

He looks up, eyes hard yet amused. “How many dates?”

“How many what?”

“How many of these dates have you been on?”

“That is privileged information. And how did you find out about all this?”

His mouth tightens.

“I’m a smart guy.”

“What did you promise Marie in exchange for the info?”

He has the decency to pretend to be offended, then gives up the ruse. “I told her I’d make sure the guys go commando for the wedding.”

“How’d you get Declan to agree to
that
?”
 

“Don’t ask. But I’ll be spending a lot of time in Indonesia with tech support people next month.”

“You went through all that to stalk me?”

“I’d hardly call this stalking.”

I’m about to reply that this is, pretty much, the very
definition
of stalking when an enormous man who looks like an angry bear comes barreling through the restaurant like his ass is on fire. He’s dressed in well-loved Birkenstocks, a torn concert t-shirt, and jeans that look like they were being worn when Bruce Springsteen made “Born in the USA” a hit.