Shopping for a CEO (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 7) (14 page)

Ever.

Marie studies me, pursing her lips slightly. Her lipstick matches her earrings, a pale peach color that makes her look like a southern belle, coiffed and blessed with a genteel air. 

Until she opens her mouth.

“Sleeping your way into a job is nothing to be ashamed of. But sleeping your way
out
of a job is something to be proud of.”

“What?” This time, all four of us say the same thing. Even Chuckles has gained the ability to talk, Marie’s statement so ridiculous that it instantly catapults his frontal lobe into forming a speech center.

“Shannon’s working for Declan right now because he’s humoring her,” she says with a sigh, as if we’re her ignorant little minions and she’s extending her wisdom to us. “Once they’re married and having babies—”

Shannon pales.

“—she won’t be working. She’ll become a society wife and manage the children and host lovely weekend dinners with my grandbabies and we’ll be all over Boston Magazine and—”

“I’m not quitting my job to become a baby factory!” Shannon argues.

“Not yet,” Marie says casually, as if she didn’t just spin a tale of wish fulfillment that makes it clear she’s already planning Shannon and Declan’s kids’ birthday parties to look like Royal Family affairs and arranging playdates with Princess Charlotte for 2020.

“Never.”

“Everyone says never. I quit my job after we had Carol.”

Shannon goes quiet.

“And your father barely made anything. Those were lean years. You’ll never have to go through what we went through, honey. I know way too many recipes for Ramen noodles, potatoes and government cheese.”

This conversation, like so many with Marie, has taken a U-turn, two corkscrews, a sudden reversal and included a surprise sinkhole, along with nothing but one-way roads.

“I’m, um...right,” Shannon whispers, the wind definitely taken out of her outraged sails.

“And that’s how it should be. Now, about that rehearsal dinner party. Two weeks before the wedding should do it. We’ll invite all the groomsmen and bridesmaids. Parents. Siblings. I think it will be fun. Why don’t I just call Grace and get her to arrange everything?” Marie has Grace on speed dial now.

But Grace has Marie’s number set to dump directly into voice mail. Marie doesn’t know that yet.

“Um, no, Mom. I can make the arrangements.”

“You need to learn to let other people do these things for you. It’s one of the secrets of the rich.”

A chill runs through me. That’s exactly what I was thinking about last night with Andrew.

“Plus, I’m sure Grace will do a better job. You aren’t exactly polished, dear.”

“Huh?”

“When you have your friends over, Thai food and ice cream is fine. But an elegant dinner for twelve people means hiring caterers and taking this to a whole new level.” 

“Twelve?”

“Me. Daddy. James. Terry. Andrew. Carol. Amanda. You. Declan. Amy.”

“That’s ten.”

“Declan mentioned his delicious Scottish football-playing cousin as a groomsman. He’ll be in New York in two weeks for a photo shoot for
Sports Illustrated
’s naked athlete edition.”

The drool factor in the room just jumped by three thousand percent.

“That’s eleven.”

Marie looks at me and says, “And your mother.”

“My mother? Mom’s not in the wedding.”

An uncomfortable silence follows. “Actually, she kind of is, Amanda. I owe her a debt.” Marie’s uncomfortable. “So I’d like her there.”

“A debt?” I’m perplexed. “What did she do?”

“Bagpipes.”

“Bagpipes?”

“Your mother went to Carnegie Mellon University and she helped me to round up the twelve final bagpipe players we’ll need.”

“TWELVE?” Shannon roars. “Are you trying to have my wedding broadcast live to Scotland, without microphones?”

“Twelve out of forty-one,” I swear Marie whispers. But that’s impossible. Forty-one bagpipes? It’ll sound like Godzilla with a vibrator. 

“My mom helped with that?” I ask faintly.

“Yes.”  

Shannon turns away and picks up her phone. Within seconds she’s talking to Declan, her face turned down in a kind of dawning confusion, as if she wants to argue with her mother yet it slowly seeps in that maybe Marie has a point. While she speaks with Declan in hushed tones, I watch Marie’s hands manipulate all the paperwork she’s brought with her, writing check marks on some papers, shaking her head while reading others, and slipping estimates into folders marked Yes, No and Maybe.

Within minutes, Shannon’s off the phone, her face filled with shock.

“Declan,” she says slowly, “agrees with Mom.”

“Did he recently experience head trauma?” Amy asks, her face lined with concern. 

Marie gives her a sour look. “I do have good ideas sometimes.” She’s holding up a sample piece of McCormick tartan fabric against Chuckles’ haunches.

Chuckles gives her a look that says,
Not really
.

“He’s having Grace arrange everything,” Shannon adds as she descends, slowly, into an arm chair, sinking into the upholstery with the air of someone hearing bad news. “He said I just need to give her a few basic ideas and she’ll manage the rest.”

“Told you.” Marie’s words are so smug it’s like she’s channeling Donald Trump. “Let’s make a Pinterest board for your rehearsal dinner party!”

See?

Pinterest really is the tool of Satan.

My phone buzzes.

“Is that Andrew?” Marie asks with a leer.

I look.

“Yes.”

His text reads, simply:
Tomorrow. Nine p.m. I’ll pick you up
.

My reply is one word.

You can guess what it is.

Chapter Sixteen

The Pinterest board Shannon makes for the big rehearsal dinner party starts to look like every episode of
Kitchen Confidential
shoved in a blender and poured over mashed potatoes. After a while, I give up looking. At one point, someone pins a picture of a can of ball sweat powder in there. 

Whoops.

I spend the day alternating between freaking out about tomorrow’s date (hint: the word was yes), wondering how Shannon’s going to pull off a fancy dinner party (her idea of “elegant” is adding guacamole to her taco order at Chipotle) and thinking about Amy’s offer to move in with her.  

I mull over all this as I struggle to fall asleep, slumber finally overtaking me, my stupid naked-in-public dream—the one I’ve had for more than twenty years—making its boring old appearance, yet forcing me awake in darkness, clutching the sheet to my chest, my skin crawling.

I look at the clock.

6:13 a.m.

I slump back on the pillow and will my heart to slow down. Remarkably, it listens.

If only Andrew McCormick were so easy to tame.

By 6:21 a.m. it’s hopeless. I pad downstairs in search of caffeinated relief.

“What does your day look like today, honey?” Mom asks. She’s up and showered, drinking coffee in front of her tablet, which bodes well. Maybe she’s coming out of this pain flare.

“Oh, the usual.” I grab my phone and look at my schedule. “I have to go on a date with a man who breeds German shepherds. Then I need to get the oil changed on the Turdmobile, talk with Greg about a new account we have at a hospital, and do a special sex toy shop with Marie.”

Her hand twitches at that last comment, sloshing coffee onto the table, which she cleans up before I can even take a single step. Paper towel, wipe, in the trash—
bam!
 

Mom’s a cleaning ninja. An OCD cleaning ninja.

“What about you?” I ask her.

“Spiders.”

“Spiders?”

“My entire day involves assessing spider bite and injury risks for a movie set that involves using more than five thousand live spiders for a scene.”

Spiders. I shudder and say, “Did you know that the average person eats eight spiders a year?”

She sighs. “No. That’s not true. That’s one of those Internet memes someone made up and now everyone accepts it as fact.”

“Whew.” I push the buttons on the coffee machine and wait for my morning cup.

“However, you do eat ground up cockroaches when you drink most coffees.” She picks up her mug and holds it out to me with a gesture of
Cheers
. 

My stomach lurches.

“What?” Being the child of an actuary has its downsides. This is the single worst incident, though, by far. You will pry my coffee from my cold, dead, non-twitching hands.

“That is true.”

“You’re making it up!”

She taps her tablet screen a few times and brings up a story from NPR about...cockroaches in ground coffee.

If NPR reports it, it must be true.

I let out a little scream. The scent of my freshly brewed cup wafts across the kitchen like an instrument of torture.

“But we’re fine.” Mom makes a point of taking a huge gulp from her mug. “As long as you use whole beans and grind them yourself, you aren’t eating bugs.”

I grab my cup of ambition and take a sip. Ah, what the hell. Life is full of risk.

“You have the best job ever, Mom.”

She bursts out laughing. I like the sound. Her face turns ten years younger and she relaxes, her body changing. People have told me my entire life that I look like my dad. Mom is shorter than me and rail thin, with one exception: wide hips that mold into what a friend’s father once called an “ass that belongs on Jane Mansfield,” whoever that is. 

“I think
you
do, Amanda. Massages and free oil changes and a free car and restaurants and hotels.” She pauses and squints. “Minus the, um...”

“Dildo shops?”

“Amanda!”

I laugh. She’s so easy to embarrass.

“What’s your evening like?” she asks. “There’s a sing-a-long for
Grease
at that wonderful old film house in Arlington.” Mom loves show tunes and for some reason,
Grease
and
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
are her absolute favorites.

I freeze.

“Amanda?”

“I, um, have a date.”

“Another doggy date? Or with Andrew? He seemed fine enough.”

Do I lie? It would be so easy to lie right now. And
fine
? Andrew is so much more than fine.

“With Andrew.”

Her eyebrows go up. “An actual date? Not in a closet? He must like you. Or maybe he’s making up for lost time after ignoring you for so long.”

Bitterness, meet Mom.

“We’ve talked that through.” Not really, but a defensiveness is rising up in me. 

“Good. I hope if I’ve taught you nothing else, I’ve imparted the idea that you don’t let men walk all over you.”

No. You let men walk
out
on you
.

I don’t say that. It’s one of those statements that cracks an emotional planet in half and you can’t find enough superglue to put it back together.

Ever.

I cannot think about this right now. I have work to do, mystery shops to manage, dogs to date...er, dog
owners
to meet, and for the next twelve and a half hours I have to try desperately not to think about whether to sleep with Andrew McCormick tonight.

That alone is a job itself. A pretty major one. 

The not thinking about it part. Not the actually sleeping with him part. That’s not a job. That’s a pleasure.

And here I go...thinking about him.

“Gotta run, Mom,” I say, stuffing all my emotions into my chest and trapping them there with a big, deep breath. They line up neatly on the shelf inside me, dutifully color-coding themselves and categorizing. Compartmentalizing.

Maybe Andrew and I aren’t so different after all.

* * *

“Amanda!” Greg bellows as I walk into the office. He’s sitting in the reception area with Josh, who looks like someone made him stick his tongue in an electric socket. “You’re pregnant!”

“I’m what?” That’s news to me, and I think I’d know long before Greg.

He thumbs toward Josh. “And he’s the father.”

I laugh. “That’s not possible, Greg. Josh is gay.”

“Gay men can sleep with women,” Greg insists. “My Uncle Angus did for fifty-seven years while he was married to Aunt Joy.”

“I’m Gold Star Gay,” Josh whispers.

“They give out gold stars for it?” Greg asks, incredulous. “Like, a secret society?”

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s like the AARP. One day the card just comes in the mail and you wonder how they know you qualify.”

Greg frowns. “We don’t get gold stars for being straight. I don’t understand.”

Josh rolls his eyes and rallies, the shade of green in his face replaced by a healthy glow. “Gold star gay men are men who’ve never slept with a woman.”

“Never?” Greg asks. I can tell he’s trying to keep his incredulity out of his voice. He accomplishes this by grabbing a donut from the box Carol brought in yesterday and shoving the entire thing in his mouth.

Josh shakes his head.

“Mmmmf evermmmmf?” Greg says. Or tries to say. I’m not sure what he actually says, because I’m dodging the spray of rainbow sprinkles coming out of him.

“Nope. Never.” Apparently, Josh can understand the universal language of Donut.

Greg swallows in one giant gulp, like a snake eating a mouse. He sniffs, then looks at me. “Does that make me Gold Star Straight?”

“Huh?” Josh and I ask in unison.

“If I’ve never slept with a man,” Greg says slowly, contemplating the issue while picking crumbs off his tie and licking them from his fingers, “then I’m Gold Star Straight.”

“He’s got a point,” I admit, giving Josh a look that says,
They don’t pay us enough for conversations like this
. If any topic can cure me of my obsessive thoughts about sleeping with Andrew McCormick, it’s this one. 

“That’s not how it works,” Josh says in a grumpy voice. 

“Why not?” Now Greg is indignant. “You get gay marriage now. We should get our own gold stars. I want a gold star.”

Josh is speechless. I am struggling to decide whether I would rather go on another date with Mr. Anal Gland Hands or spend one more minute hearing Greg talk about his sex life.

Anal glands for the win.