Page 11 of Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee
It’s good to be the king.
I can’t get back to her fast enough, the water welcoming me, the knowledge that we’re alone and will not be disturbed a titillating, erotic secret that makes me so hard I ache. She’s in my arms and I’m kissing her, bare, wet skin dominating every second, and if I can’t get inside her soon, I’m going to die.
Bang bang bang
“Amanda?” shouts a familiar voice. “Amanda? I heard you and Andrew are looking for me?”
Marie.
“Oh, God,” Amanda groans, the sound hot and tortured against my mouth, her tone matching my erection’s voice. If it had one, it would sound exactly like Amanda, and why not?
Her mouth is pretty much where I’d want it to learn how to talk.
“Ignore her,” I hiss.
Bang bang bang
“Amanda! Chuckles is here and he really misses you, and Pam’s worried about you. She’s in her hotel room and doesn’t feel well. If you’re in there, it’s okay. I’ve seen you naked plenty of times before. It’s nothing special.”
Amanda rolls her eyes.
“It’s everything special,” I rumble in her ear, my hands all over her as goosebumps pop up where my touch lands.
“I am about as aroused as a woman at a gynecologist’s appointment.”
I’m confused. “Give me a sense of where that falls on the arousal spectrum.”
“Unless you’re a fetishist, it means I’m about as dry the Sahara now, Andrew. Having Marie pounding on the door while you pound me isn’t my idea of sensual.”
And that single sentence makes me go soft.
“Okay, then. Arousal spectrum calibrated.”
Damn it.
“Go away, Marie!” I shout.
“But you said you wanted your marriage licenses!”
I’m up in a flash, across the room, opening the door. I’m wearing wet boxer briefs, but no worries. It’s not like anything’s being outlined right now, other than a package of unfulfilled expectations.
“Did you file all those marriage licenses last night?” I demand, in her face, furious and self-righteous. They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but hell really hath no fury like a guy with a boner untapped.
The hell drains into the balls and turns blue. All those pictures of a red devil? Nope. Should be blue.
“Did I...what?”
Amanda picks up her wet shirt and wraps it around her chest like a bandage. “Hi, Marie. Did I really marry Chuckles last night?”
She sounds so defeated. I become angrier.
“No, honey. The people at the Love Me Tenderly drive-thru wedding chapel said even they had standards.”
Amanda’s sigh of relief goes straight to the root of my heart.
“Did you seriously think that you married that damn cat?” I ask, unable to keep the outrage out of my voice. This should be funny. It would be funnier if I weren’t standing in a misty hot spring wearing wet underwear, skin screaming and body buzzing, my ring catching on the elastic waistband of my briefs while I plant my hands on my hips and glare at everyone.
“I didn’t really think so, but it doesn’t hurt to know I’m not Mrs. Charles Kulls!” She looks wounded, but a bitter beast inside me sets that aside. I’m spiraling through rage that needs to be expressed, frustration at being out of control, like a monster that has discovered the bolt attached to his chain is loose in the stone wall.
“Didn’t the Supreme Court make inter-species marriage legal last year?” Marie asks.
“Shut up!” Amanda and I shout in unison.
Marie cowers. Good.
“Where are the marriage licenses?” I demand.
Her eyes go wide and shifty at the same time.
“How would I know? Is that why you’re looking for me?” She laughs nervously.
“Kari told us she saw you holding one of them, and the rest were in your purse.”
Marie’s eyes land on my left hand, then jump to Amanda’s. “You want to know if you’re married to each other.”
“Or anyone else,” I snap.
Her throat moves as she swallows. She’s in her fifties and done to the nines, all makeup and hair product and style. Unlike most of the older women I associate with, Marie doesn’t broker in aloofness, using sophistication as leverage against a world that quietly dismisses them as washed up.
She’s bold and weird, flighty and unpredictable, and that combination makes me seethe.
She’s cagey. This does not add up.
“I did exactly what you asked of me last night,” she says slowly, backing out the door.
I rush her, planting one palm on the doorjamb, stopping her from exiting. Water from my legs drips on her shoes.
“Define that.”
“Define what?”
“What did we ask of you last night?”
Her eyes ping between me and Amanda, who has her back turned to us, her arms like noodles as she tries to dress.
Silence.
“Damn it, Marie, are we married to each other?”
Marie’s eyes narrow, then soften, telescoping as she focuses on my face, then on Amanda, over my shoulder.
“Do you want to be?”
“That’s not the question!” Amanda shrieks, turning around, her shirt buttons in a crooked line between her breasts. “What did you do with those marriage licenses, Marie? Were they real?”
“Oh, yes. We all went down to the Regional Justice Center downtown and you pulled them.” Marie has sidestepped the real question here, and I give her just enough rope to hang herself. Intuition plays a major role in business, and right now she’s setting off every alarm bell inside me. But for what reason?
“We really did have a marriage license made up?” Amanda squeaks, pointing between us.
“Yes.”
Marie’s not the one-word-answer type. I approach her slowly, chin down, eyes up, sending every intimidating signal I can.
“Start from the beginning.”
“What?”
“Tell us exactly what happened last night, from beginning to end.”
“I don’t have time! Jason’s waiting for me back in our room. Our flight leaves in less than an hour. Carol and the boys are already boarding!”
“Are you taking the Anterdec jet?”
“Yes.”
I reach for the phone. “Easy. I’ll have them hold it.”
“But Jason needs to get to work tonight! So does Carol! And Jeffrey and Tyler have missed school.”
I smile.
Leverage. Ah. That’s so much better.
She sees it, too, her shoulders slumping, her breath let go in a long sigh. “Fine. I confess.”
“You did file the marriage licenses?” Amanda says with a groan.
Tears fill Marie’s overdone eyes. She palms away one rolling drop. “I’m so sorry.”
“Are we married to each other?” I ask, pointing to Amanda.
Marie shakes her head.
“Shit!” The word’s out of my mouth before I can stop it.
“Am I married to Josh?” Amanda asks.
Marie shakes her head.
Amanda fist bumps me, then freezes. “Is Andrew married to...Josh?”
Marie shakes her head. She’s being way, way too quiet.
“Am I married to Rainbow Brite?” I ask.
Marie shakes her head.
“Marie, who is married to whom?” I ask tightly.
Her hands cover her eyes and she says, “I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” over and over, rocking against the bamboo-covered wall.
Amanda and I exchange a look. I convey, through a single glare and a sudden eye tic, the message that dragging the truth out of Marie is Amanda’s territory.
“Marie, what did you do?” she asks.
“It’s what I didn’t do! You clearly wanted me to file those marriage licenses, but it was late and I was tired, and I’m so sorry!” She reaches into her enormous purse and pulls out a sheaf of thick papers, mangled and stained with reddish-purple wine rings.
I snatch them up, rifling through them. I learn something new.
When drunk on entheogenic wine, I spell my name Ayndrough. That’s my handwriting. No denying it.
Amanda correctly spelled her entire name, but saw fit to draw pictures of butterflies with enormous, anatomically-correct penises and balls attached.
“The state of Nevada issued these?”
We have licenses for:
Amanda and Ayndrough
Josh and Geordi
Amanda and Charles Kulls
Josh and Ayndrough
Geordi and Josh
Josh and David Gandy
“Pfft. Right. Like David Gandy would ever marry him,” Amanda says.
I laugh.
“Because if anyone’s marrying David Gandy, it’s me.”
I stop laughing.
“I’m so sorry!” Marie cries.
“Why are you sorry?” Amanda asks.
“Because I didn’t file any of these!”
I frown at her, completely stymied. “You think we’re upset at you for not filing these marriage licenses?”
She grabs them back. “If I rush, I can get there in time for—”
Amanda yanks them out of her hands and flings them into the hot spring.
“You’re our hero, Marie!” she shouts, pulling Marie into a tight hug.
I blink over and over, staring at the papers on the water as the saltwater soaks in, turning them to wet, sopping messes.
Which one is ours?
Not that it matters.
I wade in, mop up the useless pieces of paper, and wade back out, marching to a trash can and throwing them in. Staring at the clump of paper, I sigh.
We’re not married.
I’m not married to anyone.
