Page 20 of Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee
The door flies open and I’m face-to-face with him, looking down slightly. He’s covered in little smears of colored paint, his hair streaked with occasional long strands of grey, and he hasn’t shaved in forever.
Wild brown eyes meet mine.
“What’s wrong? Is it Dad or Dec?”
“What?” I slide a hand into the front pocket of my suit trousers and hold my clenched fist in there. “What are you talking about?” My other hand holds a bottle of Terry’s favorite wine. At least, Grace told me it’s his favorite.
Terry’s breathing hard, looking like someone who just sprinted across a basketball court. “Did something go wrong with Dad? Is Declan hurt?” He’s always had this crazy-deep voice, something I envied when I was an awkward teen who hadn’t gone through puberty yet, when I was all paws and gangly limbs but could still qualify for the Vienna Boys’ Choir.
“Why would you think that?” I ask slowly.
“Andrew,” he says, the single word ringing out like a low gong. “You’ve never been to my place. Ever.”
“I was here,” I protest. “To see that tribute painting to Mom.”
He frowns. “That was eleven years ago. You couldn’t grow a mustache back then.”
I resist the urge to touch my chin in protest. “Right. But I was here.”
His eye roll is epic. Ah. There it is.
The resemblance to Declan.
“No one’s hurt?”
“No. I tried to call. It went to voicemail.” Like it always does.
He grimaces. “You’re here because....?”
I hold out the bottle of wine, wrapped in a handmade fabric sleeve with a handle. “To get to know my brother better.”
His eyes narrow and he chuckles. It feels like boulders rolling down a mountain.
“I’ll take the wine, and come on in, but you’re setting off all my Stranger Danger alarms.”
The scent of old wood and fresh paint fills the air as I follow Terry up a set of gleaming, varnished stairs. The window at the top of the landing is stained glass, a modern abstract combination of colors I didn’t know glass could hold, vibrant reds and near-neon greens. Another short set of stairs and we’re in an open, loft-like room with a kitchen set-up against one wall, the ceiling soaring to a tall inverted V, support beams crossing the entire room. Dried herbs and various stained glass ornaments hang from all the beams, many of them containing lights.
And the furniture is, well...what the hell is this?
Terry goes to the kitchen—if you can call it that, with speckled granite counters atop wide barn-wood cabinets, the length of the fridge, oven, sink and dishwasher about the size of one of Dad’s limos—and searches through the drawers for a corkscrew.
“Have a seat,” he says.
I look at the furniture.
“Where?”
His laugh rumbles again, like stones in a clothes dryer.
His living room is one wide-open space, with an easel and a workbench by an enormous window at the peak of the front of the house. Three huge area rugs cover the floor in primary colors, thick shag. Red, blue, and yellow.
And surrounding those carpets are beanbags.
That’s right.
Beanbags.
“You run an unlicensed day care center from your home, Terry? Is that how you supplement your income? I know you can’t live off the money from Mom’s family trust alone.”
He snorts. “Of course I can. It’s more than triple the average income in the United States, Andrew.”
I know damn well how much it is, and I also know you can’t live on that amount. It wouldn’t even cover the mortgage on my condo in the Seaport District.
If I had a mortgage.
“What’s with the beanbags?”
“Sit before you judge.”
“I’m not judging.”
“Right. Of course you’re not. You’re just looking at my apartment with a discerning eye. Not judging at all.”
“Exactly.”
“You are Dad’s little mini-me, aren’t you?” he says with a laugh.
I stiffen.
Then drop.
“What the hell is this?” It’s an enormous beanbag chair the size of me, about seven feet long and three feet wide. Bright red. It molds to my body as I sit on it. Terry moves behind me and pushes on it, turning it into a big pile of something that gives me back support and is comfortable.
He names a brand.
“The place with the store at the mall? That’s what all of your furniture is?”
He grins, handing me wine in a glass that has been hand painted to look like stained glass. “Yeah. It’s comfortable as hell.”
“It is,” I grudgingly admit, yanking on my trousers at the thigh to give the boys some room. I didn’t dress for sitting like this.
“Let’s toast,” he says, dropping into a blue beanbag with a lithe grace that belies his larger frame. “To not being married to a cat!”
I groan. “You heard?”
“I was there for part of it, Andrew.”
“You were?”
“You don’t remember?”
“My memory has decided to be selective.” I sip the wine. “And I assure you, this wine is not entheogenic.”
“Nor homeopathic?” he jokes.
“Just grapes.”
He crosses his legs and laughs.
Something behind me makes a jingling sound, and then a pile of ribbon and hair plunks itself in my lap, wriggling. Two serene brown eyes meet mine and a pink tongue starts licking my chin.
I nearly tip backwards.
“Mr. Wiffles!” Terry booms. She completely ignores my brother. Yeah, she. Terry has a long, ridiculous story involving a modest Amish teen girl breeder who picked the dog’s name without ascertaining the true sex, but I blame Terry for being that weird.
“How’s your transgendered dog?”
“She’s fine,” he grunts.
I pet her with my free hand and make a note to have Gina prepare a fresh suit for me. “She misses me.”
“Then it’s Stockholm Syndrome, Andrew. You stole her from me last spring.”
“Borrowed.”
“Semantics.”
“Truth.”
“Speaking of dogs, how is Amanda?” He raises his eyebrows and takes a sip.
I choke on my wine.
He pauses, frowns, and bursts out laughing. “Oh, man, that sounded awful, didn’t it? I don’t mean she’s a dog. In fact, she’s gorgeous. You picked a hot woman.” He holds his hands up where his breasts would be if he had them, and wolf whistles.
“You’re not doing a good job of digging yourself out of that hole, Terry.” I simmer, tongue rolling in my cheek, wine gone to vinegar in my mouth.
Terry sighs. “You invented that hole. I’m just trying to have a nice conversation with my brother, who never visits, while we dance around the real reason you’re here.”
“Insulting my girlfriend isn’t a great start.”
“When I said speaking of dogs, I meant that Amanda reminds me of dogs—” He holds up one palm to stem my protest “—because of her rescue of so many, and her mom’s little teacup Chihuahua.”
I give him a gimlet eye. “Right.”
“Convinced?”
“No.”
“You’re so uptight. Always have been. Even as a little kid.”
Great. Here it comes. The big brother who knows all because of age.
Mr. Wiffles moves out of my lap and trots to a water dish under the counter. The sound of lapping fills the silence between Terry and me.
“I’m here because I need advice.”
A man with a voice like Terry’s shouldn’t be capable of hooting.
“You what?”
“Declan is on his honeymoon, and my trainer isn’t exactly the guy to talk to. Dad would be impossible on this one, and the chauffeurs, well...”
“You’re flattering me. At what point in your lineup do I fall? Before or after the woman you hire to water your plants?”
“She was at the dentist today.”
Terry drains his glass, reaches behind him for the wine bottle, and pours himself another. He motions toward mine. I cover it with my palm.
“So?”
“Why did you leave Anterdec? Dad won’t talk about it. Just says you decided to become a hippie.”
“I thought we were talking about you?”
“We are. In a roundabout way. But I can’t get to my shit until I understand this.”
He looks at the wine bottle. “We’re going to need another bottle for this conversation. And some food.”
“And better seating,” I mutter.
“There’s a great Turkish restaurant nearby. We can walk.” He names a place.
“Gerald’s out there. We can drive.”
“But it’s only five blocks away.” He’s shifty-eyed. I know what he’s doing.
“I’m in a suit. I don’t want to get sweaty.”
He looks at my lap. I look down.
Mr. Wiffles sheds a lot, huh?
“If you’re worried about appearances, too late. Might as well get sweaty. Besides, you know I hate limos.”
“It’s not a limo. SUV. Satellite internet connection. We can track the markets and watch for—”
“My legs could use a stretch.”
Side-eye.
Damn it.
“Fine. Meet you there. I need to check email and some oil stats.”
Before he can argue, I’m out the door, into blinding sunlight, then back inside the cocoon of the SUV.
