Page 3 of Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee
No, not that. I lean toward her and sniff. Her hair smells like lemon and salt. For a moment, I close my eyes, trying to regroup. Five days ago, we were broken up. Irrevocably split for one simple reason:
I had a moment of stupendous idiocy. I’ll own it.
More than a moment, too. I’m man enough to admit it. I let risk aversion nearly destroy my best hope for love.
Which meant that I simply miscalculated the risks.
Hence the stupendous, temporary idiocy.
We reunited only five days ago. Five damn days. The bandages on her arms are a stark reminder that the wedding in Boston was less than a week ago.
We’re back together, but there’s still so much left to learn about each other.
Little things, like which side of the bed each prefers. Favorite colors. Food preferences.
Or, you know, like whether we’re married or not.
“How did I get Cheeto coochie?” she asks, pointing to her breasts, which look at me like Sirens on an island in the ocean. Andrew, they croon. Come play with us....
My mouth is cotton. Fermented cotton. And salt. Something salty. “What?”
She peers at me. “Your mouth matches my coochie. It’s orange, too.”
“Coochie?” We’ve only been back together for less than a week. I didn’t know “coochie” was part of her personal vocabulary. “Cheeto coochie” sounds like the name of a tapas dish at a low-end restaurant.
Or a stripper name.
“You know.” She peers down. “If your mouth is orange, and my breasts and, ahem,” she points down, “are orange, then we committed some kinky acts with snack foods last night.”
“You’re the one with the Cheeto-marshmallow fetish.”
She covers her mouth with her hand. “Don’t mention food.”
I wave my ringed hand. “Too much talk. Basics first.” I force myself to stand and walk into the mini-kitchen. Water. I need water. Water and half a jar of ibuprofen-flavored beer.
And my memory.
Bzzzz.
“Your phone!”
“Probably Gina.”
“Who is Gina?” The arch tone gets my attention and makes me smile. Now I know something new about Amanda.
She gets jealous. I grin and smother it with my hand.
“My new admin,” I say, muffled by my palm.
She lets out a cute little huff of relief. “What happened to...Bethany?”
“She was three admins ago.”
“Lucy’s gone, too?” Amanda asks, incredulous.
“She was overly rigid.” I can hear the defensiveness creep into my voice.
“She was great!”
“She lasted ten days.”
“You have an admin problem, Andrew.”
“No, I don’t.” I ignore my phone. If I can keep a Sultan waiting, I can defer my admin back in Boston, the new young woman the temp agency sent me a few weeks ago. What I need right now is water. Water and Amanda. In that order.
“Your admins have an Andrew problem.”
“I’m a great boss!” Irritation sets in. We’ve spent five days trying not to talk about any topic more intense than whether to add cinnamon to our breves, how to handle all the sex chafing, or debating whether jalapeno-flavored aioli is better than bacon-horseradish mayo.
After rescuing her from the pool at Dec and Shannon’s wedding in Boston, we became so wrapped up in the Vegas chaos that we settled into a pattern.
A pattern of sex, food, gifts, and...sex.
That’s right.
Guy nirvana.
Now she wants to talk?
Guy hell.
My slow walk to the kitchen should be filmed by a documentary crew with the soundtrack to Apocalypse Now in the background. The bedroom looks tame compared to the living room and kitchen. No cat. No dog. No giant pee-covered teddy bear, which means the living room should be an improvement.
I gag. Why does it smell like a distillery in here? A quick push of buttons on the wall and the curtains part, filling the room with light and, as the windows vent, some air.
Then I see the pile of glow-in-the-dark sex toys on the coffee table.
And a giant yoga ball.
That is buzzing.
“And soon you’ll be my boss,” Amanda tosses off.
I don’t answer that, because the buzzing comes from a glowing appendage attached to the yoga ball. The tip curves to the left and if I squint, I can read some words on the shaft.
Yo! G-spot Ah.... An acronym for YOGA.
That’s a brand name? I’d fire the person who pushed that to market. No focus group on the planet would approve that.
I solve the problem by grabbing a throw blanket and covering everything. If I pretend it doesn’t exist, then it doesn’t. That’s how Dad handles emotions in other people, and if it works for him, I can apply it to errant piles of sex toys.
“Oh, my God. I don’t understand. What really did happen last night?”
You and me both, babe.
Amanda’s words float through the air with a tempo they’re not supposed to possess. I flatten my palms against the granite countertop in the small kitchen of our suite and take a deep breath. My shoulders rise up and expand out. I feel my soles against the marble tile. Emotion washes over me like the shame my father was trying to instill. He failed, but the attempt lingers.
My eyes catch the glint of gold against the polished granite.
Husband? Wife? Josh and that rainbow chocolate dong dude skedaddled along with the rest of them earlier. I breathe, inhaling and exhaling, counting to four, then eight, using every technique that I normally don’t need to use.
It’s not anxiousness. It’s overwhelm. And when I get overwhelmed, there’s only one solution.
Control.
Actually, now there are two. The new one is sex.
I like new.
Instead of going back for my cell phone, I reach for the corded one and dial a special code that takes me straight to my number one here at Litraeon.
“Mr. McCormick? How may I help you?” It’s Brona Jordan, vice president of operations. Her voice has that smooth, cultured tone with an accent that you can’t quite pinpoint. European? Central Asian? Boston Brahmin? Brona’s been with Litraeon for the past five years, and profits have gone sky high since she brought on a new line of chefs and stores to the attached mall. While she isn’t the top dog, she’s best at meeting delicate situations.
I am the poster child for delicate.
“I need a suite.”
“You already have a suite. You require a second suite?”
“I want one of the presidential suites instead.”
Silence. I know what I’m asking. Declan, Dad and I settled for these second-tier suites because of the last-minute nature of the wedding mess. The cream of the crop should be mine again. I’m done playing second fiddle. Sunlight flashes off the ring on my left hand.
Funny. I haven’t taken it off yet.
“Yes,” she says slowly, “we can accommodate that, of course. You realize we will need to relocate the Sultan.”
The Sultan?
“He’s here?”
“Yes.”
My mind races and clears at the same time, as if my gray matter were being pressure washed of toxins and left gleaming and renewed.
“And that’s the meeting I missed.” Dad’s fury connects with Brona’s observation. Anterdec is in final negotiations to expand our resort network into Dubai. We have two smaller properties there, but this would be an enormous capital investment, with a fifty-story tower, massive water park, private airport and all that goes with the definition of luxury among the ultra-wealthy.
And I blew off a meeting with the Sultan because of—
“Cheeto coochie!” Amanda moans from the next room.
“Excuse me?” Brona asks. “Did you say something, Andrew?”
And then there’s that.
Brona’s shift from formality tells me even more. Dad’s already gotten to her and let her know why I’m missing the meeting.
I’ve lost control here.
Time to gain it back.
“Get me into a presidential suite within thirty minutes.”
“I need sixty, and permission to relocate anywhere they ask.”
“What does that mean?”
“They might want to go next door if you kick them out.”
Next door. We’re competing with the owners of that resort for the Dubai deal.
“Damn it,” I mutter.
She merely clears her throat and waits. I chug half a gallon of water and sigh.
Control. I need—
“May I make a suggestion?” Brona’s words are soothing. “What if you reserve a royal suite next door?”
“Me? Why would I move out of my own property?” And when the hell did the place next door create royal suites?
“To throw them off.” She sighs. “And yes, we’re working on creating our own royal suites. Already in development.”
Tumblers click in my head. Gears sync. I have a naked mystery shopper in my bedroom. Brona’s suggestion sets off a firestorm of connected thoughts, lighting my CEO brain up like a thunderball.
“Perfect. Do it. We’ll take their best.”
“Nothing but,” she croons. “Anything else?”
“No—wait. Yes. Check the security video for the hallway in front of my suite. Copy it from about eight o’clock last night until right now. I’d like to review it with Jed.” Jed is our head of security here at this Vegas Strip resort, Litraeon.
Click.
“We’re moving,” I announce, carrying a glass of water for Amanda back to the bed, handing it to her.
She immediately pours it down her front, starting with the collarbone, the water cascading down her torso, pearling on her nipples, rolling down the slope of her breasts like something out of really high-quality porn.
