Page 30 of Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee
Not that I’m admitting any of that to Vince.
“You’re here to help me train.”
“For what?”
“Life.”
He nods, corners of his mouth turning down in an evaluative look, hair off his face with a combination headband and ponytail holder that would look extremely effeminate on any other guy, but on Vince it looks downright 300. I half expect Gerard Butler to come crashing through the bushes screaming “Spartans! What is your profession?!”
“Water on?”
I adjust the backpack hydration system. “Yes.”
“Go.”
For the first mile, I’m Frankenstein’s monster, an assemblage of parts stuck together with nothing but adrenaline and testosterone. The combination sucks.
Mile two, the first dive-bomber appears. I twist out of the way of a big, black drone of death and trip, skinning the hell out of my knees, covering half the front of me with regurgitated electrolyte solution from the hydropack.
“Get up,” Vince huffs from ahead of me. “Keep running.”
I do. As I stand, the damn wasp lands on a small puddle of the liquid I’ve spilled, pausing on the water.
I hold my breath and stare at it. Knives jab my exposed skin from a thousand angles. My breathing takes on an even more labored quality, like my throat is closed by a boulder in an Indiana Jones movie, my will squeezing through in those final few inches that allow for escape.
I catch up to Vince.
“You still married?”
I show him my bare hand. “No.” Talking helps. Talking makes about half the knives stand down.
“But you love her.”
I give him a look of disgust. “You want to talk about love now?”
“No better time.”
“We’re not here for love. We’re here to burn.”
“Same thing. Just a different kind of pain.”
He has a point.
“Hey, man. You’re a risk taker. You always know what you want, and go for it. Why should this be different?”
“Because the stakes are higher.”
“Are they really?”
“It’s my entire life.”
“And business isn’t?”
I hate when he’s right.
But when he is, my life improves.
“Business is different. It’s calculated risk based on known and unknown variables, and—”
“I know a variable.”
“What?”
“You wore that wedding ring for days longer than you needed to.”
“Not this again.”
“The fact that it’s ‘this again’ is exactly why that fact is a variable, Andrew.”
“You’re ascribing too much meaning to it.”
“I think you need to think that.”
“Why would I?”
“Because you’re scared shitless.”
“Scared of what?”
“Wasps.”
I shrug.
“And scared to admit you know she’s your woman. Forever. Done. You’re scared because it’s too easy.”
I would scoff, but my heart is stuck in my throat, along with a frightening amount of bile. Vince must be running at a four-minute mile pace. The greenery is a blur and my calves are threatening to turn to butter.
“When did you become so wise?”
“Since I cut out carbs and started the green coffee bean enemas.”
“Jesus, Vince.”
He shrugs. “I don’t really do that shit, but I thought this conversation was veering into Fuller House territory.”
“DJ grew up and got hot, didn’t she?”
Vince’s face splits into an evil grin. “I knew you were a closet pervert, Andrew.”
Closets. If only he knew....
“Why would you think otherwise?”
“You know what I do with pervert clients?”
Gina’s comment from the other day flits through my memory. “What?” I ask, with great caution.
“I make ‘em row until their lats peel off one by one so I can make human jerky out of them.”
“Are you related to Amanda Warrick?” She made the same joke. This is getting creepy.
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
He shrugs. “And just for you, I’m queueing up the first episode of Fuller House in front of the rowing machine next time we train. In public, at a gym. That’s your penance.”
“Dude, I was joking. Don’t make me actually watch that shit.”
Evil grin.
That’s what I get for changing the topic.
Wait.
He changed the topic.
I think I’ve been had.
“Can your limo dude drive us back here and get our cars?” Vince asks. He’s not even panting. His voice is as even as if we were lounging by a pool.
“Sure. Why?”
“A little adjustment and we can just run back to your office. You care about being seen all sweaty and pussified?”
“Don’t care about sweat, and the other won’t happen.”
“If it doesn’t happen, I’m not doing my job.”
“You use a lot of offensive language.”
“Maybe you’re just a sensitive pussy.”
“Jesus, Vince.”
“What?”
“Why are you knocking pussies? Of all the parts of the body you could use for an insult, I don’t get it.” Never got it.
“Right about now, the comparison fits. You’re hot, soaking wet, pink, and you have buttons I can push that make you scream.”
I’m glad my lungs have turned into flopping salmon on a rock by the river, because I have no response to that. Finally, I croak out, “You have a way with words.”
“That’s why you pay me the big bucks. Notice how you haven’t scanned the horizon for the past five minutes, and you’re not flinching every time a mosquito zips past?”
He’s right.
“You’re doing this, man.”
“Shut up, Vince.”
His only response is to pick up the pace and shout over his shoulder, “You’re a walking vagina, man.”
I’ve been called worse.
“And this is my last wasp session with you. You’ve graduated,” he declares.
And then that asshole takes off at a sprint, and keeps the ridiculous pace for the final seven miles.
Ridiculous.
* * *
Vince and I make it back to my building. That last mile nearly killed me, but I can’t admit it. We take the front elevators at Vince’s insistence. He says my employees need to see me being a strong leader.
I think he wants to parade me around like a Derby winner, sweat-soaked and foaming.
“Oh, gross. You’re dripping sweat all over my desk!” Gina exclaims, as we walk past her station toward my office door. Her wrinkled nose makes her look even more like a timid little rabbit.
“That’s not sweat. Those are Andrew’s tears.” Wink.
Before I can smack him down, Gina mutters, “Maybe you should use lube next time,” and walks away briskly, her Bluetooth turned on, arms full of files.
With Vince staring after her, gaping.
Maybe I’ve underestimated Gina.
“Wow,” Vince finally says.
“I know,” I snort, pulling at my soaked shirt, greedy for the cool air that slaps my abs. "Because you’d be the catcher if we were together.”
Vince turns and stares at me as if he’s an eighteenth-century hangman evaluating my neck.
“You’re a dead man.”
“Dead men can’t cry.” I make a fake pouty face.
“But they can spin. See you Friday. Get those chicken legs ready.” He stares at my calves, then punches my arm and walks down the hall, chest so big and wide his forearms graze against the hallway walls. Turning sideways, he lets someone walk down the hallway, coming from the other direction.
Amanda.
“What was that about?” she asks, eyes wide and open, mouth pressed in a prim line. She’s wearing a green wrap dress that makes her eyes extra sultry, and all I want to do is get sweaty with her in my office again. She looks just enough like Christina Hendricks in Mad Men to drive me wild. My pants tighten and threaten to cut off circulation to everything below the navel. I want to turn the glass desktop into a Slip ’n Slide.
“We were talking about Vince and I having sex.”
“So your usual 2 p.m. meeting?”
There’s only one way to respond to that.
I kiss her.
Hard.
She squirms in my arms, hands flat against my sweaty chest.
“It’s like you swam in sweat!”
“Pretty close. Vince had me run eleven miles on the trails.”
Her whole body pauses. “Outside?”
A swell of pride fills me. “Yes.”
“Andrew!” she squeals, pulling me in for a wet hug. “Congratulations! That’s wonderful!”
“I don’t need praise for being a human being. It’s not like I climbed Mount Everest. ” But her sweet softness isn’t a bad prize.
“You need recognition for being brave.”
“I went outside, Amanda. That’s second to respiration. No one needs an I Did It! ribbon for that.”
“How about a celebration at your place? Tonight? I’ll give you a major award.” Wink.
I don’t know why, but I blurt out, “Pack a bag. I’ll clear out a drawer.”
She frowns. “A drawer?”
“You can start keeping some stuff at my place.”
“Some stuff?”
“Clothes. Toothbrush. Stuff. So you can spend the night more.”
“You mean—what—huh?”
