Page 33 of Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee
I sigh and walk into my bathroom like I’m on Death Row, then repeat the walk two minutes later to show her the result.
Only this time, my stride is about six inches. I walk like a nineteenth-century upper-class Chinese woman with bound feet.
“These are—”
“Perfect!” the professor squeals.
“—cutting off blood supply.”
“One must suffer for historical authenticity. Men in Regency England were unashamed of their stallion-like figures.” She gives me a long look, eyes hooded. A long sigh ripples out of her. “And yet, we do have an issue with the front flap buttons.”
“Flap?”
She drops to her knees in front of me and pulls out a small measuring tape and a magnifying glass. “One moment,” she declares with a sigh, holding up a flap of fabric with buttons on it.
Just then, the door to my office opens. I look up.
And in walks Vince.
“I am having a hard time finding it,” Professor Kensley-Wentingham announces in a breathy voice. “I might need to get my tweezers.”
Vince crosses his arms over his chest and leans one hip against a chair near my desk.
“When dealing with a freakish rise like yours, Andrew, I am forced to be creative.”
“Freakish?” Vince asks.
“Freakishly long,” I clarify.
“The magnifying lens in her hand tells me everything I need to know, Andrew. No need to elaborate.” His tone tells me I’m never, ever living this down. At least he’s not Declan.
Professor Kensley-Wentingham looks up. “Oh, my goodness! You’re not the person he’s proposing to, now, are you? Because fitting a body like yours into breeches will require a crowbar!” she chortles.
“Proposing?” Vince asks, eyebrows up.
“Oh, dear. Have I ruined the surprise? Were you going to pop the question to your boyfriend? You used the term ‘partner’ and I—”
“Girlfriend,” I say tersely. It’s hard to be angry when a woman has a pincushion millimeters from parts of me that should poke, not be poked.
Professor Kensley-Wentingham stops what she’s doing, hand in mid-air, and slowly drops every implement, including the thimble perched on the tip of her tongue. She stands and gives Vince an aggressive visual inventory, taking in the broad muscles, the long black hair. It takes her a while. It should. He’s the size of a small mountain.
“You,” she finally says, “are a biological female?”
“No.”
“Then by girlfriend, Andrew’s referring to...?”
“Not me.”
“I am quite confused.”
“We noticed,” Vince and I say together.
“You’re not a couple?”
Gina walks in at that exact moment, eyes twinkling, pinging between me and Vince before settling on the professor. She punctuates that question with a shrug.
“Isn’t it obvious?” she asks the professor. “You see it too?”
Vince glowers.
“I’m preparing to propose to Amanda. My girlfriend.”
“Amanda Warrick?” Gina peeps. “The woman from Consolidated Evalu-shop who has all those two-hour meetings with you three days a week? Ohhhhhhh.” Her face twists with disgust. “Meetings?” she asks, using finger quotes. “I need more Lysol in my desk drawer,” she says out of earshot.
Except she’s not.
“And my sexuality is none of your business,” Vince declares. “But Andrew’s not my type.”
“I could be your type,” I insist, a little offended.
He gives me a funny look.
“Not that I want to be,” I quickly add.
Professor Kensley-Wentingham claps her hands twice and shouts, “Boys! Boys! As lovely as this sweet argument is, we have more important issues to attend to, such as your leggings.”
“Leggings?” I keep my voice nice and low. Masculine.
“Yes. In theater, the men wear thick pantyhose—”
Vince snorts.
“But for this custom fit, I suggest thigh highs.”
Gina snorts.
“Thigh what?”
“Thigh highs. Long leggings much like dress socks for men of your stature. They need to go far above the knee to fit the look. The fine wool we’ll use for the pants will be dry-clean only. Wouldn’t want to wash it and have it shrink!” she adds, with a laugh that sounds like a happy teakettle. Not that I would know, because I’ve tuned her out. The only sound I really hear is the mocking laughter radiating off of Vince.
“You are literally a walking vagina, Andrew,” Vince mutters.
“Why are you here?”
“To torment you.”
“That’s it? This isn’t our regular time.”
“Your Human Resources department hired me to do a wellness program.”
“On what? How to kill people through spin?”
“Reiki.”
“Reiki?”
“Yeah. Reiki. I’m a master.”
“You believe in that shit?”
“You don’t? You’re the one paying for it, Andrew. Anterdec’s writing me a big fat check.”
And with that, he walks out, leaving plenty of life force energy in the room.
“What a fine, strapping young man,” Professor Kensley-Wentingham says, craning her neck to watch Vince as he exits. “If he is ever interested in performing in a production of Beauty and the Beast, I would love to stay in touch.” At the word touch, she flutters her fingers on my forearm.
“How soon can the courting materials be ready?” I snap.
“During our earlier call, you said you needed this in three days. That was your request.”
“And?”
“I can do this in one week, exactly. I do need your girlfriend’s measurements.”
I mull this over. One week works. “Gina!”
“Yes?”
“Get the tailor from my brother’s wedding on the line and ask for Amanda Warrick’s measurements. Give them to the professor.”
“Oh, she will look delightful in a sheer bonnet! Or shall we do a capote? You are breathtakingly efficient, Andrew!”
So efficient that I escort her to the door—and make her Gina’s problem.
Jessica’s at it again, a text from Amanda declares as I read through my phone.
Sighing, I check out the Twitter stream. Jessica’s posting pictures from the Turkish restaurant and my hashtag:
#mccormickmendipitincrazy
“Ugh.” I click on the hashtag and find thousands of retweets, comments about Amanda and Shannon, links to the YouTube video of Amanda rescuing that dog from the hawk, and pictures from Dec and Shannon’s failed Boston wedding.
See? Amanda’s next text reads. She has more power than you think.
No, she does not, I text back.
I’m ending this. Now.
“Gina!”
“Yes, sir?”
“Call me Andrew, damn it.”
“Uh....yes, Andrew?”
“Get the local media buyer on the line.”
“The media buyer for all of Anterdec?”
“Yes.”
This is simple. Jessica’s power comes from being an influencer. If you want to cut an influencer off at the knees, you take away their ability to influence. Local restaurants, public relations firms, marketing specialists and more all feed Jessica a steady stream of information and magnify her importance by referring to her on Twitter, re-tweeting, and elevating her importance in social media.
Remove all that and she’s the peak of a pyramid of cheerleaders without a base.
And comes tumbling down.
“Cassandra Horning, Mr. McCormick. I do most of Anterdec’s Boston-area media purchases,” says a confident woman. I close my eyes and conjure up an image of a woman about my age, short brown hair, smart eyes behind glasses.
“Cassandra, I have a project for you.”
Within thirty minutes, we’ve banged out the details.
Amanda’s about to see exactly how powerless Jessica really is.
Chapter Seventeen
In the time since Declan and Shannon’s wedding, I haven’t gotten a haircut. The professor comes to my apartment this afternoon, exactly one week after our first encounter, for the final fitting and proclaims, “Your countenance suits the character! Dark, angelic hair with a touch of curl about your face. Pity you couldn’t grow out your sideburns enough to give yourself more authenticity.”
I think I paid her too much.
She insists on having me tuck my shirt into the breeches, and uses needle and thread to tighten the waistband, adding a few stitches at the back.
“Is that necessary?” I ask.
She seems offended. “I wouldn’t do it if it weren’t necessary.”
She sounds just like Dad.
By the time I evacuate her from my apartment and take a good look in the mirror, I realize she was right:
I could be a movie actor.
Amanda’s empire-waist dress, a dark beige on top and a billowy white skirt on the bottom, is slung over my arm, with a bonnet on the hanger. If I’m going to court her, she has to play the part, too.
Like it or not.
I arrive at the agreed-upon corner around the block from Amanda’s duplex just as the horse-drawn carriage makes its entrance. I drove here myself, in full costume, and I park the Tesla on the side of the road, hoping Newton is a decent town with low crime.
“Mr. McCormick? Will Sawyers.” The carriage driver is dressed in similar fashion to my own sartorial flair, though Professor Kensley-Wentingham was quite clear that my 1809 suit replica was one that an aristocrat would wear, while the liveryman’s suit was “for one of his station.”
