Page 35 of Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee
Not if I have anything to say about it. I wonder if Cassandra’s completed our little project yet. If not, soon.
Amanda squeezes my forearm with a sigh of recognition. “How about we just go on to whatever the next crazy stage of this set-up involves.”
“You asked for it.”
“I asked for courting. Not nineteenth-century courting.”
“Blame Gina.”
“Gina? What does your admin have to do with this?”
Shit.
“You look so beautiful in that dress.”
“Gina arranged this?”
“The sunlight makes your eyes look like honey.”
“Honey made by bees,” she says savagely. I start to correct her. Shannon’s allergic to bees, not me, but I’m not stupid. Don’t correct a woman when she’s angry.
Especially when she’s angry at you.
“Gina arranged this? You handed over your courting plans to your administrative assistant?”
Will reaches for Amanda’s hand and helps her up into the carriage, where I hastily get us settled and shut the door.
“Busted,” she mutters, turning away from me. “Let me guess. I told you I wanted to be courted and you buzzed Gina and told her to arrange the whole thing.”
Shit.
“No! No, not...not really.”
“But close.”
“If it’s any consolation, I got felt up by Hyacinth Bucket’s identical twin.”
She screws up her face in confusion, opens her mouth to start to ask a question, then slumps in resignation. “I can’t believe this. I just wanted a few dates at Legal Sea Foods and some Netflix and Chill.”
Hold on.
“But noooooo. Mr. Let-Me-Get-You-A-Six-Foot Animatronic-Bear-and-an-Array-of-Solar-Panels-at-a-Fair-Trade-Coffee-Plantation has to turn himself into Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
“You wanted the seven-foot bear? Because I can get you the—”
“Andrew!”
I frown. It makes me look even more like Colin Firth.“You really would have been happy with some lobster tails and binge-watching series television while having sex?”
“Not the ‘while’ part, but yes.”
“You said you wanted to be courted!”
“Wooed! Not turned into a Jane Austen novel cosplay!”
“Then why the hell are we wearing these costumes and riding in a carriage drawn by a horse who needs to cut down on fiber in his diet?”
“I don’t know! Why don’t you ask Gina?”
How did this turn into a fight?
The diamond ring is in my front left pocket, burning a hole against my thigh.
A hole of hellfire and damnation.
“You do this,” she says slowly, contemplatively, with the air of someone mulling over a topic they’ve struggled with for a while. “You hand off complicated issues to your people. And most of the time, that works. Really. It’s why you’re on top of the business world. You know how to make snap decisions and how to delegate. I’ve seen it in action, in meetings, and it’s astounding. You’re brilliant.”
I really like the turn this conversation has taken.
“Go on,” I urge.
“But.”
Uh oh.
“But I am not a task to be managed. That doesn’t work in relationships. Or maybe it does, but it doesn’t work in a relationship with me.”
Shit.
The clop clop clop of the horse’s shoes on pavement comes to a halt, right in front of my shining Tesla. The incongruity would be amusing if my intestines weren’t doing an impression of a state fair pretzel.
“Let’s talk in the car.”
“The car?”
“You thought we were taking this carriage all the way to Walden Pond?”
“Walden Pond? You weren’t kidding about visiting Henry Thoreau?”
“I never kid about literature.”
“You are such a geek.”
“No. I’m not. James McCormick would never allow it.”
That’s meant to be a joke, but her eyes soften with sympathy. “I’ll bet he wouldn’t.”
“Besides, with a body like this, I could never be a geek.” I primp, tightening my arms. I hear seams pop in my tailcoat.
“Geekdom has nothing to do with the body. It’s a state of mind. And any guy who would basically turn Pride and Prejudice into a LARP is a geek, hot or not.”
“LARP? Live-action role-play game? This is an historical re-enactment!” A damn expensive one. One that might cost me my balls, in more ways than one. I re-adjust. There’s no room. I really understand why Colin Firth pursed his mouth so much.
“Same thing.”
“No, Amanda, they are not the same thing! You think we’re playing a game?”
“Of course we are. It’s just not the game you think we’re playing.”
I didn’t think I could fall in love any deeper with her, and then she says that.
“I did this because I couldn’t think of any other way to make it clear to you that I love you and want to be with you forever.”
“Oh.” She swivels toward me, eyes wide with surprise. “Oh.”
I shrug. Or at least, I try. The coat is so fitted I think I know what it’s like for Amanda when she wears a sports bra.
And now all I can think about is her breasts.
Because...breasts.
“You keep saying that you’re not good at this whole sharing emotions thing. But you’re better than you think.”
I don’t know what to say.
“And you can become better. With me.” Her eyes move down, her focus on me but not piercing, the difference between eye contact and being the center of her attention enough to give me the space to actually share.
“Thank you.”
“We can become better, Andrew. Together. That’s how this is supposed to work. You share your story with me, and I share my story with you, and over time we have a third story that is ours.”
“A better story than the other two.”
“It’s not a competition.” She kisses the tip of my nose. It tickles.
“Everything is a competition, Amanda.”
“If that’s how you view life, then I can see why you think you’re bad at revealing your feelings.”
“Explain.”
“You can’t compete with someone and be authentic at the same time. It’s impossible, like trying to orgasm and pee at the same time.”
Can’t argue with that logic. Again.
“You’re comparing my difficulties talking about feelings with...that?”
“I suck at analogies. It’s a weakness.” She shrugs.
No kidding.
But she has a point, in her weird way. Being competitive means using analysis and risk assessment to determine the best approach for gaining the upper hand. Sometimes, it involves subterfuge. Half-truths. Holding cards and revealing information only when it’s to your strategic advantage.
As Amanda watches me and her expression deepens with concern, I wonder how much my innate competitiveness has cost me.
And how innate it really is. Was I like this before Dad got ahold of me and turned me into his replacement for Terry? Who is the real Andrew—the guy I am now, or the guy I would have been if Mom had lived?
No.
I can’t think this way.
Not the time, not the place.
Especially when I have to drive.
“I’m impressed,” she says, as we drive away from the curb, leaving Will with the carriage and a fat tip.
“By all this?”
“By you. All the time you’re spending outside. Found the cure for vampirism, eh?”
“I did. It’s between your legs.”
“Mr. Darcy!” she says viciously.
“And ears! Between your ears, too,” I add, but it’s obviously an afterthought.
“Why, though? Really.”
“What? You can’t believe you’re really the cure?”
“It’s not just me.”
It is.
“You are so raunchy.” A bubbly laugh, deep and smoky, pours out of her. “Between my legs.” She shakes her head, giving me an up-and-down look. “Do you know how porny that sounds, coming from you in that get-up?”
“Is that arousing?”
She whacks me.
“I’m driving!”
“You’re vulgar!”
“I’m honest. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”
“What?”
“You want me to tell you how I feel. Just did. And I get hit for it.”
“You told me the cure for your fear was my...you know...”
“Vagina.”
“How in the hell is a vagina a cure for anything?”
Women really are from another planet. I let out a long sigh and just drive.
I did my research on Mr. Darcy, thank you very much. Aside from having been forced to read Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice five different times in various classes throughout high school and college, I read an executive summary on it this week, and watched the pivotal pond scene on YouTube.
I am practically a scholar at this point.
Walden Pond is the perfect location for an idyllic re-creation of the Colin Firth scene. As we stroll along the shoreline at dusk, I begin to loosen my cravat.
“Is the temperature a touch too warm for you, Mr. Darcy?” Amanda jokes as I slide out of my tailcoat and hand it to her, along with my cravat.
I begin pulling off my boots, tugging just hard enough on the strings below the knees to make the entire assemblage of breeches pull on items further north. My eyes water.
Could these pants be any tighter?
