Page 36 of Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee
“I, Ms. Bennet, strive for historical accuracy.”
She eyes the water, her bonnet framing her face and making those eyes seem impossibly larger. Amanda becomes a historical re-enactor of a Regency-era Powerpuff Girl.
“You are not!”
“I am.”
And with that, I race toward the water and do a shallow dive, the long tails of my shirt pulling out of my pants, causing drag but giving me a little breathing room in my waistband.
In the water, I am me. Technically, I am supposed to be Mr. Darcy, but right now, as I do the butterfly stroke that made me a conference champion for my college swim team, I’m Andrew McCormick. Within minutes, I’m a quarter mile into the clear, otherwise-placid lake, the water revitalizing, welcoming me home.
Swimming wasn’t my first sport. It welcomed me when I learned about my wasp allergy, taking my football-honed body and turning it into a sleek water baby. I hated making the change at first, but in time I learned to love it. Being here in the water, using rhythm and muscle memory to come back to Amanda with a push and a roar, makes me break surface and stand, laughing in the waning sun, watching her watch me as she claps and giggles.
Courting.
Turns out she was right.
“Mr. Darcy, I can’t keep my eyes off your wet chest underneath that soaked shirt,” she says in a sultry voice that is about as close to Elizabeth Bennet as Marie is to the Queen of England. “But I never took you for a show-off!”
I’m standing in waist-deep water, watching her on the shore as she laughs.
“‘Where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.’”
“Oh, God, you’re quoting the book again, aren’t you?”
“Just substitute ‘swimming’ for ‘mind’ and it’s correct.”
She closes her eyes and quietly says in a slow, halting voice, “‘Nothing is more deceitful than the appearance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast.’"
“That’s my line!” In fact, it’s one of the five I memorized. Damn.
“‘I could easily forgive your pride, if you had not mortified mine.’”
I’ve gravely underestimated Amanda’s knowledge of this book.
I am starting to think I gravely underestimate everyone.
“‘I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow,’" I counter. Hah. Take that.
Her expression is one of approval.
I walk slowly out of the water, suddenly stripped of the desire to continue the charade, wanting only her. Now. Here.
The masquerade has been fun and silly, but it is just that: a mask. A shell, a suit of armor designed to call her bluff in a memorable manner, but the bluff’s been called. We’re done with the cute ritual, and while I know Amanda didn’t want—or expect—any of this, it’s symbolic.
We don’t need this.
We just need each other.
The water brushes against my bare ankles and I emerge, watching her as she stands on shore, still in the silly bonnet, mouth open with a belly laugh, a single curl escaped and flowing over her eyebrow. She’s in my arms, squirming as my wet body presses against hers, the dress made for costume and thinner than an authentic Regency-era frock would be, and I’m thankful as my thighs capture the warm swell of hers, my belly against hers, those sweet breasts smashed against my wet shirt.
My pants tighten.
“Ever had sex outdoors, Mr. Darcy?” she whispers while biting my earlobe.
“No.” Not a fantasy. Not even close.
Her hands are on my breeches flap, trying to unbutton me.
I can be flexible. The patch of greenery behind that bush on the shoreline has potential.
“Did you glue these on?” she asks with a grunt, both hands on the left-side button of the weird flap that passes for a “fly” on my pants. I pivot, because the ring is in the other pocket.
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t unbutton it.”
My erection’s making the pants tighten horribly. I reach down and try.
I fail.
“As enticing as outdoor sex is, how about we settle for good old-fashioned bedroom sex with a wine chaser?”
“Done.” Her laugh has the promise of a lush few hours buried in her and my blood rushes through me, ready for it all.
I pat my front pocket, ready to reach in for the ring, because now is the time.
Now.
I’m ready to propose.
“In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you,’” I call out, using Darcy’s most famous line.
“You can stop with the quotes, Andrew! I’m a sure thing!” she calls back, already a few yards ahead of me.
I pat my front breeches pocket again.
Hmmm.
Maybe it’s in the other pocket.
No. Just touched that when I was fiddling with the buttons. It’s flat, too.
Must be in my coat, which is hanging on a branch a few feet to Amanda’s left. I zag as I approach her and grab the coat, putting it on casually, grinning at her as she tilts her head, slightly off kilter.
I pat myself down like a TSA agent searching a patchouli-oil-coated guy after Burning Man.
Nothing.
Where the hell is the ring? I know I had it. It was in the front pocket of my breeches when I got out of the Tesla. No question.
None.
Zero.
“The mosquitoes are coming out in full force,” she says, smacking her arm. “Open the car door!”
I smash my palms against my breeches pockets, then rifle through the coat again.
Losing the ring is bad. Bad bad bad.
But where is the key ring for my car?
“You don’t have the keys?” I call out, knowing it’s a hopeless question, but trying anyhow. We all have our verbal Hail Marys.
“Why would I have your key fob? You drove.” She reaches in her purse. “All I have are two EpiPens and a tampon.”
“Right.” Can’t start the car with those. Those tampon commercials say you can swim with them, horseback ride with them, drive with them...
They lie.
“What’s wrong? Can’t find the key?”
“No.”
“Maybe you dropped it? On shore?” There’s still enough light as the sun starts to set. We both sweep the bare-ground shoreline. It shouldn’t be hard to spot the key fob, a bright red leather object with the logo on it. Unlike a standard car key, the key fob is designed to let me unlock and start the car as long as I have it on me.
I clearly don’t have it on me, and neither does Amanda.
“It has to be somewhere!” she says, exasperated.
We both turn slowly, in tandem, and stare at the water.
“No,” I groan. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, God.” Me and my swimming, showing off my fly stroke, powerful kicks and strokes churning the water.
These damn pants and their buttons. Weird pockets. My key fob.
But worse—
The engagement ring.
I can’t let her know about the velvet box. Losing the keys to the Tesla is bad enough.
Losing her engagement ring? Talk about a major screw-up. Teasing Declan for the ring in the tiramisu mistake is pure gold. I can’t give him leverage with my own proposal catastrophe.
My pride is at stake here.
Amanda wades into the water in her costume and bends at the waist, her arms pumping up and down in a pattern.
“What are you doing?”
“Searching for the key fob.”
“Amanda, there’s no way we can find them. Look at the size of this pond. It could be anywhere.” And I had to show off and swim a quarter mile sprint into the middle, then back. On the other hand, my butterfly skills are still quite impressive almost a decade out of college.
I still got it.
“You lost the keys! How will we get home?”
“We’ll call.”
“With what? Our phones are locked in the car, Mr. Leave-the-Technology-Behind-for-Authenticity.”
Shit.
Wading in, I give it a try, replicating her hand motions. Searching for a set of car keys and a jeweler’s box in a giant pond is like having sex for the first time and trying to find the clitoris. You know it’s there, and you know that finding it will change your life forever, but you also have a sinking suspicion that the search is futile.
Yet desperation drives you to continue.
As dusk settles over the placid waters, another similarity hits me.
We’ll be searching in the dark soon.
“I can fix this,” Amanda mutters to herself. “How hard can it be to find a set of keys?” I look past her. The pond is pretty big. They should call it Walden Lake. I had to do a quarter mile, didn’t I? And back.
The Tesla key fob could be anywhere. If I had my smartphone, I could use the keyless-entry app. If I had my key fob, I could access my phone.
I am in a double bind of my own creation.
Which means we have only one option.
“Stop,” I say, making my way slowly through the water to Amanda, who is starting to shiver. I pull her to me, my heart slamming in my chest. I’d pumped myself up for this moment, a grand pronouncement after even grander gestures, all the hope in my heart poured into a diamond ring that symbolized a promise.
A promise that is being eaten by fishes right now.
Aside from losing a mid-five-figure ring and my car keys, which is bad enough, I’ve lost the potential for this evening.
I feel like a ten-thousand pound millstone.
