Page 42 of Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee
I jump in my seat, the hand holding the wine glass almost tipping, as Consuela looks up and gives Amanda a grin, standing with her arms open, welcoming my future wife with the kind of gentle openness and sophisticated grace that my mother would have extended to Amanda.
My shirt collar suddenly got tight.
“And now we can start dinner!” Consuela says, giving me a pointed look. “Something other than grapes.” She pours the rest of the bottle of wine into my glass and a fresh one for Amanda, and quietly leaves.
I stand and wrap my arms around Amanda, pulling her in to my chest, inhaling the sweet smell of her hair. She’s wearing a tight cream-colored dress and a lilac jacket, pearls and high heels, and she’s sweet and soft and warm and everything.
“I like this welcome,” she says to my chest. “I thought you’d be angry I’m so late. I had a work meeting with one of those people who wouldn’t stop asking questions that were just about them, and that the other forty of us on the call didn’t need to hear, and—”
I cut her off with a kiss. We kiss until she’s moaning in my arms, pressing against me to the point where I have to pivot so she can’t feel the very hard thing in my pants.
No. Not that.
The ring.
“I really like this welcome!’ she gasps, looking up at me with smiling eyes. “And this is nostalgic. Our first real date.”
“But not our first real kiss.”
“No,” she says, looking out at the cityscape. “That came more than two years ago.”
“Too much time wasted.”
A server delivers a breadbasket and oil, explaining the lavender and sage infusion origins as if I care. A strange chatter fills my mind, as if I’m simultaneously listening to an announcer do a play-by-play of every second of my life while living it.
I’m not nervous.
This isn’t anxiety.
I’m just hyperaware. It’s a skill.
“How was your day? Did the meeting with the Sultan go well?”
I crack a smile and watch her eat the bread. She has this cute way, breaking off tiny pieces, dabbing them in the oil until the piece is completely soaked, then sprinkling salt on it before eating.
I just drink my wine and polish off the bottle.
“Hey there, cowboy. Slow down.”
“Why? Gerald’s driving.”
“I haven’t seen you for nearly a week. I want you functional tonight.”
“Define functional.”
Her leer is all the answer I need.
“The Sultan? I know you were hoping for a win on that.”
“Actually, I have to thank Jessica for her help on that.”
Amanda drops the piece of bread between her fingers. It plops in the oil with a tiny drop of backsplash that lands in the web of her hand.
“Jessica?”
“Funny story. Her Twitter feed—the one I killed—may have helped me close a nine-figure deal.”
Amanda resumes her oil-soaked-bread lovefest. “Explain.”
Every move she makes is enchanting. Every word that comes out of her is intriguing. Has she always been so alluring, or are my senses heightened by the presence of the ring in my pocket? I felt like this at Walden Pond for a split second, but it was tempered by the silly pageantry of the Pride and Prejudice scene.
This is pure. Unalloyed.
“Andrew?” She nudges me. “Eat some bread. You look like you’re already a little drunk.”
Drunk on you.
Without thought, I imitate her, pulling a tiny piece of bread from my larger chunk and dipping it in the oil. I never do this. She laughs.
The laughter carries on the wind, over the water, and around the earth in full circumference to find its way back to me.
Maybe I am a little drunk.
“The Sultan saw Jessica making nasty tweets about my Pride and Prejudice stunt. She got pictures from God knows who. Turns out, he has a wing of his palace in Dubai that is an exact replica of Pemberley. He called for a video chat and because I am practically an Austen scholar—”
Amanda snorts.
“—we had an extensive conversation, then an intense negotiation, and now Anterdec is the official developer for their new resorts.”
“How wonderful!” she claps. “But how did you shut down Jessica? You were the one who killed her Twitter stream? Was this your wedding present to Shannon and Declan?”
“No, but that would have been a great idea.” I chuckle as the server brings another bottle of wine and pours. This time, I sip. “No, I had Anterdec’s local media buyer contact every single outlet where we advertise and gently inform them Anterdec’s ad money would go elsewhere if they didn’t stop retweeting her.”
“But that wouldn’t shut down her account.”
“And I called my former husband, Josh—”
She starts choking on her bread.
“—who is an accomplished hacker. Gave him a video. He uploaded a link on her Twitter account. She killed her own account all by herself.”
“What was the video?”
“Can we talk about something else?” The server brings two ramekins filled with some kind of dip and a pile of fist-sized shrimp. The video is a secret I’d like to hang onto for a little longer. No need to air out everything in my past just yet. “I’d like a dinner out that doesn’t involve Jessica.”
“Or videos of transvestites who look like her, kissing you.”
“Or images in my mind of you actually kissing her,” I add in an acid tone.
She giggles and digs in. I eat, but my stomach is battery acid poured on top of a hundred pounds of feathers.
A sudden breeze lifts Amanda’s hair from behind just as she’s raising her glass to drink, the ethereal glow of the string of lights behind her adding to the mystique. She’s a wild spirit, a witchy woman in that second, and my heart beats for her, like a planet revolving around a heavenly body only because it knows no other option.
“Nine figures, huh?” She smiles, then sighs. “I guess I’ll need to figure out the time difference between here and Dubai. You’ll be there for the next two years.”
“No. Declan will...oh.” She’s right. Declan’s got his own company and this will fall on the new VP of Marketing in the long run, but for now, it’s me.
“Let’s not talk about work,” she says. “Even if I do work for you now.”
“Let’s mix business with pleasure.”
“If it involves going to Dubai and dressing like Elizabeth Bennet, no way.”
“How about going to my bedroom and dressing up as Miss Bennet?”
“Pervert.”
I laugh as my heart slams against my breastbone like a calypso drum.
Consuela herself delivers the main course.
“Lobster and steak?”Amanda asks, delighted.
“Simple yet elegant,” Consuela explains. “And no cilantro.” She tosses me a mock-angry look and leaves without fanfare.
We eat.
Rather, Amanda eats. I push food around on my plate and feel like time collapsed into three molecules on a steeplechase in my brain.
“Are you okay?” she asks as she finishes her food, pushing the plate away with a little groan of satisfaction.
“Yeah. Fine. Why?”
“You seem weird.”
“It’s been a long day.”
“No. Not tired. Weird. Are we okay?
I pat my front pocket with the ring. “We are great.”
“Good.” She gives me a shy look, then reaches down to a bag next to her, on the ground. “Because I packed an overnight bag.”
“Even better.”
“With a whole change of clothes for work to leave at your place.” The words come out in a rush, as if she thinks saying them quickly will make them less powerful.
“You’re moving in?”
“If leaving a single change of clothing is your definition of ‘moving in,’ then yes.”
I just smile.
“It’s a first step,” she says.
I touch the ring.
And the server appears with orange balls.
Yes.
Orange balls.
“Dessert!” the server says, leaving two ramekins of hot chocolate sauce next to a series of cheese puffs with fondue skewers.
“What’s this?” Amanda asks.
Consuela appears, frowning. “Andrew asked me to make you a special dessert. It was made to his exact specifications. Butter. Marshmallows.” She winces like she’s swallowed a bug. “Cheetos.” She sighs. “The chocolate sauce was my own doing. How do you eat these monstrosities without chocolate?”
Amanda laughs, pokes a ball, dips it, and eats. “Oh, Consuela! Chocolate sauce on balls is divine.”
I wisely keep my mouth shut. Consuela departs.
“Try one, Andrew!”
“I’m good.”
“C’mon! Live a little.”
“Those are for you.”
“They should be for us. Share with me. I want you to enjoy this, too.”
I follow her lead and try one.
They’re surprisingly good.
And the taste is familiar. I’m remembering Vegas. Orange stains.
“What a lovely night,” Amanda says with a sigh. The wind’s picking up, and the sound of people walking on the streets below filters up, the conversation boisterous.
And then the conversation gets louder.
And louder.
“I think he said up here,” Dad says, loud and clear.
“I’ve had dinner plenty of times at Consuela’s, Dad. She’ll greet us and tell us where to go.” That’s Declan.
