Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee (24 page)

“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?

“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.”