Shopping for a CEO's Wife (Shopping for a Billionaire Book 12)

by Julia Kent

  I pat my stomach before I reply to Andrew with, Yes, but not very hungry. Muffin Mom struck again.

  Don’t let her send you home with any, he responds. We still have six in the fridge.

  Five, I reply.

  I get a smiley face in return, then: Be there in fifteen minutes

  “Was that Andrew?” Mom asks, coming into the living room with Spritzy at her heels, licking his face suspiciously. I see Mom pop the other half of whatever human food she just fed Spritzy. The look on Mom’s face is one of subterfuge.

  She is fundamentally incapable of lying.

  “Yes. Are you sure you don’t want to come to dinner with us at Consuela’s? You’re more than welcome.”

  Suddenly skittish, Mom shakes her head. “Oh, my goodness, no! I would be a third wheel. And I know how expensive Consuela’s restaurant is. I wouldn’t expect Andrew to spend that kind of money!”

  “Right. Because any guy who can pay off your mortgage can’t possibly handle it if you order the lobster, Mom.”

  “And about that, Amanda – I thanked him profusely. I even tried to give the money back. That financial advisor, Mr. Steele, is quite formidable.”

  “Sterling. His name is Sterling.”

  “Sterling, Steele, these silly names. Why can’t people give their children a good old-fashioned name? The other day I was working on a project where some child actor on a movie set was named K8lynn. When I assumed it was a stage name, I was assured it was not.”

  “What’s wrong with Caitlyn?”

  “K-8-L-Y-N-N.”

  My wordless reaction makes her laugh.

  “That’s what my face looked like!”

  “Did they name her sister P-2-N-I-A?”

  Mom looks like she ate a lemon.

  “How did we get from inviting you to dinner with us to kids with numbers in their names?”

  Tap tap tap.

  Spritzy barks furiously at the big, bad intruder at the door, who walks in and plants a big, loving kiss on my mouth.

  “Andrew,” Mom says, holding Spritzy in her arms as a shield. While Shannon’s mom and dad hug like it’s the End Times and the Rapture is coming to take (most of) us away, Mom hands out hugs sparingly with anyone but me.

  “Hi, Pam. Are you joining us?”

  Some impish, unspoken emotion passes between them as she says, “Ah, no. Have to wash my hair tonight.”

  “Why would washing your hair mean you can’t come out with us?” I ask, perplexed.

  She sighs. “It’s an old joke. Never mind. You two go and have fun. I’m planning a nice batch of praline cinnamon buns for Jay.”

  Andrew groans and pats his utterly flat stomach. “You’re killing us all.”

  “One muffin at a time,” she says cheerily.

  I wave and walk out the door, spotting Jay in his car, parked on the side of the road. Expecting Andrew right behind me, I turn to make a joke, but he’s not there. He and Mom are huddled in quiet discussion. They see me watching them and break apart, Mom patting his shoulder before she disappears back into the house.

  “What was that about?”

  “I told her if she ever baked another muffin for my security team, I’d kidnap Spritzy and sell him to the circus.” Gerald’s driving us in an SUV, the vehicle’s interior filled with the scent of polished leather and Andrew’s soap, an evocative scent that makes me understand why women have sex in limos.

  Women like me.

  “Hi Gerald,” I say, maintaining a shred of decency as I remember the privacy shield isn’t engaged. He nods at me. I turn to Andrew. “You did not threaten just to steal my mom’s poor little doggie.”

  “Don’t underestimate me.” As Gerald backs out of the driveway, Andrew adds, “Maybe we should get a dog.”

  “A dog on the penultimate floor of a Seaport District apartment building? You really want to be the one who has to take her downstairs for bathroom breaks?”

  “Good point. We can wait until we have a house.” He squeezes my hand and we drive silently, listening to some excellent blues music Gerald’s picked out. Andrew chuckles to himself, the amusement infectious, making me smile for no reason other than emotional osmosis.

  By the time we reach Consuela’s, I’m relaxed. Two photographers wait at the entrance, clearly expecting someone. Maybe not us, but we’re not taking chances. Gerald continues right on past the main door and turns right, driving into a parking garage with a labyrinthine system.

  He points. “That door. Up two flights of stairs to the entrance, then the tiny service elevator,” he tells us as he says something into a mouthpiece. Andrew reaches past me, opens my door, and he climbs out my side, nearest the door. We’ve adapted our bodies and physical routines to cut down on exposure to the paparazzi.

  Of course we have.

  With a huge sigh of relief, we’re now in the elevator, on our way to Consuela’s magical solarium. No sun right now, of course. Only four tables are available – period – in the little sun room she’s carved out in the rooftop gardens that house her secret bistro. As we step into the restaurant, she greets us herself, all smiles and double-cheeked kisses.

  “My favorite cilantro hater,” she says in her cultured Spanish accent as she kisses Andrew, who laughs at the ribbing.

  “I hope there’s no tarragon in your rice, Consuela,” he replies with a thinker’s stroke of the chin. “It turns out I’m allergic.”

  “You are allergic to good manners, Andrew. Your food restrictions will make me break out in hives.” Grinning at me, she asks, “How can you tolerate his beastly ways?”

  “It’s a struggle.”

  She winks at Andrew, then guides us to a table.

  “We’re first?” I ask, looking around the empty solarium. A large woodstove with a wide glass door burns away, giving more heat on the side of me facing it.

  “You are,” she answers smoothly as a server delivers bread, oil, a crudités tray, and water.

  “No menus?” I ask Andrew, who turns to Consuela.

  “I have a special dinner planned for you both. Andrew was kind enough to defer to me.”

  “Don’t get used to it,” he says with a scowl, looking like a younger James.

  A bottle of wine is delivered to the table, and Consuela pours.

  “White?” I ask. “Must be fish for the main course.”

  Pressing one perfectly manicured finger to her lips, she smiles. “Shhhh.”

  I’ve never seen her disappear so quickly.

  We munch and sip, Andrew’s uncharacteristic quiet a bit unnerving. Half a glass later, our first course is delivered, a salad that looks like a colorful game of Jenga.

  I eat the entire thing in three bites.

  “Do you remember our first date here?” I ask, nostalgia clinging to my vision, my skin starting to turn to warm silk at the memory of that night.

  “I quoted Dickinson to you.”

  “You did.”

  “And I remember bargaining with God that if he’d just let us be together, I’d do anything.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything.”

  “You’ve overcome your wasp issues.”

  “I have. Thanks to you.”

  “And we got engaged here,” I muse.

  He points to the right, through the window, at a tiny door. “Technically, in the garden potting shed.”

  “Close enough.”

  “We have a bias toward small spaces. Closets, potting sheds...”

  “We’ll need a tiny home, then,” I joke.

  His smile drops, though he recovers it quickly. How odd.

  “When do you want to have the ceremony?” I ask Andrew, who immediately chokes on an olive he’s just popped into his mouth. Eyes red-rimmed and teary, he finally clears his throat, sucking down all of his wine and water in sequence.

  “You okay?”

  He nods. “Excuse me?”

  “Our ceremony? I know Terry has plenty of time, but you don’t. You travel so much.”

>   “Oh, I think sooner rather than later would be a good idea.”

  “But how? You told me the other day that you’re spending ten days in Ireland later this month, and then off to the Azores, followed by that big conference in Berlin.”

  “We’ll find the time.” He pours himself another glass of wine and sips it slowly. “I’m sure.”

  The server removes our salad plates and Consuela emerges from the kitchen, the air filled with the scent of onion, cumin, and bacon. She sets a small bowl of soup before each of us, long pieces of fried potato on the plate beneath.

  “What is this?” I sniff my bowl, transported to foodie heaven.

  “A new take on beer and cheese soup. My own version.”

  “What’s next? Buffalo wings and mozz sticks?” Andrew jokes.

  She pretends to strangle him.

  We eat in harmony, the wine kicking in, small tastes with each course building to more.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “About what?”

  “Andrew! About when we’re getting married!”

  “How about right now?” says a woman’s voice.

  I turn to find Mom standing at the edge of the room, Consuela’s arm around her shoulders.

  “Mom! You decided to have dinner with us!” Gentleman that he is, Andrew stands first, but I beat him across the room to her. “We’re already on the second course, but you’re welcome to join us. What made you change your mind?”

  She looks up at Andrew, who smiles back. “He did.”

  I pause, blinking hard. “Wait a minute. You said ‘how about now?’ a minute ago.”

  Reaching into her Spritzy-less bag, Mom pulls out three items:

  1. My wrapped Yes album for Andrew

  2. Two small, velvet jeweler’s boxes

  3. An envelope

  My eyes cut around the room. “Is this a joke? Is Terry about to come around the corner? Are we getting married right now?”

  “Most of that’s true. Terry’s not the one marrying us, though,” Andrew explains. “Connie was kind enough to let me buy out the place so we’d have it to ourselves.” Only Andrew can call her that, the familiarity too much for me. In the moment, I find myself grasping at tiny details because the big ones are too big. He’s throwing universes at me.

  How do you catch a paradigm shift? How do you hold a surprise wedding in your arms?

  Mom positively beams. She reaches into the purse and pulls out her reading glasses, then takes a paper from the envelope. As she shuffles others, I see an application for a marriage license among them.

  I feel my breath against my nose, the sound like eternity whistling in a wind tunnel, the sound of every second hurtling through time coalescing my my lungs, pumped in and out by love.

  I look at Consuela. “You? You’re marrying us? Because it’s totally unfair that whatever god runs everything gave you the ability to make a perfect roux and officiate at weddings.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Then who?”

  “What am I? A ghost?” Mom jokes, throwing her arms open and hugging me, her breath coming in and out in a bumpy emotional mess. She’s softer and smaller than my body remembers, but I’m not exactly processing stimuli properly right now.

  “What?” I squeal. “How can you marry us?” An uncanny, dreamlike cloud crawls along my skin. Am I tripping? If I didn’t know this was real, I’d assume I’d conjured it as fantasy. Going from constant surveillance by a scandal-hungry pack of media wolves to complete privacy at Consuela’s sanctuary is a form of emotional whiplash. I’ll take it over the alternative, but it’s still jarring.

  “Andrew asked me a few weeks ago,” Mom explains patiently, brushing my hair off my shoulder, leaning in as she peers at me with a big, understanding smile. If anyone understands surprise-induced anxiety, it’s my mother. Marie may be good at wrangling an angry, homicidal cat into a Scottish kilt, but when it comes to introverted overwhelm, Pam Warrick is the queen.

  “Weeks?!”

  “Said it was the best way he could think of to get the paparazzi to leave us alone, and for me to be here to see my baby girl get married. What’s better than witnessing it? Being the officiant!”

  “So...so...right now?”

  “Right now,” Andrew confirms.

  “Do we eat our dinner first?”

  Mom chuckles. “I’m only here in my official capacity, as granted by the State of Massachusetts. I am not crashing your meal.”

  “Mom!” My laughter feels like someone’s pumping me full of helium. Delirious with joy and the unshakeable sense that I’ve been truly surprised, outmaneuvered by the two people I love most in the world, I can’t stop giggling. “You’re really going to marry us? Now?”

  “Yes. I’m your witness,” Consuela explains, removing her apron and holding up a camera phone. “And photographer. Wedding cake baker -- ”

  “There’s a wedding cake?” I peep.

  She’s offended. “Of course! Serves two.” Wink. Elegant hands direct my attention to a tiny round cake. It’s orange. A bride and groom on top are dressed in Regency-era clothing.

  Little balls of Cheeto-marshmallow treats line the perimeter.

  “You are quite the multi-tasker,” I say with a pointed look. “And conspirator.”

  She shrugs, a single-shouldered insouciance infusing the movement in a way that only Consuela can manage.

  “Shall we?” Mom asks, gesturing with her arm toward a nice spot by the stove.

  This is unreal.

  “Wait! We’re really doing it?”

  “‘Doing it,’” Andrew snickers.

  I kick him in the ankle.

  He laughs.

  Mom has tears in her eyes already, and reaches for my hands. “You are the most important person in the whole wide world to me, Amanda. And I know you’re also the most important person in the whole wide world to Andrew. Thankfully, he’s not an asshole -- ”

  “Hey!” my about-to-become-my-husband protests.

  “ -- and that means we can share you.” She looks at Andrew. “I’ll just have to accept a smaller share than I’m used to.”

  I give her a shaky grin. “How does this work? You’ve never married two people before.”

  “I printed a sample ceremony off the internet.”

  “The internet!”

  “And I memorized my handwritten vows,” Andrew adds.

  “Wait a minute!” I protest. “You two cooked this scheme up and I didn’t get a chance to prepare! It’s not fair that you wrote beautiful, heartfelt vows about me and I don’t have anything for you.”

  He hands me a piece of paper.

  “Katie wrote yours.”

  “Katie Gallagher? The Anterdec wedding planner?”

  He nods.

  I scowl. “Does that mean Gina wrote your vows?”

  He bursts out laughing. “No. But good idea.”

  I set Katie’s paper aside. “Did you really write vows?”

  He nods. “Only three sentences.”

  “I can match that.”

  “I’m sure you can beat it.”

  Mom brings us together in a group, Consuela holding the ring boxes.

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the joining together of Amanda Hortense Warrick and Andrew James McCormick.”

  I glare at Mom. She knows exactly why. Sure, sure, Hortense is a family name, and it’s pronounced the French way, but seriously?

  Andrew is trying not to laugh. Mom’s cheeks turn pink under my unremitting condemnation, but nevertheless... she persists.

  “Amanda Hortense and Andrew James -- ”

  At the name ‘James,’ I start. “What about your father?” I ask Andrew.

  “He understands.”

  I tilt my head in silent questioning.

  “He has no choice. I wanted simple.”

  I look around. “You achieved it.”

  “In the spirit of simple, let’s start the vows. Andrew?” Mom nods a
t him.

  Consuela hands him my ring. We picked them out a long time ago, on a short weekend trip to Maine. A little jewelry shop in Portland had braided gold and platinum wedding bands, and each ring has one word inscribed on the inside:

  Nobody.

  Emily Dickinson. He remembers.

  Andrew takes my left hand and slides the ring over it, the feeling like diving into a warm pool. “I wasted two years after our first kiss,” he begins. “I’ll always regret that. Let me spend the rest of our lives making it up to you. I take you, Amanda, to be my wife.”

  Tears spill over my lower lids, dotting my sweater as my hand shakes.

  “Amanda?” Mom’s crying, too. Consuela hands me Andrew’s ring. Unlike him, I have never slid a ring on anyone’s finger. He at least had some practice with my engagement ring last year.

  Those strong hands feel so heavy in mine as I look him in the eye, mind rushing to find the perfect words it can’t be responsible for, because those sentiments live elsewhere.

  In my heart and soul.

  Closing my eyes, I search inside, finding what I need for vows. Finding what has been in me all along, awakened by him.

  “You are unfixable,” I say with a smile. “I’m so used to fixing everything. People. Emotions. Business projects. Emergencies. Crises. If it’s broken or complicated, I find a solution. You don’t need to be solved. You don’t need me to solve your issues. You just are, and you let me just be. I get to be unfixable, too, with you. And I’ll love you for it for the rest of our lives and beyond. I take you, Andrew James, to be my husband.” The ring goes over his finger, riding the ridge of his knuckles, settling in place at the base near the palm.

  He’s holding my hand so tight, I can’t tell where my ring ends and his begins.

  “Knowing my daughter,” Mom says, her voice as tight as a taut wire in a windstorm, making sounds like abandoned souls in the in-between, “I did not prepare a statement about obedience.”

  Andrew tries to smother a smile. He fails.

  “And so, by the power vested in me for this single day by the State of Massachusetts, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” Mom’s last word comes out as a sob. Consuela moves to hold her, crying as well, offering a tissue from a pack in her hand.