Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee

by Julia Kent

  Vince turns and stares at me as if he’s an eighteenth-century hangman evaluating my neck.

  “You’re a dead man.”

  “Dead men can’t cry.” I make a fake pouty face.

  “But they can spin. See you Friday. Get those chicken legs ready.” He stares at my calves, then punches my arm and walks down the hall, chest so big and wide his forearms graze against the hallway walls. Turning sideways, he lets someone walk down the hallway, coming from the other direction.

  Amanda.

  “What was that about?” she asks, eyes wide and open, mouth pressed in a prim line. She’s wearing a green wrap dress that makes her eyes extra sultry, and all I want to do is get sweaty with her in my office again. She looks just enough like Christina Hendricks in Mad Men to drive me wild. My pants tighten and threaten to cut off circulation to everything below the navel. I want to turn the glass desktop into a Slip ’n Slide.

  “We were talking about Vince and I having sex.”

  “So your usual 2 p.m. meeting?”

  There’s only one way to respond to that.

  I kiss her.

  Hard.

  She squirms in my arms, hands flat against my sweaty chest.

  “It’s like you swam in sweat!”

  “Pretty close. Vince had me run eleven miles on the trails.”

  Her whole body pauses. “Outside?”

  A swell of pride fills me. “Yes.”

  “Andrew!” she squeals, pulling me in for a wet hug. “Congratulations! That’s wonderful!”

  “I don’t need praise for being a human being. It’s not like I climbed Mount Everest. ” But her sweet softness isn’t a bad prize.

  “You need recognition for being brave.”

  “I went outside, Amanda. That’s second to respiration. No one needs an I Did It! ribbon for that.”

  “How about a celebration at your place? Tonight? I’ll give you a major award.” Wink.

  I don’t know why, but I blurt out, “Pack a bag. I’ll clear out a drawer.”

  She frowns. “A drawer?”

  “You can start keeping some stuff at my place.”

  “Some stuff?”

  “Clothes. Toothbrush. Stuff. So you can spend the night more.”

  “You mean—what—huh?”

  “I want you to spend more time at my place. With me.” A single drop of sweat chooses that moment to dangle from the end of one curled-up piece of my hair onto my cheekbone, making me feel like I’m crying.

  I’m not.

  “Are you asking me to—” Amanda can’t say the words, so she just narrows her eyes and waits me out.

  “To bring some of your stuff over. Keep it in my apartment. For convenience.”

  “Convenience.”

  “Right.”

  “How much stuff?”

  “As much as you want.”

  “For a man whose entire company functions as a result of his painstaking clarity, you really suck at this conversation, Andrew.”

  “If I asked you to move in with me, would that help clarify?”

  “You’re asking me to move in with you?”

  I guess I am.

  I shrug.

  “We were practically married. I’d marry you if I thought you’d bite.”

  “I was closer to being married to Chuckles than you, Andrew. Or should I say, Ayndrough.” She’s using a light tone, but I can tell she’s covering for deep feelings that I’ve stirred up.

  Mine are churning, too.

  “If it’s too much, just start with an outfit. A toothbrush. Some makeup.”

  “I get my own drawer?”

  “And a hook. I’ll install a single hook in the closet for you.”

  “So generous!”

  “Hey, you can have the entire closet if you want. I don’t want to scare you off.” I know not to say it, but I can’t help myself.

  “You’re not scaring me. You’re just...this is fast.” She’s skeptical.

  “Fast?”

  “We never really dated.”

  “Of course we dated! We went to Consuela’s, and...” I snap off in mid sentence. We also went to... My mind goes blank.

  “See? You can’t even—”

  “Fenway Park!” I snap my fingers. “We went to a game.”

  “And that day turned out so well.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. That was a terrible day. Trapped between business associates and Amanda’s obvious distress as she unraveled from something I didn’t understand, I failed her. Fear (fine, I admit it) of going outside and following made me a prisoner of my own failure.

  “I found you at home.”

  “You did.”

  “And as I recall, we did just fine after that.”

  “Until you dumped me.”

  “I didn’t—” The truth hits me, like a foul ball gone funky.

  “You did.” The finality of her words feels like a shattered baseball bat.

  “I did.” I accept the truth of how much I hurt her that day. I know it hurt, because it pierced me to do it. When you trap yourself inside a double bind in your own mind, an irrational emotion can lock you up forever, because it’s self-justifying. All the reasons you’re wrong are overridden by this perfectly reasonable, absolutely rational set of rules that make sense.

  Only in a closed system.

  When you turn your heart into a fortress, you can defend it against anything.

  Including love.

  “And I was wrong,” I choke out. “I’ve lived a life so closed off from any hint of openness. You felt expansive, like I would be carried off in the wind, floating out of control, carried by the whims of Mother Nature, exposed. That’s how loving you feels, Amanda. Like every part of me can’t quite catch its breath because I’m dissolving, becoming part of everything else.”

  She reaches for my hand. I thread my fingers in hers. Our eyes meet.

  “I’m going to screw this up,” I confess.

  “Say it anyway.”

  I nod.

  “It’s barely been a week.”

  “It feels like a month.”

  “Like eternity.”

  “We’re not competing for a Hyperbole Prize here, Andrew.”

  “No. The stakes are higher.”

  “Much higher.”

  “Stratospherically higher.”

  She punches me.

  “Is your only objection that we haven’t dated long enough?” I press. Because if that’s it—really, truly the only problem here—then there is no real conflict. No true doubts. If Amanda’s hesitation comes from a sense of disbelief that I can feel great certainty in the face of being together for a short time frame, then this is a done deal.

  I am the master of persuasion.

  I need to apply my boardroom skills to the bedroom.

  Convincing her that I am sincere and sure will be a pleasure.

  “I don’t know.”

  Shit.

  I don’t know is the cockblocker of all negotiations.

  “You don’t know whether we’ve dated long enough, or you don’t know whether your only objection is that we haven’t dated long enough?”

  She blinks, her face changing expressions, trying a few on for size, her inner state written all over her face. I love that she’s comfortable enough to drop her masks more and more with me. Meanwhile, my inner state is a war zone, complete with bombers on an air raid and artillery exploding all over the place as I try to keep my emotions in check and figure out the lay of the land here.

  “I can’t wrap my head around the fact that you pushed me away less than a month ago and now you’re certain you want to spend the rest of your life with me.”

  Oh.

  That.

  “Clarity.”

  “You’ve achieved emotional clarity like that?” She snaps her fingers.

  “Yes.”

  “And you expect me to be so clear, too.”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course?”

  �
��I’m not fooling around here, Amanda. You have nothing to worry about. This is it. You’re the person I want to be with forever. All I need now is your buy-in, and we’re good to go.”

  “Buy-in?”

  “Your agreement.”

  She peers at me with such incredible concentration that I feel something loosen, an internal aha! that tells me I’m finally getting traction.

  This is a done deal.

  “You make it sound like a detail in a business negotiation.”

  “Marriage is a merger.”

  The incredulous look she gives me makes my confidence falter. “Whatever happened to the guy who quoted Dickinson on our first date?”

  I point to myself. “Same guy.”

  “And now you’re describing the biggest emotional commitment of my life as a buy-in?”

  “When you know, you know.”

  “Maybe I don’t know.”

  Blood pounds through my body like a clock, measuring time by my pulse, each second profound and painful, achingly slow and ponderous. I don’t know chimes over and over.

  “You don’t have to know,” is all I can croak out. I’m dying. This is how it feels to have blood pump through a heart that is collapsing, cell by cell. Slow motion makes it all so much worse.

  And then our eyes meet.

  “I propose a traditional courting,” she says, as if a light bulb just went on inside her head.

  “A what?” Don’t mind me. I’m just pretending to be alive.

  “Court me.”

  “Court you? Is that a new sex thing?”

  “No, Andrew. It’s a very old-fashioned love thing.”

  “Courting? Like something from a Jane Austen novel? You want me to turn into some Regency-era duke with rules and calling cards?”

  “And breves. If you’re going to go to the trouble to get calling cards, make sure your liveryman brings me breves, too.”

  “I highly doubt the Darcy and Bennet families drank breves during calling hours.”

  She arches one eyebrow. “Your knowledge of Austen and Dickinson is so hot.” She fans herself.

  “You and the breves. They’re like tiramisu to most women.”

  She gives me a coy smile.

  Oh, no.

  She’s serious.

  “Amanda. I don’t have time to play games. Either we’re dating, or we’re not.” Either you love me, or you don’t.

  “And if I said ‘not’?”

  My entire body turns into a bundle of frozen meat filled with icebergs in my blood. The Titanic crashes on one of them.

  “Is that what you want? To not date? To not—” I can’t say it. Not be together.

  “No.”

  “No, you don’t want to date, or no, you—”

  “I want to be with you.”

  I breathe again.

  “But with courting,” she adds brightly, giving me an amused grin, eyes flashing.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I need clarity, too. You already have it. I don’t. Figure it out, Mr. CEO.” She gives me that damn finger-shoot Declan uses when he’s being extra sarcastic. “You’re a sharp guy.”

  And with that, she walks out of my office, the view of her sashaying ass turning the ice in my blood up to a boil.

  Courting? Courting?

  “How do you court someone you’ve already been almost-married to?” I mutter to myself.

  “I guess we’ll find out,” she calls back through the door.

  Bzzzz.

  “Mr. McCormick? An official from the FCC is on your line? He says you’re ten minutes late for a conference call?” Gina’s voice startles me back to reality.

  “Gina. I want you to research courting and have a report for me in my inbox by EOB.”

  “Courting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that a new sport?”

  “No. An old one.”

  “Courting?” I hear the tap of keys. “Do you mean courting, as in wooing a woman for marriage?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you want me to research this for you?”

  There’s a distinct tone of sarcasm in Gina’s voice. That’s new.

  “Yes.”

  “You realize this is something most women want the man to do on his own. Having your admin research how to court a woman is kind of impersonal, Mr. McCormick.”

  Huh. That did not sound like a question. Gina’s marked change in vocal patterns troubles me.

  But not enough to do anything about it.

  “And make sure none of the courting ideas involve being outdoors during the day.”

  “But Mr. Mc—”

  Click.

  I’ve never looked forward to an FCC conference call with so much relief.

  Way easier than dealing with women.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Gina’s report is on regency-era courting. Reading through the seventeen-page report, which is meticulously organized by subsections such as “How to Give Your Daughter a Season,” “Proper Chaperone Techniques,” and “Elopement to Gretna Green,” I realize the entire file is nothing but bits and bytes of sarcasm designed to meet my exact request within the letter of the law.

  Or, to put it another way, she’s being maliciously obedient.

  “Gina.”

  “Yes?”

  “Great report. Make it happen. If we were near Scotland, I’d take the Gretna Green option, but we’ll have to settle for the rest.”

  “Make it happen?” she squeaks. “Make what happen?”

  “All of it. The outfit, the carriage, the whole bit. No budget. Just do it.”

  “No budget? But Mr. McCormick, I—”

  Click.

  Twenty-five minutes later, Gina buzzes me.

  “Professor Victoria Kensley-Wentingham from Boston University on the line for you, Mr. McCormick?”

  “Professor who?”

  The line changes over. A sweet, chortling older woman’s voice fills my ear.

  “Mr. McCormick! I understand you have a grave costume emergency. I am a historical costumer and here to help. I understand you need a bespoke 1809 duke’s costume and carriage with liveryman?”

  I’ve underestimated Gina.

  Gravely.

  “Yes. I have been asked to court my partner, and—”

  “Court your partner? Impossible!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “One cannot court one’s partner. If one already has a partner, then the courting is redundant.”

  “Exactly! That’s what I said.”

  “If you wish to marry, however, then courting is essential.”

  Wife.

  The professor rattles off a list of clothing, accessories, horse and carriage requirements, and names a price tag that doesn’t even register.

  Wife.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes to all of it?” The professor’s elation pours out of the phone like a honey factory exploded in my ear.

  “Yes.” I’m too distracted to sort through the details. It’s easier to just agree and make this master plan work.

  “Can you come to the university costuming department for a fitting? We’ll need your exact measurements, your inseam, which way you dress—”

  My schedule is insane.

  “I’d prefer you come to my office. I’m very busy, and—”

  She instantly quotes a higher price.

  “Fine.”

  She clears her throat as if the act is a form of supplication. “Your attention to historical accuracy is admirable,” she declares.

  I’m sure my wallet is, too.

  “I must say, Mr. McCormick, I haven’t had an assignment like this since the Sultan of Al-Massi asked for a re-creation of Pride and Prejudice in Dubai.”

  I perk up. “He what?”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t mention it, but I’m not violating confidentiality. The Sultan is an enormous Jane Austen fan. He has an entire wing of his palace devoted to an exquisite—and exact—replica of Pemb
erley.”

  Tucking that detail away for later, I give the good professor over to Gina to make arrangements.

  In exactly one hour, there’s a knock at my door, and then Hyacinth Bucket enters the room.

  Mom’s favorite show, when we were kids, was this crazy British comedy, Keeping Up Appearances. I do a double take as a matronly, confident, curvy woman with a slightly pinched face but bright, cunning eyes marches into my office carrying a sewing basket, trailed by a frail, terrified teenager with long, blonde dreadlocks who is dressed like H.G. Wells has a clothing line at Hot Topic.

  “Mr. McCormick! Victoria Kensley-Wentingham. So good to finally meet you.”

  I stand and approach her, Professor Kensley-Wentingham taking both of my hands in hers and giving such good eye contact I feel like a lab specimen.

  “Finally? We only spoke for the first time an hour ago, Ms. Kensley-Wentingham. Or is it Dr. Kensley-Wentingham?” I shake her hand and mentally reprimand Gina for letting this woman in.

  “Oh, and this is Patience Overton,” she says, waving blithely at the waif behind her. “She is my intern.”

  Patience gives me a wan smile and zero eye contact.

  “Nice to meet you,” I lie.

  “I said finally with great intent, sir,” the professor announces, “for any man ruled by such traditionally romantic passions must have his needs quenched in a timely manner.” She grins broadly. “And it is, in fact, Dr. Kensley-Wentingham. Thank you for your attention to detail with the honorific. So few people understand true respect.” Sniff.

  I’m going to kill Gina.

  “But please, call me Victoria.”

  “And I am Andrew.”

  She nods, half in indication that my words are appreciated. “Let us begin your extraordinary transformation into the external manifestation of the greatest man—a true man, if ever there was one, even if he is fictional. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You asked for a duke’s costume, but you do realize Mr. Darcy was no duke.”

  “I—”

  “With no expense spared, I’ve taken the liberty of bringing only the finest period replicas, made with cloth that is as close as possible to the original. Your need for authenticity drives you to new heights of boldness in your attempt to woo, does it not?” Her eyes comb over me, from shoe tips to forehead cowlick. I can’t tell whether she’s calculating revenue, taking measurements, or eyeing me for her secret Red Room of Pain.