Shopping for a CEO (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 7)

by Julia Kent

“Talking about gold stars?” she asks, a bit befuddled. “Is there a special reward system I don’t know about?”

  “Something like that,” Josh mumbles. “Let’s stop talking about my sex life.”

  “Sex life?” Carol snorts, really confused now. She grabs a foil-covered tractor and begins peeling it, taking a bite. The tire snaps off in her mouth. “What do gold stars have to do with sex lives? Now we have sticker charts for sex?”

  “That’s what I’m wondering!” Greg bellows, reaching for one of the chocolates. “How come Josh gets a gold star for not sleeping with women but I can’t get a gold star for not sleeping with men?”

  “I’m not sleeping with men or women,” Carol says sadly, eating the tractor’s engine now. “What do I get for that?”

  I reach across my desk and grab a sheaf of papers, sliding them to her. “You get the sex toy shops I took.”

  She looks at the chocolate in her hand. Glances at the papers. Then the pile of chocolate.

  “Why are you giving me those?”

  “Because Amanda’s pregnant,” Greg explains helpfully, his mouth full of a tractor.

  “Work pregnant or pregnant pregnant?” Carol asks casually. These conversations have become alarmingly normal to me.

  “Work pregnant, I assume,” I reply. “Because if I’m pregnant pregnant, then my vibrator has some explaining to do.”

  “Or maybe Andrew McCormick?” she adds with a leer.

  Josh and Greg give me chocolate-smeared looks. “You’re pregnant by Andrew McCormick?” Josh squeals.

  “No! We just kissed.”

  “You’re kissing Andrew McCormick?” Greg looks deeply uncomfortable, and it’s not his usual acid reflux look.

  “We’re...something.”

  “You’re somethinging?” We’ve turned that word into a verb. It’s funny when applied to Shannon. To me? Not so much.

  “We’re dating. I guess?” This is the first time I’ve had to define whatever Andrew and I are doing.

  “Openly?”

  “We’re not in the closet about it.”

  “Why would two heterosexuals be in the closet?” Josh asks.

  “Ask Andrew.”

  Greg frowns. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this, Amanda. Professionally, I mean.”

  A chill of shame crawls over my skin, completely unexpected. “What?”

  “He’s a client.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “He’s our biggest client.”

  “You had no problem when Shannon was dating Declan.”

  “That’s different.” Greg’s discomfort takes on alarming proportions. “We were in a different phase of the corporate relationship with Anterdec then.”

  “You mean Shannon helped secure the contract by dating Declan.”

  “Yes.”

  “And if I date Andrew you’re worried that...”

  “You could jeopardize some complex business negotiations.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Greg’s phone rings. He reaches into his pants pocket and walks away abruptly. I hear the words, “Hi, Doctor...” and then his words become indistinct. His wife, Judy, is a breast cancer survivor, and now I wonder if there’s even more going on under the surface of every single part of my life—work, home, friends, Andrew—than I ever imagined.

  It’s like realizing you’re perched on an island that turns out to be the tip of an iceberg.

  In a boiling pot of water.

  “What’s he talking about?” I ask Carol, who just shrugs.

  “Don’t ask me. I’m still the newbie here.”

  “You’ve worked here for more than a year.”

  “I know, but that’s my convenient excuse and I’m sticking to it.”

  “Why can’t you be the pregnant one?”

  She holds her fingers up in the sign of the cross and shouts to Josh, “Got any garlic? Cast thee out, demon. Don’t you dare talk about more spawn in this womb.”

  “I take it the baby factory is closed.”

  “The womb has been converted from a factory to an abandoned warehouse. Yours, on the other hand,” she says suggestively, “is about to become a playroom.”

  “Ewww,” Josh says from his desk. “I can hear you.”

  “What? You think we’re discriminating against you because you have a penis, but when we talk about vaginas you get grossed out.”

  “Yes.” He shudders.

  “Oh, he’s going to be a great partner in these childbirth classes,” I say.

  Carol snickers.

  “Why can’t you do the childbirth class shops with him?” I ask.

  She looks at herself, then at Josh. “Look at me. Look at Josh. Not only am I too old for him, but I could crush him like a bug. No one would ever believe we’re together.”

  She’s right. They pretty much look like they’d be each other’s beard.

  “Besides, I’d be the worst candidate for a child birth class, because I’ve actually been through childbirth. Twice. I know how much bullshit they deal in those classes, and I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, honey,” she says. “The only part that really helps is the tour of the hospital, so you know exactly where you’ll feel all your pain. Contractions in the elevator. Vomiting in the trash can in Waiting Room #4. Actual shredding of your perineum in Delivery Room #3. Stitch popping when you try to poop in Room #535. The tour should be renamed A Map of Your Suffering.”

  Josh makes a strange gagging sound.

  “But they won’t tell you that. And they shouldn’t. Because what woman in her right mind goes through pregnancy and childbirth knowing the risks and the torture that’s coming? So they sugar coat it and tell you that contractions are really just pressure you can use mind techniques to control, or that perineal massage for the entire pregnancy will thin out the tissues so the baby’s head doesn’t tear two holes into one.”

  Josh is now retching.

  “Or that when you’re on the delivery table and they tell you to push, you will end up with hemorrhoids the size of small Pomeranians.”

  Josh sprints out of his office for the bathroom.

  Carol looks over at his empty desk with cat eyes, her expression exactly like the one Chuckles has after coughing up an impressive hairball.

  “Why do people reproduce?” I ask, cringing.

  “Because it’s like making love with your body, but instead of being left with a wet spot, you get an entire human being who you get to love forever.”

  “Awww.”

  Josh staggers back, drinking a fresh can of soda from the machine outside the men’s room. His eyes are hollow.

  “And bonus! If you’re really lucky, the flesh donut that forms when your butt hole turns inside out as the head emerges goes back in place. Eventually.”

  Josh sprints again.

  I am really, really glad I’m just work pregnant.

  Chapter Seventeen

  As we pull into the parking lot of the sex toy store where Marie and I are mystery shopping today, she turns to me and blurts out, “Amanda, what’s a dirty sanchez?”

  I set down my foamy hot chocolate. Permanently.

  Marie went through the entire mystery shopping certification process so that she could do sex toy shops. So far, she turns out to be a master at them. This one is a little different from the others.

  This is a store with its own back room that hosts bachelorette parties. As luck would have it, we need to evaluate the process of being walked through the offer to host a combined bachelorette/sex toy party, complete with catering and strippers.

  Timing is everything.

  Shannon has begged me to make sure her mother doesn’t sign any contracts. Technically, as the maid of honor, it’s my job to throw the bachelorette party, and no matter how elegantly awesome this place might be, I have the final say on what Shannon’s last night of debauchery looks like.

  As far as I’m concerned, it involves alcoho
l, body oil, and Joe Manganiello.

  Not necessarily in that order.

  I pointedly ignore Marie’s question about a dirty sanchez (Google it—you’ll understand why) and we walk up to the smoked glass doors of our day’s shop.

  You would think we were walking into a spa. A Zen-decorated, grass and glass and polished stones, all muted earth-tones spa. The facility is called O.

  Just...O.

  A woman dressed in dove grey, with hair pulled back in a bun, greets us with a warm smile, reeking of verbena. She has no idea we’re actually mystery shopping. That’s the point. We pretend to be regular customers, but quietly document all of the ways the center can improve its customer service.

  We’re offered cucumber sparkling mineral water. The decor is a mix of raw wood, polished bamboo floors, glass waterfalls and Zen rock stacks, with orange and gold accents throughout.

  “O offers a twenty-first century club for sophisticated women,” the saleswoman, Chloe, explains. “We want to be a fourth space for women of a discerning taste.”

  “Fourth space?” Marie asks. She’s toned down her entire personality, eyes eager but body controlled.

  “Home is the first space. Work is the second space. Third spaces are locations like coffee shops and malls. We’re the fourth space. The space where you can arrive. Rest. Relax.” Chloe leans forward and whispers in a hushed tone with sultry implications. “Indulge.”

  Just then, a seven-foot-tall redwood masquerading as a man walks by, covered in oil and ginger hair, all tan and green eyes and...I think he’s wearing a shoelace.

  And only a shoelace—between his legs.

  He bends over and offers an assortment of tiny pieces of sushi on a tray that is so small it can’t even cover his, um...chopstick.

  “Indulge,” Marie says, her voice like a cougar’s growl, accepting a piece of something with salmon, her eyes tracking every move the man makes as he leaves the room.

  “That is Henry. He’s one of our top massage therapists.”

  “He gives massages?” Marie gives me a look that says, Please tell me we’re required to get a massage as part of this shop. Please. Please!

  I give her a terse head shake.

  She pouts.

  “Yes,” Chloe answers. “We have an array of highly skilled men here, from massage therapists to acupuncturists to Reiki providers and so much more.”

  “More?” I ask, my lips twitching with amusement.

  Chloe takes the bait willingly. She smooths long, elegantly-painted fingers along the tops of her legs, which are covered in a light linen skirt. “Indeed. You wouldn’t be here at O if you weren’t aware of our full array of services.”

  “True. My daughter is getting married in a few months and we’ve heard wonderful stories about your bachelorette parties.”

  I kick Marie in the ankle, just lightly enough to make a point.

  She moves out of target range.

  Chloe’s face spreads with a grin. “Ah. I see. You want to experience the full package.”

  Henry walks over with a tray of chocolate mousse in little espresso cups. As he bends over, I see the full package, all right.

  I take one of the white chocolate-filled delights and Henry gives me the once over. My face pinkens. A few days ago, this would have been a dream, but now? After my date with Andrew last night and another one scheduled for tonight?

  Suddenly Henry is just...work. Nothing more.

  Timing really is everything.

  Chloe pulls out a small remote control and pushes buttons, a large screen sliding down from the ceiling as the lights dim. She begins a slide show, a slick, professional design that takes us through all of the features O has to offer, from private lap dances with the male “talent” to hot tub and massage packages for couples.

  “And, of course, we have our Bridal Queen Delight,” she says, going in for the kill. None of their services in the brochure have prices next to them.

  Five men pour into the room as stripper music starts, the lights changing color. One of them is holding a sex toy that is likely banned in the state of Texas.

  We’re about to get a full taste of O, all right.

  My phone buzzes with a text.

  It’s Andrew.

  Can’t wait for tonight. What are you doing now?

  Watching a male stripper perform with a sex toy, I text back.

  My phone rings instantly.

  Marie doesn’t even notice. She’s watching Henry do a backbend and play with a—

  “You’re doing what?” Andrew’s voice barks into my phone. I plug the other ear and try to ignore the show in front of me.

  “I’m working.”

  “Your work involves a male stripper and sex toys?”

  “Yes. Today it does.”

  “Who on earth pays you to do that?”

  “You do.”

  Silence.

  “WHAT?”

  “Anterdec has majority ownership of the parent company that just recently launched the O spas, right? This is your job I’m on, Andrew. Thank you.” I practically purr through those last two words.

  Silence.

  “Shit,” he chokes out. “So I’m paying you to ogle half-naked men.”

  I squint and look carefully at the beefcake before me. “Technically, they’re about seven-eighths naked.”

  He groans.

  “The only partially naked man I want you to watch is me.”

  My turn to be silent. I am silent because my mouth just filled with drool and I can’t stop imagining Andrew in a shoelace offering me chocolate mousse in an espresso cup.

  “Amanda?”

  “Yes.”

  “You there?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I missed you last night.”

  “You were with me last night.”

  “I meant after dinner. You didn’t take me up on my offer to come back to my place.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too much. Too fast.” That’s the simple way to explain it. The truth is vastly more complex, but it’s hard to concentrate right now when there are five mostly naked men with bodies like something out of Magic Mike shining at me.

  Chloe thinks I’m talking about the striptease in front of me and slows everything down. Marie is in some guy’s lap, being fed chocolate-covered strawberries and having Champagne poured into a vial between her breasts and sipped by another man.

  Maybe that’s what she means about ‘the girls’ doing more work than anyone ever imagines.

  “Is it?” he asks softly. “Is tonight too much?”

  “No!” I say a little too quickly.

  “Yes!” Marie calls out as the music quickens and she’s lifted into a—

  “Is that a sex swing?” I call out.

  “Oh, come on,” Andrew mutters. “My work day involves discussing currency exchange rates and spreads—”

  “This involves some, uh, spreading too,” I mutter. And plenty of currency, I imagine.

  “Amanda,” he growls.

  “I think I have to get off the phone before Marie commits a felony or three in front of me, Andrew,” I say, trying to stay calm. “Or does something so unforgivable Jason leaves her. I am pretty sure standard wedding vows don’t allow for—”

  “I want you off this account. Immediately.”

  “You don’t get to decide that,” I say, laughing. He has no idea that I would love to be taken off all these sex toy shops. I tried to pawn them off on Carol but she wouldn’t bite.

  Now I’m watching Marie bite.

  “If Anterdec’s the client, I most certainly do get to decide that. See you tonight.”

  Click.

  Oooooo.

  Was that jealousy?

  My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Andrew:

  Is dinner at my place tonight too much, too fast?

  I text back:

  No.

  He replies:

  How about asking you to pack an over
night bag?

  A zing runs through me, and not because of the sudden appearance of Henry in my face, his eight pack inches from my forehead. He’s an afterthought. I only have eyes for my blinking blue phone screen.

  I type back:

  Wait. You cook? You’re cooking me dinner?

  He replies:

  You dodged the question.

  I text back:

  So did you.

  He replies:

  Then we’re at a standoff.

  I answer:

  Yes, we are.

  And he says:

  The only way to break a standoff is to figure out the other person’s weak point.

  And I reply:

  That could take a very long time. I should pack an overnight bag just in case.

  He texts back a smiley face.

  Hold on.

  I think I just lost this standoff before it even began.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Andrew’s loft is one story below the penthouse level and right on the water, about a five minute walk from where we had dinner last night. I’m looking out at a wall of glass that shimmers from the reflection of the moon on the water and the city lights bouncing like disco balls. He has a small balcony with two wrought-iron chairs on it and a large, mesh umbrella.

  “You live here?” I gasp, stunned by the location. “In a waterfront loft? Why were you buying a boat on the marina the other night when you live right on the water?” I can look out his living room window and see the marina in question below. Way below.

  “Business investment. A way to entertain clients.” He’s in the kitchen, fussing with food on plates. The apartment smells amazing, but I know that the scent is fake.

  “You didn’t actually cook for me, did you? You used that old onion trick.”

  He looks up, face tight with concentration as he arranges food on white, square plates. His hands are big and skilled, moving as if he knows what he’s doing. And yet from what I know from Declan, Andrew’s got the cooking skills of a preschooler.

  After he wipes his hands on a towel, Andrew grabs two wine goblets and pours generous glasses of a lovely white wine. I peek at the label. Domaine Leroy Corton-Charlemagne...something. When rich people put famous historical figures on their wine labels, you know it’s going to be expensive.

  He hands me one glass.

  “What old trick?”