Shopping for a CEO (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 7)
Page 21
“He is?”
“Marie made him web developer for your live streaming video channel.”
“My what? My wedding is being broadcast live over the Internet?”
“Yes. You even have corporate sponsors.”
“WHAT? Why would we need corporate sponsors when Anterdec is paying for everything?”
“Marie’s trying to get them to sponsor her live yoga channel after the wedding is over.”
“And no one told me any of this? I feel like Dad!”
“Ouch.” We share twin looks of horror because being left out of the loop is one of the most insulting actions you can take against a Jacoby woman.
A soon-to-be McCormick woman.
“You’re telling me,” she says slowly, a sound of cunning permeating her voice as the gears turn, “that Mom already booked O for my bachelorette party.” She repeats what she knows as if chewing her way through the harsh reality.
“Yes.”
“And Josh thinks he’s coming, too?”
“Mmmm hmmm.”
She blinks a few times, chewing on her lower lip. Then her mouth curls in victory.
“I know exactly what we need to do next.”
And when she tells me, I execute the plan to perfection.
Why?
Because this problem I can fix.
* * *
My final DoggieDate before Andrew gets home is an eight p.m. dinner date. My date was supposed to be an outdoor lunch on a marina in the Seaport district, but the guy canceled at the last minute. “Eagle” said he forgot a parole officer appointment and sent his apologies, and that Killer would meet Spritzy some other day.
Um, yeah.
Like never.
The new DoggieDate dude wants a dinner appointment, so here I am, waiting at a table in a rather elegant waterfront restaurant behind a glass wall. The night lights from the city and various boats along the wharf cast more bobbing orbs my way. I’ve been asked to bring Spritzy, who is resting comfortably in his little purse. Mom acquiesced when I explained it was a work issue.
She wasn’t planning to leave the house anyhow, and while Spritzy isn’t technically a service dog, Mom won’t leave home without him. I once joked she should rename the dog American Express, but Mom didn’t laugh.
I slip Spritzy a tiny piece of bread and he munches down, happy.
I wish I could be made happy with a simple bite of bread.
I’m sickly aware of Andrew’s pending arrival in town and hoping to get through this dinner in two hours, tops, so I can go home to—
Andrew?
“Amanda?” he asks, standing a safe distance away from me. In his arms is a tiny little terrier wearing a pale green ribbon. The dog is freshly groomed and the incongruity of:
a) Andrew standing there
b) a dog in his arms
c) Spritzy jumping up to hump Andrew’s ankle
makes the room spin for a moment.
“What are you doing here?” I hiss, searching the room for witnesses, as if Andrew might appear again like he did on my date with Chris and crash it.
“I’m your date.”
“You’re my date?” I fish around my purse for my DoggieDate paperwork and ignore Spritzy’s sexytime with Andrew’s wingtips. My mom’s dog is having more sex with Andrew than me.
If Mr. Spritzy keeps this up, I’m going to have to offer him a cigarette. Whoa.
“Could you call your dog off?” he asks, gently nudging Spritzy off him. The movement just makes the little chihuahua redouble his efforts. “Spritzy has good taste, but I’m not a foot fetish guy.”
I reach down and grab the little dog, tucking him back in Mom’s purse and shoving a thin breadstick at him.
“Who’s this?” I ask, seething but pretending to be someone capable of behaving in public without becoming a screaming banshee. My cover is clearly blown. Someone’s told Andrew the truth. I hope to God I don’t lose the account for the client and that Greg doesn’t fire me. Then again, I didn’t break any of my NDAs.
“This is my dog. Mr. Wiffles.” He is holding the calmest little Yorkie I have ever seen. Its eyes are sharp and alert behind long, beribboned hair that frames the most adorable face. Mr. Wiffles looks like something out of the Westminster Dog Show, like a well-pampered beast of luxury, and he’s sweet, to boot.
“You have a dog?”
His eyes go shifty. “I do.” Andrew looks about as comfortable holding the dog as I do being naked in public.
“I’ve been to your apartment numerous times and never saw him.”
“He’s quiet. Well trained.” Andrew pats his head like he’s blotting a spot of ketchup off a shirt.
I snort. Spritzy imitates me. Mr. Wiffles joins in.
“Andrew. I have stayed at your apartment for more than twelve hours at a time and never heard a dog.”
As I talk, Andrew takes a seat across the way from me. He sets Mr. Wiffles down on the chair next to him and pulls the linen napkin out, spreading it on his lap. Andrew’s basically acting like nothing’s wrong. Nothing to see here.
We’re just two nobodies.
With dogs.
He looks up, eyes hard yet amused. “How many dates?”
“How many what?”
“How many of these dates have you been on?”
“That is privileged information. And how did you find out about all this?”
His mouth tightens.
“I’m a smart guy.”
“What did you promise Marie in exchange for the info?”
He has the decency to pretend to be offended, then gives up the ruse. “I told her I’d make sure the guys go commando for the wedding.”
“How’d you get Declan to agree to that?”
“Don’t ask. But I’ll be spending a lot of time in Indonesia with tech support people next month.”
“You went through all that to stalk me?”
“I’d hardly call this stalking.”
I’m about to reply that this is, pretty much, the very definition of stalking when an enormous man who looks like an angry bear comes barreling through the restaurant like his ass is on fire. He’s dressed in well-loved Birkenstocks, a torn concert t-shirt, and jeans that look like they were being worn when Bruce Springsteen made “Born in the USA” a hit.
“Where is my Mr. Wiffles?” says a deep bass voice that sounds like it’s percolating up from the ground.
Oh. It’s Terry. Andrew’s brother.
Andrew pretends he isn’t there, which is pretty hard to do when the human equivalent of a subwoofer is standing three inches from your head and about to blow.
“Your Mr. Wiffles?” I ask. Ah. This is starting to make more sense.
The Yorkie perks up and begins wagging its tail. Terry bends down and picks it up, kissing its little head between the ears. This is like watching big, shirtless, cut firefighters collect kittens from trees or a police officer nursing a baby bird with a broken wing.
It makes my ovaries not only leap out of my body and do jumping jacks, I’m pretty sure they’re desperately searching for a baby registry right now.
“I can’t believe you stole my dog, Andrew!” Terry bellows. The salt shaker on the table quivers.
“I did not steal your dog.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not lying. I did not steal your dog.”
Terry’s nostrils flare. “Fine. Your chauffeur stole my dog.”
Andrew says nothing, but his eye roll is epic.
“You had your chauffeur slip Mr. Wiffles’ trainer a fifty and you stole her! She’s a very nervous type and can’t handle this.”
Mr. Wiffles wags her tail and licks Terry. She looks about as nervous as Marie is discreet.
“Wait. Mr. Wiffles is a she?” I ask.
Andrew makes a noise of disgust. “Don’t ask.”
I look at Terry. He shrugs.
“Terry has a transgendered dog,” Andrew intones, nodding slowly, like that explains everything.
“Then why does she have a male name?” I ask, assuming it’s a perfectly reasonable question to ask.
Terry glares at Andrew like it’s his fault Mr. Wiffles’ name doesn’t match the, er, parts.
“Mr. Wiffles was bred in Amish country,” he says with a sigh, as if the sentence were self-explanatory. A familiar sense of confusion rolls over me.
Talking to Terry is just a little too similar to talking to Marie sometimes.
“And...?” I ask, my voice rising as I draw out the word.
“And, apparently, the man who bred her had his young daughter name her. The daughter was too shy to look at the parts and just decided Mr. Wiffles was a he.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I say.
Andrew gives Terry a look that only an impish little brother can shoot the oldest in a family. “Yeah. I know. We have all said that. Even Mr. Wiffles’ trainer.”
“I am not traumatizing my poor dog by changing her name now,” Terry hisses. Is he actually covering the dog’s ears so she can’t hear this? “It’s bad enough you stole her, but now you’re making her feel bad, and if her self-esteem is harmed, you’re in trouble.”
I’ve been on enough DoggieDate dates to realize that Terry’s behavior, though loony as hell in the general population, is actually well within the bounds of normal for the ultra dog-loving dating pool I’m in.
That said, Terry’s lips twitch on that final statement. I think some legs are being pulled.
Andrew’s jaw clenches. “You can have her now.”
“Why did you steal her?” Terry looks at me as if he’s noticing me for the first time. Which he is. “Oh. Hi, Amanda. Did you change your hair?”
I reach up and realize I’ve gone auburn. Yet another hair coloring shop, this one with temporary dye. “Yes.”
“You two having a business meeting?” I can tell from his tone that he has no idea Andrew and I have been...whatevering we’ve been doing for a while now. Hmm. Tuck that away for later.
“No. Date,” I say, trying to seem casual.
“You needed Mr. Wiffles for a date?” He gives Andrew a scandalized look, then holds up a palm the size of a catcher’s mitt. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. I just—”
Andrew frowns and interrupts Terry. “How in the hell did you know where to find me?”
Terry smirks. “You gave the trainer a fifty. I gave her a hundred. As you like to say all the time, money makes people talk.”
I watch them like I’ve been drop-shipped into Burma and don’t understand a thing.
“You bribed the person I bribed?” Andrew says with outrage.
“And I did it better, bro.” Terry tries to high-five Mr. Wiffles, but the dog just wags her tail and licks his hand.
“I’m firing that trainer,” Andrew mutters.
Terry bends down, his hand constantly petting Mr. Wiffles. “You can’t fire her. I’m the one who hired her.”
Andrew’s eyes narrow. Hah.
Out-alpha’d by a guy who is now kissing a female dog named Mr. Wiffles.
“I am taking Mr. Wiffles now,” Terry declares. He gives Andrew a look only a much-older brother can give. “You steal her again and I’ll tell Dad about your limo elimination plan.”
“You wouldn’t.”
Terry adjusts Mr. Wiffles’ bow. “Try me.” And with that, he’s off, happy dog in arms.
I take a long drink of my iced tea and say, “My last date pretended he had a dog he never had, but he didn’t resort to actual theft of a dog to go out with me.”
“I didn’t steal her. She’s part of the family.”
“I am honored that you’d go to such extremes just to spend time with me. But you don’t have to resort to canine crime.”
“Except when you’re dating other men.”
“Which you now know I’m not.”
“Right.”
The air between us is so thick with tension. We’re on shaky ground, and every move, each sigh, all the breaths and sips and looks add up to uncertainty. The stable, steady sense of togetherness that we had just begun to develop feels like an illusion, as if we created it for a specific need in the past and it floated off on the wind, gone to seed.
The waiter arrives. Andrew orders for us both and I let him. Not because of a power struggle or from a place of submission, but because what he orders sounds damn good. Water glasses filled, iced tea in hand, and a pitcher of sangria delivered and poured, we’re ready to talk sans Mr. Wiffles.
And, maybe, sans pretense.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the dates? How many did you go on?”
“I can’t talk about this.”
“Why not?”
“NDA. I sign NDAs for my work with Anterdec, and I sign them with other clients.”
His brow lowers. “You take your work very seriously.”
“I do.”
“It’s one of the many qualities I admire in you.”
“Thank you.”
“Though your mouth is your best feature.”
I nearly spray him with a mouthful of iced tea.
“You always know the right things to say,” he elaborates, though he suppresses a smile.
I feel like I can’t string a sentence together. Like I can’t take syllables from my mind and connect them to form words any more. What once was easy with Andrew—though hard won—is now back to that topsy-turvy state where he’s joking, and I’m bantering, and we’re in that will-he-won’t-he-will-she-won’t-she place that I am, frankly, tired of being in.
We were supposed to be past this quite some time ago. The spiral backwards feels as if we’re losing ground.
And yet I can’t walk away. I can’t even hope to do anything other than smile at this man who is willing to steal a dog to come and see me.
“I’ve missed you,” he says softly. “And I forgive you.”
I sit up sharply. “You what?”
“I forgive you. You obviously take your promises very seriously, and any woman who keeps her word like this is someone I value.”
Damn. I was all worked up over that forgiveness comment, because I have nothing to ask forgiveness for, and then he neutralizes it with a compliment.
Well played, Andrew. Well played.
“I also know you’re still processing everything you learned that day after Fenway Park.”
The waiter delivers salads, giving me a chance to take a shaky breath and try to calm the unending loop of questions that runs through me.
Andrew ignores his food.
“And I want to help.”
He reaches in his suit jacket pocket and slides a half-size manila envelope across the table.
“What’s this?”
His face wears a sad smile. “Open it.”
Spritzy whines. I dig through my purse and find the zippered baggie with doggie treats in it. Satisfied with two, he resumes his pretend sleep.
My fingers fumble on the back of the envelope, but I get it open.
To find a fairly familiar packet of paperwork. At the top there is a name:
Leo Rossi Warrick.
“Jesus, Andrew,” I gasp. “You had my father tracked down.”
This is the part where I’m supposed to look up at him from across the table with adoration and gratitude. In Andrew’s mind, I’m sure, he’s performed a wonderful act of compassion. A gesture of caring. Finding my father is supposed to help me to heal. To absorb and integrate and process and find a place for the maelstrom of emotions that don’t know where to rest.
All I feel is fury.
“It was remarkably easy,” he says in a voice that doesn’t boast. He isn’t proud. He’s just here, looking at me with eyes that say he’s giving me what he thinks I need, and that ask me to accept what he’s offering as a bridge to some new place we can be together.
I can’t help it. I spontaneously combust so quickly there isn’t time to contain it.
“I don’t want this,” I snap, shoving it back at him. The papers fall in erratic patterns, one landing in his salad, one scraping across Spritzy’s head. The dog begins to whine.
“What? I don’t understand.” He’s sitting back, the papers scattered across the table. He leans forward, his suit jacket open, his waist pressing into the table’s edge.
“I said I don’t want it,” I repeat through clenched teeth, my voice vibrating with anger. I can only imagine what my face looks like based on the way he frowns.
“I thought you’d want to know.”
“You think I didn’t already know where he is? I research these issues for a living! I’ve known where Leo is for years.” I swallow, my saliva bitter with the tangy taste of disappointment. I’m not sure who I’m more disappointed in, though. “Vehicular homicide. He has three more years to go.” Mom’s story was a gut punch in more ways than one. While he didn’t, obviously, kill me twenty-two years ago, he went on to kill someone else. Two someones, while driving drunk in Iowa.
“You...” He flinches, as if my words were blows.
“I tried to visit him. Once. The prison authorities told me he refused.”
I’m looking down on Andrew from a standing position I don’t recall moving into. His face is tipped up, dark brows covering eyes that seem to fight inside, his pupils dilating then constricting, his face a flickering field of light and shadow.
“Amanda, I thought I was being helpful.” His voice wavers between bewilderment and a cold control that turns up the fury flame inside me. “And I am so sorry,” he says, his voice softening slightly. “Sorry that he would refuse you.”
“You could have asked, first. Before you went snooping.” Shame pours over my skin like lighter fluid, the tiny hairs on my arms standing as gooseflesh ripples across the space between us. Why would he find out the truth about my father? What possible purpose would that serve?
“You’re right. I see I made a mistake.” The balance between his bewilderment and control is shifting, his voice going tight.
Our eyes lock, and as second pass we don’t look away. The intensity that flows between us feels like a shockwave that shatters everything fragile for miles.