by Julia Kent
“It’s - it’s fine.” He smiles. “I’m relieved. I’m also surprised to see you in here.”
“I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you were in New York. And you could have sent security to check on me.”
“I hadn’t left Boston yet. We were on 95, headed to the helipad, when I realized you weren’t answering phones or texts.” He reaches out enough to touch me.
He’s shaking.
The shower in the bathroom starts as Carol sits down, closes her eyes, and cranes her neck up, relaxing on a small chaise longue chair.
“Andrew,” I whisper. “I didn’t realize you were so upset.”
“Am I overreacting?” The question itself is unnerving. Always so self-assured, Andrew’s not the type to ask if his reaction is out of line.
Rapidfire thoughts rip through me as I try to see the situation from his perspective. Pregnant wife on bed rest, home alone, not answering the phone.
“No. I understand.”
He squeezes my shoulder harder.
“Swim with me,” I plead.
Shannon emerges from the bathroom, towelling her wet hair. Carol whispers in her ear, their eyes cutting over to us. Carol goes into the bathroom and the shower starts as Andrew lets go of me and begins texting quickly.
“Too much work?” I ask, knowing the answer.
“Yes, but I’m clearing an hour.”
“A WHOLE HOUR?” Shannon calls out sarcastically.
Blinking rapidly, it’s clear her comment hit a nerve.
He bends down to kiss me and I laugh.
“I’ll take the sixty minutes. It’s better than nothing.”
“You are worth much more than ‘better than nothing.’”
“Don’t fall in.”
Midway to kissing me, he halts, an extraordinary display of emotion crossing his face.
To my surprise, he pulls back. Have I offended him? Pushed the teasing too far?
Stripping out of his jacket, he loosens his tie, throws it on a chair, and kicks off his shoes.
“What are you doing?” I shout as Shannon begins whistling a pathetic version of a strip tease song.
Andrew is not known for being inhibited about his body, though he has nothing on Declan, who models for nude sculpture classes at a local arts center.
Within moments he’s down to his underwear, Shannon shouting, “OH MY GOD, STOP THERE! I DON’T NEED TO KNOW THAT MUCH ABOUT YOUR BODY!”
The shower ends.
“WHOSE BODY?” Carol calls out.
“ANDREW’S GETTING NAKED.”
“HOLD ON! I’LL BE OUT IN A MINUTE! I NEED TO SEE THIS!”
There is no question these two were raised by Marie.
At the edge of the pool, my husband, wearing boxer briefs and a grin, bends down in competitive swimmer’s launch pose and flings himself expertly into the water, down the lane faster than you can imagine. In his wake, the waves splash water out of the pool, making Shannon laugh as Carol bursts out of the shower, frantic eyes searching for Andrew.
“Did I miss the show? I missed it, didn’t I. Damn it!”
“Why are you so eager to see my husband naked?” I shout over the sound of Andrew showing off his butterfly stroke as he returns.
“I’m eager to see any man naked, Amanda. Haven’t seen one in real life in three years!”
Andrew surfaces, looking like a hot, wet seal, grinning and breathing hard as he treads water. Somehow, he does that one handed, the free hand going to my belly.
Righty kicks him, hard.
And then Lefty kicks my cervix even harder.
“Ooof,” I gasp, legs scissoring hard in the water as I try to get the pain to dissipate.
Strong hands grasp my hips, pushing slightly up. “What’s wrong?” Andrew asks, his body moving rhythmically with his own kicks to keep us both afloat.
“Nothing. Lefty decided to play soccer with my cervix.”
“Again?”
“Mmm hm.” I smile at him, admiring his wet, athletic body as he moves his hands slowly away. “You don’t do this.”
“Do what? Touch you?”
“Jump in the pool midday to just hang out.”
“I should do it more often.”
“We’ll see ourselves out!” Shannon hollers, Carol and Shannon blowing kisses our way. Their departure is perfunctory and so speedy I’m almost suspicious.
Then again, if Declan jumped into a pool in his underwear while I was visiting their home, I’d get out of Dodge fast, too.
“Finally,” he whispers, coming in for a kiss. “Just us.”
Bzzzzz.
“And your phone. Funny, when I imagined having a threesome, I never thought your phone would be the third.”
“You’ve imagined a threesome?” he asks in a tight voice, waving his hand toward the phone. “And I’m ignoring that.”
Bzzzzzz.
“It’s not ignoring you,” I point out.
“My phone doesn’t get to tell me what to do.”
“Since when?”
“Since I — ”
RING!
Hoisting himself out of the pool and giving me a fine eyeful of his ass, Andrew walks carefully to his suit jacket, slides the phone out of his pocket, and starts with, “I told you, Gina, I — ”
And then shuts up and listens.
Every second that passes tells me what I already know: this was too good to be true. Andrew doesn’t just strip down and take a few hours off with me spontaneously like this.
His life is scheduled to the quarter hour.
A series of sighs tells me what I already know: he’s leaving. Back to work. But how to untangle himself from the wife?
I’m thirsty now, and my bladder’s about to burst, so I carefully ascend the steps and go straight to a chaise longue chair, my water bottle next to it. Stretching out, heedless of the dripping mess I’m making in the chair, I drink half the water bottle, then close my eyes.
The tears come unexpectedly, the rush of emotion undefined. As they slip out of the corners of my eyes, the cloth cushion absorbs them.
I open my eyes to find Andrew gone, the shower on, the sounds of water splattering hastily coming through. He says nothing, but within a minute he’s back to his pile of clothes, sliding one leg in his pants after the other, clearly going commando.
“Amanda? I’m sorry. I have to — ”
“I know how it works.”
“But this was going to be different.”
“Mmm hmmm.”
“No, really.”
“I know.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“You always do.”
“Please don’t be like this.”
“Like what?”
“So — ” But he can’t find the words as he buttons his shirt and tucks it into his pants. We just breathe together and try to find a way not to let the growing distance between what I want and what he wants become impossible to bridge.
Bzzzz.
If Andrew had a mistress, I could scream and wail, feel justly betrayed, sue for divorce and hate her guts. I could hang out with my friends and wallow in sugar sorrows, and I would get support.
When your husband’s “mistress” is his job, though, you’re “lucky.”
Lucky to be married to a CEO. A billionaire. A “hot man.” A success.
As he kisses my cheek and promises to spend more time with me tomorrow, Righty moves in a muted way, like a scoff.
Yeah, kid.
That’s right.
I don’t buy it either.
And as I hobble to the shower for a quick rinse before heading back to bed rest in the house, I remind myself how lucky I am.
At least Shannon and Carol left me a fresh pint of ice cream.
17
Andrew
Gina storms into my office with a red face, phone clutched in her hand, and I can tell this is going to be an expensive conversation.
“He is such an ass?”
“You
're going to have to be more specific than that, Gina. Are you talking about Declan? My dad? The Paulson project? Rathi Industries in India? I know the guy was condescending to you, but–”
“Vince?”
“Vince who?”
“Your Vince?”
“I don't have a–wait. Vince? My trainer, Vince?”
“Yes?”
“Oh. Sure. He's definitely an ass. We're in agreement there. What else about him?”
“You told me to schedule a dinner at Consuela's for the two of you? He wants a list of all of the ingredients in every food she'll be serving?”
“Okay.”
“And I did that?”
“Good.”
“Now he wants a list of all the farms where Consuela buys her food?”
“Okay?”
“And you know how she grows some herself?”
“Sure.”
“He wants to know where she sources her soil and fertilizers and worms?”
“Worms?”
“THAT'S WHAT I SAID!”
Whoa. A statement from Gina. This is serious.
“Call him back and–”
“No need to call.” Vince appears in my doorway, filling the frame with his huge body. Dark eyes take in Gina with a flicker of appreciation that reminds me I know very little about Vince beyond the gym.
“Vince,” I say, standing and crossing the room to grip his hand. He gives me a quick shake, then turns his full attention to Gina.
“What's wrong with caring about what I put in my body? Don't you care about who–er, what–you put in yours?” he says to her, the stumble uncharacteristic.
Her face flames even more.
“I'm not your admin?”
“Then give me Consuela's number so I can ask her myself.”
“I'm not allowed? That's personal info?”
“You told me that already. That's why we're at an impasse. I'm in the process of shredding and it matters.”
“Shredding?”
“For a photo shoot.”
“Like, paper shredding?”
“Muscle shredding.”
“What does that mean?”
Vince reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it off, revealing a roadmap of anatomy and veins. “This is shredding.”
“This is Magic Mike!” Gina screams.
“Hell, no. Channing Tatum’s a Ken doll compared to this,” Vince grunts, pivoting to show off muscular hypertrophy of the finest kind. “So I need to source my food very carefully. Big endorsement shoot in two days.”
“This is a lot of bother for a business meal?” Gina says to me. I shrug. Her eyes aren't on me, though.
They're attached to Vince's pecs. If Gina keeps staring at his chest like that, in a few thousand years straight women will evolutionarily evolve to have velcro on their corneas.
“You want to touch it, don't you,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question.
“What? No? Of course not?” Is that a thin line of drool coming out of her?
“Look,” I announce, grabbing my suit jacket and shrugging into it. Rarely does another man's naked chest make me feel inadequate, but Vince has managed it.
“Take that off. And your shirt,” Vince orders me.
“What?”
“Let's show Gina the difference between a cut chest and... yours.”
“HEY! My chest is fine!”
“Prove it.”
“I'm not taking off my shirt to prove a point.”
“Then your pecs aren't doing their job.”
“What job do my pecs have?”
“To hold you upright.”
“My abs do that.”
“The pecs make the man. Your confidence is up here,” he says, tapping his temple, “but the body knows. And your pecs, lats, abs, and all the smaller muscles matter.” He glances at my suit with disdain. “Besides, go change into workout clothes. Screw eating out. Let me pick where we eat.”
Gina's shoulders drop with relief. “That would be great? Because I don't know how to find the flies that age the composted cow manure that the farmer put on the carrots Consuela uses in her gazpacho?”
“You should,” Vince says, deadpan.
Her eyes don't go to his face.
Ignoring them, I head into the small dressing room off my office and quickly change into workout clothes. I emerge in shorts, a tight Under Armour shirt, and wearing my heart rate variability tracker.
“Shirt off,” Vince says, grabbing my hem, pulling it up as Gina protests.
I can't see in front of me, the vision field covered with black, until I hear my brother say loudly, “Vince is your personal valet, now? Need help dressing?.”
“Hey,” Vince says as I pull the shirt off and glare at Dec. “Whose chest is better?”
Tilting his head slightly, Dec pretends to care. “Yours, of course,” he says to Vince. “Why the chest-off?”
“Because Vince is insane,” I inform him, wondering why my brother's at Anterdec, and how to get him out of here so I can hire Vince for my set of gyms. That's the point of this business dinner, and now the whole situation is FUBAR'd.
I'm shirtless. Gina is drooling at my shredded trainer. My brother is making fun of me.
Just another day at the office.
“How's Amanda?” Declan asks me with concern. “Shannon's over at your house now, hanging with her.”
“Did she bring ice cream?”
“With Cheetos,” Dec confirms. “And a case of those YoYo Baby Belly Snax you love so much.” Declan gives Vince a smarmy look that makes it clear he thinks he's scoring points by revealing my new love of baby snacks.
“Those are the bomb,” Vince says, surprising us both as he asks me, “which are your favorite? Mango or peach?”
“Did I mention the Cheeto ice cream?” Declan reiterates.
That gets the expected response.
Vince starts to gag, then eyes my brother's chest. “What do your pecs look like?”
“I am not taking anything off,” Declan flatly declares.
“Um, Andrew? If you're done with me?” Gina glares at Vince. “You can find your own meal?”
“I'll feast off your obvious admiration for my shred,” Vince says to her with a wink.
“No clean diet can compensate for a man who is, well... compensating?” Her eyes drift lower on his body.
And on that note, she exits.
Dec lets out a low whistle as a stunned Vince scrambles back into his shirt, shooting looks of outrage at the empty doorway.
“Why did you keep asking Gina for all that info? You never drill down like that when we eat at the gym,” I ask Vince, who starts stretching.
Damn. He meant it. We really are working out.
“I was just yanking her chain.”
“What else were you yanking while bothering her like that?” I ask.
Before he can order it, I drop to the ground and start doing burpees.
From above, Declan says, “While this impromptu workout looks great and all, I came here for a different reason. Dave told me you're thinking about partnering with us for a real food bar in your gyms.”
I go flat on my belly and look at Vince, who is now doing crunches. “What?”
“Right. That,” he says, sitting up and looking at me. “I was going to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“I've been working with Dave.”
Dec shoves his hands in his suit pants pockets and lowers his brow. Any other guy would be intimidated, but Vince just smiles.
“On what?” Dec asks.
“A whole new way to make people get real food.”
“We serve real food,” Declan begins.
“Not real enough. Let me show you.”
“Show me?” Dec and I say together.
“C'mon. Let's go to Grind It Fresh! Dave's already there waiting for us.”
I look at my workout clothes. “We're not doing a workout?”
“Of course not. W
e're having a business meeting.”
“Then why did you make me change?”
“I wanted to see if I could convince you to strip down. I succeeded. You're surprisingly easy to manipulate, Andrew.”
Declan bursts out laughing as I storm back into my dressing room and put on my suit of armor, shouting, “Does this mean you accept the job with my new company?”
Silence.
“New company?” Declan calls out.
Oh, damn.
Vince clears his throat and says, “You never told your brother?”
Silence is a fine weapon when wielded appropriately.
Like now.
Finishing up, I re-knot my tie and make them wait. When I come out, Declan has an expectant look on his face, brows raised, eyes unblinking.
“Spill. You're hiring Vince to run your chain of gyms?”
Vince gives Dec an appreciative look. “So you do know.”
“I didn't realize this was so serious,” my brother says, grabbing my arm. “Is it?”
“Not talking about this until Vince answers my question.”
“What question?”
“Does this mean you accept the offer?”
“Duh.”
“You could have told me sooner.”
“That wouldn't have been as much fun as this.” He points to Dec. “Now I get to watch you squirm.”
“You're seriously planning to run this chain?” Disdain fills his eyes. “Old Jorg's gym?”
“No. Not the gyms. A different chain,” Vince helpfully answers.
“Of what?”
“Coffee shops,” I say as we walk to the elevator bank and I push a button. Also Dec’s buttons.
A bark of laughter escapes him. “You didn't.”
“No. I didn't. I have too much respect for you.”
Vince laughs through his nose.
“Thank you,” Dec says pointedly.
“I would never want to humiliate you by becoming a competitor and wiping you out.”
Ding!
He stands there, eyes murderous, as Vince suddenly turns to the stairs and announces, “Let's just take the stairs and get some cardio in.”
We're in suits. Vince is in shorts and a muscle shirt.
But obedient clients do as told.
