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

by Julia Kent

  At that last one, Andrew makes a low growling sound, the vibration reaching my body. He’s pissed, but if he shows he’s pissed, he’s handed the paparazzi a story.

  Rule #1 when dealing with them: don’t react. Like dealing with people with character disorders and time-share salespeople, any reaction feeds into their goals.

  “Give us a little space? We just want to enjoy our run.” Andrew’s grip on me tightens. Panic blooms in me.

  He’s about to get his way.

  Because the only way to escape the press is to ski down this mountain.

  “You set this up!” I hiss, furious.

  “I swear I didn’t,” he says, but he’s trying not to laugh. “I couldn’t have planned this any better if I tried.”

  “It’s not funny!”

  “Not to you.”

  “Asshole!”

  “I’ll make it up to you.”

  “How? You already got me a giant animatronic teddy bear and dressed up like Mr. Darcy when you proposed. Hard to beat that!”

  Click. Click. They’re coming closer, and now the people in the crowd are pulling out their phones, tapping and snapping.

  “We’re about to go viral,” he whispers, nuzzling my neck like we’re being affectionate. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “I can’t! I’ll wipe out!”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  “That is so arrogant.”

  “It’s arrogant that I have the utmost confidence in you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I do not understand women.”

  “We’re not complicated. Just don’t make me ski down that trail. Simple.”

  “It’s that or face non-stop paparazzi, and tomorrow unflattering pictures of your triple chins will be all over the internet.”

  “I do not have three chins!”

  “Of course not,” he soothes, backpedaling. “Those evil photogs will make you look like you have one.”

  “And a penis.”

  “And a what?”

  “They’ll make me look like I have a penis. And coffee grounds under my eyes with a caption that says, ‘You’ll never believe which transgender celebrity Andrew McCormick is about to marry!’”

  “You have a remarkable capacity for imagining the strangest worst-case scenarios.”

  “I have to. I’m in love with you.”

  “Hey!”

  “Did I or did I not walk miles in an 1800s Regency-era costume after you lost your car keys AND a three-carat diamond ring in Walden Pond?”

  “Yes, but -- ”

  “Did you or did you not have to rescue me, half naked, from a pool at your brother’s wedding?”

  “I am sensing a trend.”

  “And did you, or did you not, wake up with me in a Vegas hotel room, thinking for a few hours that somehow we’d both married more than one man?”

  Now he just sighs.

  Ah.

  Victory.

  “Race you!” I shout, gliding toward the trail top.

  “You’re going down?”

  Fortunately, he didn’t shout that question. As his mouth tightens, I giggle.

  “I will if you will,” I challenge.

  “Deal.”

  “But no guarantees if I break my leg.”

  “If you break your leg, you’ll be trapped in bed for weeks,” he muses. From the way his jaw sets and he shifts his weight on his hips, I can tell he’s turned on by that idea. Not the broken bones.

  The weeks-in-bed part.

  “I cannot believe I’m letting you talk me into skiing this. What’s my reward for doing it?”

  “Going down.” His hand moves to my ass.

  I pull away and swat at him. “You know one of those paparazzi got that shot!”

  “Good. I don’t want anyone to question whether you’re mine or not.”

  “I work for your company. I live in your apartment. I’m wearing your engagement ring. I kissed Jessica Coffin in public to avoid a catfight. You think people question it?”

  “I see how men look at you.”

  “How do men look at me?” I squeak, intrigued. I pull out of ready-to-fall-down-the-mountain mode and into tell-me-about-all-these-secret-men-who-want-me mode.

  Technically, I have neither mode, because I’ve never experienced either of these situations, but let’s ignore that.

  “Like they want to sleep with you.”

  “They do not!”

  “All the men at work do.”

  “Not Josh!”

  “Well, I do.”

  “You do. It’s a requirement.”

  “I’m required to want to sleep with you?”

  “You wouldn’t have put a ring on it if you didn’t want to sleep with me. Being engaged to someone is the equivalent of screaming ‘I want to dip my wick in her.’”

  “Wick?” He’s offended.

  My turn to sigh. “Fine. How about...yule log.”

  His grin turns smug.

  “Fair enough.” He looks away from me, sizing up the hill, ignoring the click click click and shouts from the photographers. I wish I could compartmentalize like Andrew can and pretend a wall stands between us and them. He’s mastered that art, but he’s also had his entire life to study and refine the skill. I’ve had less than a year.

  “Ready?” he asks, giving me his full attention suddenly, brows turned down. A gust of wind whips between us, cold and unrelenting, so sharp, I have a moment of air hunger. As I look around in a mild panic, unable to get my lungs full and my body centered, I see the onlookers, the paps, the resort staff working the lift, and it’s all surreal.

  Maybe skiing down to safety — to our quiet suite with heat and coffee and chocolate and a bed and most of all, privacy — isn’t so bad after all.

  “I think so,” I say in a small voice. How do I fix this? I’m the fixer. I figure out problems and solve them, chunk by chunk, step by step, misunderstandings unwound and crises averted.

  In this moment, though, I am the crisis. I am the center of attention. My association with Andrew makes me important, for a split second, in the lives of these people whose job it is to capture an image of me that can be used to achieve their ends.

  I am a means.

  Remove the means and thwart the end.

  The wind dies down as fast as it swelled up and I’m moving, slowly tipping from flat to angled, my skis parallel, knees tight, thighs clenched, and hips ready for whatever comes as we pick up speed, racing away from that which tracks us.

  Andrew breaks off, fast and skilled, his body pure perfection in motion. My eyes follow him until I can’t see him anymore. I’m on my own, careening toward safety, hurtling down a slope carefully groomed for maximum enjoyment.

  I’m along for the ride.

  And Andrew’s waiting for me at the bottom.

  Waiting for me to go down.

  Chapter 3

  “No one wipes out at the very bottom of a double black diamond,” Andrew says for the third time, bringing me my hot chocolate made with half-n-half, a liberal dollop of brandy turning it from merely decadent to wholly bacchanalian.

  I own my wild streak.

  “You’re criticizing me for making it ninety-five percent down a double black diamond trail?”

  “That’s not how it works, Amanda. You don’t get partial credit. There’s no such thing. It’s like a partial orgasm. Who makes it through the hardest part and then falls crossing the finish line?”

  Um...me.

  And I’m not touching that orgasm comment.

  The tone of voice he’s using isn’t critical, and as he sits down next to me, stretching a muscled arm across the back of the couch, his hand resting comfortably on my shoulder, his demeanor is friendly enough. It’s as if he’s marveling at the thought.

  “I don’t understand your incredulity,” I respond, sipping the hot chocolate, imbibing the alcohol-caffeine combination like communion wine on Easte
r. “It happens.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Never?”

  “No. Once you commit and make it over the biggest hurdle, the rest is easy.”

  “Like proposing?” I say sweetly, batting my eyelashes, letting the dig sink in.

  “Like – oh.” He cuts away, turning his head, the Christmas tree next to the roaring fire suddenly a fascinating object for his attention.

  Funny how the argument ends when I point out his mistakes.

  “I didn’t get hurt,” I note, sipping my chocolate, then sighing.

  “It’s not like you’re Shannon,” Andrew adds in a tone of agreement.

  “What does that mean?”

  “My brother married the klutziest woman in Boston.” He isn’t even laughing. The statement comes out of him like he’s pointing out a fact. Like he’s giving me directions from the Aquarium to Faneuil Hall.

  I open my mouth to defend my best friend because that’s what women do, right? We stand up for the weakest among us. Attack one, you attack us all.

  And yet, he’s right.

  Shannon is klutzy. How do I argue with the truth?

  Bzzz.

  Saved by his phone. Andrew scrolls through his texts with a half grin. I know that look. He thinks he won. Won what? I decide on the spot that we weren’t having an argument. Not even a heated discussion. This is what being in a lifelong relationship is all about, right?

  Pacing. I have to pace myself when it comes to conflicts, big and small. Especially small. Letting him think he won this one is important. Give an inch.

  Take a mile later.

  “It’s Dad again,” Andrew says with that mysterious new tone of voice he’s developed. I watch him as he reads his phone, eyes drifting over the screen, hair messy from the skiing earlier. Deep brown eyes narrow as he reacts to whatever his dad said. The muscle between his jaw and ear pokes out with tension as he swallows and swipes on his phone. He blinks rapidly, but his breathing doesn’t speed up.

  He’s irritated, but not angry. Annoyed, but not pissed.

  I tuck away his reaction in my mental database.

  Lately, I find myself watching him with a strange fascination. Openly, obviously, and without hesitation. Andrew doesn’t seem to mind. I know he knows I’m doing it, but so far, he hasn’t questioned me. If he were to ask, I couldn’t tell him why. I don’t know why.

  Yet I do it, day in and day out.

  “What did he say now?” I ask politely, knowing the answer.

  “It’s about the wedding,” Andrew answers, giving me a look that says, Of course. “He insists we need to hold it at Farmington, like Declan’s wedding.”

  “Why?”

  “His PR team says it’ll get more press. All the major media outlets will station vans there, and the comparisons will generate easier headlines.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Andrew rolls his eyes. He reaches across my lap and grabs his abandoned coffee mug. The stretch makes his shirt hike up slightly, exposing his waistline, a thin wedge of tanned muscle coming into sight. I catalog it, like I always do these days, and wonder when this will become boring.

  “Dad thinks that the press will be more invested if they can sensationalize our wedding ceremony. ‘Will they or won’t they escape?’” Andrew uses one hand to make finger quotes.

  “He expects us to be in Declan and Shannon’s shadow on our wedding day?”

  “That’s exactly what I said to Dad! Almost word for word. And I told him no. Hell, no.”

  “What was his response?”

  “That we should ask your mother.”

  “My mother? Why? Your dad doesn’t defer to anyone.”

  Andrew shrugs. “Ask him.”

  I shudder. “No, thanks. Your dad is...well...”

  “My dad is what?”

  “Formidable.”

  “So?”

  “You’ve grown up with him. You know how to handle him. I don’t.”

  “He’s just a man, Amanda.”

  “That’s the problem.”

  “You don’t like men?”

  “It’s not that I don’t like him. James is fine. It’s just...he’s an older man.”

  “He’s an old man.”

  “He’s my father’s age.”

  “And?” The question makes Andrew’s face morph, an expression of dawning understanding coming over him. “Your dad. Leo. Leaving and all that.”

  “Yeah. Right. I guess so? I don’t know.” I’m losing my emotional footing here. This isn’t the direction I thought this conversation would take, but we’re here, right? Another part of spending so much time with someone and realizing it’s forever: you don’t solve problems with a single conversation.

  In fact, there’s no such thing as a single conversation with Andrew. Life is starting to feel like one long, never-ending talk. It’s nice. It’s great, in fact.

  But it’s new. Exhausting. Weird and mildly exciting. We’re fumbling to figure out who we are, together, and where life is taking us.

  And it makes me discover so many new facets of myself.

  Like realizing I have no idea how to relate to men my father’s age, because my father left when I was five.

  “Dad’s just...Dad. He’s stubborn and thinks he controls the world. Stand for your principles. Don’t cave in to him. Once he realizes you can’t be bulldozed, he’ll respect you.”

  Bzzzz.

  I look over Andrew’s shoulder as he chokes on his hot chocolate.

  Confirmed Farmington for June 14. Fifteen hundred guests. Sending invitation list to Gina, the text reads. “No.” Andrew’s single-syllable, flat statement is so definitive it sends panic through me. You know what’s worse than the thought of my own conflict with Andrew’s dad?

  Watching Andrew and his father square off. Because that means I’m put in the middle, and if there’s one thing an only child hates, it’s being put between two people they love -- and being told to take sides.

  “I’m right with you,” I assure him.

  “Even if you weren’t, no.”

  “Okay.”

  “Dad doesn’t get to do this.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “And we’re not getting married at Farmington.”

  His words are granite. James’ text cuts through Andrew, the sound of their clash like a high-pitched whine inside me. The smooth simplicity of our couch-cuddling before the fire turns into loud chaos inside me, all four chambers of my heart pulling in different directions.

  “Agreed,” I choke out.

  Andrew takes a few deep breaths, giving me more time to look at him. This hunger to take him in continues unchecked. Even as I react to James’ insistence on controlling our wedding, manipulating the press and using our ceremony – our relationship – as a tool in Anterdec’s prominence, I find myself nodding. Absorbing.

  Being.

  This is daily life now. These conversations are mine. Ours. I’m becoming this – Andrew’s wife – out of love.

  “And your mother’s dog is not the flower girl.”

  I laugh. “Did Marie joke about that with you, too?”

  “No. Dad did.”

  “They’re both hilarious.”

  “Dad wasn’t joking. Said the Instagram following could be strong. Wants a Pinterest board set up, too. Dog-following on social media is a market segment now.”

  “Oh.”

  “Declan warned me. I didn’t listen.”

  “Warned you about what? People who worship dog Instagram accounts?”

  “That Dad was like this.” He glares at his phone. “Dad texted Declan constantly on his honeymoon.”

  “Declan talked about their honeymoon with you?” I try not to sound too eager, but Shannon hasn’t said a word about what happened in Hawaii. I’m intrigued. Shannon never keeps her cards close to her vest. She’s constitutionally incapable of not sharing, like a toddler with a lollipop they’re done licking.

  The fact that neither Shannon nor Dec
lan has said a word about their weeklong trip to Hawaii has us both confused.

  Andrew gives me a funny look. “Just that Dad kept pestering him. Wouldn’t leave him alone. Kept trying to get Dec and Shannon to do press activities that bumped up Anterdec’s name.”

  “On their honeymoon?” I groan.

  “Yeah. At first, I thought it was because of the fiasco with us the morning after their wedding.”

  Fiasco is an understatement. The head of the resort’s spa gave the newlyweds a bottle of hallucinogen-spiked wine that we drank accidentally. Me, Andrew, Josh, and Andrew’s Las Vegas driver, Geordi. We woke up wearing wedding rings.

  All four of us.

  Untangling the mess of who married whom was easy. But Andrew’s father went ballistic, because the Sultan of Al-Massi was offended by Andrew’s absence at a major meeting. Business before emotions.

  Always.

  “That seems to be your father’s sole focus these days, doesn’t it?” I sigh. “It’s all about growing Anterdec.”

  “Yes. It’s his legacy.”

  “We just have to be a broken record with him.”

  “We?”

  “Er, you.”

  He gives a low laugh, but the thousand-mile stare tells me he’s troubled. “I have half a mind to call off the wedding.”

  You know those moments in the movies when time stops? Records scratch, actors break the fourth wall, time freezes – that sort of thing?

  Yeah. It’s happening to me now.

  “Oh,” is all that comes out of me.

  “I don’t want a wedding,” he says softly.

  Nine thousand other worlds freeze suddenly, too. Time itself stops. All my blood halts in place. Each cell of my body pauses, waiting for orders, as my mind tries to understand what Andrew is saying. Is he calling off the engagement? The thin platinum of my ring feels like a sword being unsheathed, an accessory called to battle and ready to be wielded as a weapon.

  “I just want a wife,” he adds, oblivious to the drama churning within me.

  The world rights itself.

  “Okay.”

  He reaches for my hand, then flinches. “Amanda, your hands are ice!” His strong brow turns down, worried. Those deep brown eyes, speckled like a kaleidoscope, look at me like I’m being watched by a prism, a gemstone, a set of orbs filled with love. When he’s not in business mode, Andrew has a presence unlike any other person I’ve ever met. He is there, fully, completely focused on me. The connection runs like a current between us. It makes me feel unfinished when we’re not connected.