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

by Julia Kent

  Spritzy’s collar starts jangling as he barks over and over, picking up on the sudden disturbance.

  “I’m so sorry, Pam,” Andrew says in a halting voice, clearly struggling to talk through his suffering. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  She waves him off, speech still out of range from her pain.

  All of my discomfort triggers come roaring to the forefront. Mom’s hurt. Andrew’s hurt. Long, deep breaths through his nose are how he’s trying to manage the pain. I flutter between the two of them, helpless. I’m used to seeing Mom hurting during a fibromyalgia flare, but Andrew’s pain is different. New. None of this is fixable. It has to be endured.

  Accidents happen, right?

  Declan walks quickly into the kitchen, opens Mom’s freezer like he’s been here before, and in seconds he walks back holding a big blue wraparound ice pack, setting it on the edge of the chair before her.

  “Maybe this will help?”

  Mom takes it gratefully and presses it over what looks like a growing red spot on her forehead.

  Meanwhile, Shannon repeats Declan’s actions, offering a smaller ice pack to Andrew. I reach for him tentatively. When I’m injured, I hate to be touched right away. Neurons can’t always tell the difference between painful sensation and comforting sensation. It’s all just different, and in the first few minutes after I’ve been hurt, I avoid new triggers, good or bad.

  Andrew’s neck relaxes as I touch him between the shoulder blades and begin to rub gently in circles meant to soothe.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, out of range of Declan and Shannon. “I really tried to help.” He’s so earnest, it almost sends me over the edge into tears.

  “Accidents happen. It’s okay.”

  “How’s Pam?” he asks, just as Mom finally regains the ability to speak and asks, “How’s Andrew?”

  They both chuckle softly. Shannon gives me a sympathetic look. Slowly, with great effort, Andrew’s entire demeanor moves from pain to control, a wan smile greeting me as our eyes meet.

  “How about we start our meal with some ibuprofen?” he jokes, reaching for Mom’s hand. “You okay?”

  Her voice shakes as she responds, but she says, “I buy it a bucket at a time at Costco.” I know exactly where she stores it – same cabinet, same shelf – and shake some out for both of them. Andrew declines, pointing at Mom. I give her four tablets. I know her dosage.

  Spritzy barks again. I bend down, careful to make sure my head is clear, and pick him up. He quiets instantly. The air in the room is awkward, everyone’s eyes rolling across people and objects like we’re at a funeral. Mom swallows her pills and gives us all a brave attempt at a grin, her other hand still pressing the ice pack to her forehead.

  “How about we eat?” she says. Everyone makes little sounds of relief, as if we’ve been waiting for orders. We have. In less than a minute, all the takeout containers are open and we’re greedily shoveling steaming peanutty-scented goodness onto our plates, Mom recovering quickly and offering drinks.

  Spritzy climbs on a bar stool and waits patiently, tail wagging as if he expects a takeout container to be devoted to him.

  “Shoo him off that chair!” Mom chides me, as if I’m the one who lets him do it.

  “Mom, you’re the one who gives him his own set of chopsticks when you eat alone together.”

  Mirth fills her eyes, chasing away pain. “I do not!”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Well, blame James then,” she says breezily, making Andrew and Declan share a speculative look. “When he comes over for dinner, he sneaks Spritzy table scraps. That man.”

  “Dad comes over here for dinner?” Declan asks, holding up a wine glass filled with sparkling lemon water. Mom won’t pull out the alcohol until after dinner, and she won’t touch it herself. Not when she’s just had pain meds. I know her well. That crack against Andrew’s head set off a chain reaction in her neck and shoulder muscles that will cause realignment issues throughout her body, fascia tightening and bunching along the lines of her limbs until she’s a twisted, aching mess.

  Ordinary people – those without fibromyalgia – can endure the little accidents and upsets, collisions and bumps – and bounce back from them fairly quickly.

  Not Mom.

  She’ll be in agony for days, if not weeks. Tomorrow morning Andrew will touch the bump on his head gingerly, pain only appearing at the point of contact.

  Mom will probably need to spend three days in bed, struggling.

  None of this is Andrew’s fault. Not at all. As we all dig in and find mercy in the quiet that comes from communal eating, I find myself tracking into the future, unable to stop the need to fix this. Too many things to trace and follow, thinking through long threads of connection going two, three, ten, twelve steps into the future. After a while, I become overwhelmed, not by my inability to fix everything but by the recognition that even the map of all I care about is too big. Too expansive.

  Too much terrain.

  “Hey.” A warm hand touches my elbow. I look down, Andrew’s fingers stroking me back to awareness, out of my own racing thoughts. Declan and Mom are talking about some stock market algorithm for predicting some statistical anomaly. I hear the words Taleb and Black Swan and then Mom frowns, Spritzy jumping into her lap, her face relaxing instantly as she pets his little head.

  And sneaks him a piece of chicken.

  “You spoil him,” I tease her, getting a well-worn grin in response. We’ve had this conversation a million times.

  “He’s your brother. Of course I spoil him.”

  Declan laughs. “Brother?”

  I shrug. “When you’re an only child, you take your siblings where you can get them.”

  “When you and Andrew get a dog, Spritzy will have a playmate,” Mom says, poking into her noodles for a shrimp. “Maybe they can be ring bearer and flower girl at your wedding?”

  “No!” Shannon and I simultaneously snap. Hivemind.

  “We’re getting a dog?” Andrew asks, looking at me as if he’s upset that I’ve secretly plotted some canine shenanigans behind his back.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “We could,” he suggests, eyes full of possibility.

  “If you did, Pam would have a granddog,” Shannon jokes.

  Declan makes a dismissive sound. “And then the full-court press begins.”

  “What do you mean?” Andrew asks.

  “Enjoy it while you can,” Declan says to him, wiping his mouth with a napkin and folding it neatly under his Chinet paper plate.

  “Enjoy what?” Shannon asks, perplexed.

  “Not being pressured to produce a grandchild.” He shoots Andrew a knowing smirk, then gives Pam a wink that makes Shannon squirm.

  “Why would I pressure Andrew and Amanda to have kids? They aren’t even married yet. Give them time to enjoy each other.”

  Andrew waggles his eyebrows at me with such a caricature of a lech that I start giggling helplessly.

  Mom blushes. “I – I didn’t mean – oh, dear,” she says, coughing into her napkin, hiding her face.

  “We’ll enjoy the rest of our lives together,” Andrew says, rescuing the moment, planting a chaste kiss on the crown of my head as he squeezes my hand.

  Mom recovers from her cough and buries her face in her decaf. “As long as you’re happy.”

  “That’s what all mothers-in-law say, but the baby fever kicks in as soon as the ink is dry on the marriage license,” Declan replies, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arm across Shannon’s shoulders.

  The look she gives me is hard to read, but I know Marie. She’s been lobbying for a grandbaby from Shannon and Declan since their first date.

  “Baby fever?” Mom’s nervous laugh fills the air. Add in the sound of chair legs scraping against linoleum as she stands and flits around the Keurig, brewing another cup of decaf.

  Andrew studies Declan, clearly trying to figure out where he’s going with this.

 
“You know. Every parent views their grandkids as a chance to fix all the mistakes they made. As if the next generation can be everything they missed out on.” Declan says this with an air of finality, as if it’s fact. Like saying gravity exists or PMS is an instrument of Satan.

  You know.

  Fact.

  My mother slowly moves to face me, smiling. “Oh, no, honey. I didn’t raise you to be some sort of reflection of me.” Mom reaches up, her fingers fluttering at the base of her throat, her Revere accent coming out in soft, strange tones. She gives Declan a deeply nervous look, one I know all too well. “I didn’t have a child because I expected her to be a mini-me, or to fulfill some incomplete part of myself.”

  Shannon’s eyes get very, very wide. Declan squeezes her hand hard. Andrew leans forward on the table, chin in hand, and listens raptly.

  “The whole point of parenting is to make yourself obsolete, right? Evolutionarily, at least,” Mom says with a small laugh. “If I couldn’t raise you to be fully independent, with your own sense of self and the initiative to do what you want on your own terms, then I wouldn’t feel like I’d done my job.”

  Declan just blinks. I’ve seen him stoic before. Plenty of times. In fact, it’s his natural state. But this is different.

  He’s repressing emotion.

  A lot of emotion.

  “Well,” he finally grunts, giving Andrew a speculative, suspicious look that doesn’t add up. “That’s all fine and good. Admirable, even. But pretty soon you’ll start pressuring them to have grandkids like every other mother-in-law...er, I mean, parent.” He smirks at Andrew as if to say, You’re so screwed.

  “Oh, no! I would never do that. Having children is a deeply personal choice. Pressuring Amanda to have a child is out of the question to me. Not that I don’t want grandchildren someday! But my life is full and good as it is. I don’t need a grandchild to fill some hole, or to check off a life goal on some list, or to have an excuse to throw a baby shower and preen.”

  Shannon starts choking on her drink.

  “I mean,” Mom adds hastily, panic making her shake slightly. Declan’s interrogation is throwing her off. She’s less resilient, and I’m about three seconds from ending this conversation when she finishes. “Andrew and Amanda deserve their privacy. I would never encroach on that.”

  Shannon looks like she’s staring at the Holy Grail.

  Suddenly, Declan’s finger is in Andrew’s face. He’s on his feet, flushed and furious, shouting, “THIS IS NOT FAIR! YOU GET THE GOOD MOTHER-IN-LAW!”

  Smug does not describe Andrew’s reaction. Those four little letters cannot contain the sheer volume of self-righteous gloating my fiancé displays right now. I’m an only child and have never dealt with sibling dynamics, but there is definitely a little brother beating the older brother vibe going on here.

  “AND YOU ARE CEO!”

  “I thought you didn’t want to be CEO,” Andrew says in that maddeningly rational voice he reserves for playing hardball. I know how infuriating it can be when you’re on the receiving end of that voice.

  All my sympathy shifts to Declan.

  “I WILL TRADE CEO FOR THIS!”

  “Dec. Dec, honey?” Shannon says, tentatively touching his elbow. She starts to rub one spot on his arm softly, as if bringing him back from his frenzied state.

  “What?” He’s wild-eyed, breathing hard. Out of control. Declan’s never out of control.

  “You’re yelling.”

  “I AM NOT YELLING!”

  Andrew finishes chewing a wonton and grins at his brother. “You sound a little like Marie there, bro.”

  “You take that back,” Declan growls. “You take that back now.”

  “Or what?” Andrew snorts.

  “This explains so much,” Shannon whispers, as if coming out of a spell.

  “What, dear?” Mom asks, her nose wrinkled with confusion. I know the entire scene makes no sense to her.

  That’s because my mother is sane.

  “Dec, honey, why don’t you come over here and help me make coffee,” Shannon urges.

  “You know how to use a Keurig,” he points out, still glaring at Andrew.

  “Get. Over. Here,” she hisses. A master at handling Declan, Shannon has him calm and collected by the time they deliver coffee to everyone. I push my empty plate away, stand up and gather the dirty dishes. Because Mom uses paper plates and plastic silverware, the table is clean in under a minute.

  It might not be glamorous, but it’s nice.

  “Did you hear back about your wedding florist?” Shannon asks me, steering the conversation away from dogs, much to Mom’s consternation.

  “Oh, I had Gina take care of that,” Andrew says, squeezing my arm. “She called Montelcini Flowers and it’s all set.”

  I look at him in horror. “You did not call Jordan!” Jordan Montelcini owns the most exclusive florist in town, but he also happens to be a guy I met on a dating service for dog owners. We were paired up based on a mutual love of teacup Chihuahuas.

  And Jordan hates me.

  “No, I didn’t. But Gina did.”

  I elbow him gently. “Quit joking.”

  He makes a face, a sheepish look so unlike him filling his features. A helpless air surrounds his words, eyes pleading with me to make this topic go away. “I wish I were.”

  “Your executive assistant called Jordan Montelcini and asked him to do the flowers for our wedding? Really? How quickly did he say no?”

  Shannon gets up, crosses the kitchen, and returns with a bottle of white wine and a small stack of plastic cups. “This requires fermented assistance,” she whispers in Declan’s ear, thrusting the bottle and a corkscrew into his hands. He eyes the corkscrew, sets it down, and neatly twists the cap off the wine. Shannon’s eyes roll up as she smiles.

  Declan pours.

  I grab the first cup and guzzle half down, fast.

  “He didn’t.”

  I hear Andrew’s words. I do. They are simple words that don’t just imply that a guy who calls his dog Muffin and who accused me of harming his two-pound dog after I rescued it from a hawk attack is in charge of flowers for my wedding.

  Andrew’s words affirm it.

  “You hired that jerk to perform one of the most important functions at our wedding?”

  “Technically, no. Technically, Jordan offered to do it for free.”

  “Free?”

  “He told Dad he’d do any of his kids’ weddings for free after Dad fished his dog out of the pool at Declan and Shannon’s first wedding.”

  “First wedding?” Declan quirks one eyebrow.

  “That’s what we call the fiasco in Boston,” Andrew informs him. “Dad calls it that.”

  “Unhire him,” I insist.

  “He volunteered. He’s doing it for free. I can’t technically unhire him.”

  “I don’t want him there!” I burst out. “I can hire my own damn florist!”

  My vehemence seems to shock Andrew, who placates me. It’s a strange position to be in.

  I kind of like it. Being unreasonable has its perks.

  Except I’m being reasonable here.

  “Okay. No problem. He’s fired. Solved.” Andrew pulls out his phone and taps on the screen. “Done. Gina’s firing him.”

  “Good!”

  “Anyone else you want to give the axe to?”

  “Can I fire your dad?”

  “What’s he done now?” Declan groans, a broad grin belying his words.

  “What hasn’t he done?” Andrew says as Mom watches everyone, silent but observant. “We can’t get the paparazzi off our backs these days. In fact, I’m surprised they’re not here.”

  “Here?” Mom’s voice goes high with alarm. “Why would the paparazzi come here, to my house?”

  “To get pictures they can sell to online websites and magazines.”

  “But why? I’m boring!”

  Andrew and Declan become instantly uncomfortable, a tight anger settling into Declan�
��s face. Spritzy drops out of Mom’s lap and starts doing his dance.

  Without being asked, Andrew stands and leads Spritzy to the front door. I smile as I watch him, then glance at Mom, who has a warm look in her eyes. She’s noticed it, too. We’ve spent enough time here that Andrew’s picked up on the rhythms of the household. Guests offer to help.

  Family just jumps in.

  A well-trained dog, Spritzy knows the front yard well and has his spots for doing his business, but it’s cold outside, so Andrew leaves the main door open a crack.

  Rustling outside makes it clear the dog is busy in the bushes. Mom and Declan are engaged in an intense conversation about paparazzi and liability issues when I realize Andrew is hovering in the doorway, peering intently outside.

  “What’s wrong?”

  A series of sharp yaps fills the air as Spritzy starts to bark furiously at something outside.

  “Spritzy!” I snap, clapping my hands twice. I look at Andrew with what I hope is a reassuring smile. “It’s probably just a raccoon or -- ”

  Spritzy lifts his leg and the unmistakable sound of peeing mixes with a sudden blinding flash.

  Click! Click! Click --

  “What the hell?” someone shouts from the bush. “Is your dog pissing on me?”

  “Who are you?” Andrew reaches with one arm and pushes me behind him, protective. “Is someone in the bushes out there?”

  Flash!

  Spritzy’s barking like crazy now, jumping up and down as the bush moves, like a meat tenderizer in dog form, hammering the guy like he’s a piece of veal.

  “Get this fucking rat dog off me!” It’s a man with a thick Australian accent. He’s wearing a black balaclava and a puffy black ski jacket. Are ninja paparazzi a thing?

  “Get out of the bushes!” Andrew demands. “Get off this property now. Amanda, call 911.”

  While the guy grumbles, I grab my phone out of my back pocket and start dialing.

  “Hey, man, no cops. I’m just doing my job.”

  “Your job invades my life, so I’m going to stop you,” Andrew shoots back.

  “What’s going on?” Mom asks, her voice frightened.

  “Dec!” Andrew calls back. “Get Gerald here. We have a pap in the bush.”