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

by Julia Kent

“Have you seen that?”

  I nod as I drink more coffee. A salty gust of wind lifts up and into the room, carrying my heart with it, lifting so high in my chest it seems to cry out as it bangs against its limits.

  Crawling to the end of his bed, he stretches and grabs the frame, then settles next to me, holding it.

  “She—” His voice cracks like a preteen’s. Having him sit here, post night-time lovemaking, drinking coffee in bed while going into the very vulnerable center of his being is a gift. I want to spend the rest of my life just sitting next to him. Holding his hand. Drinking coffee.

  Just being.

  That feeling rolls through me with a resounding certainty that clears my mind.

  “She what?” I ask, urging him on. This is like having a windowless room turn out to have an enormous skylight buried under three feet of snow that has just thawed.

  “Nothing. Not important.”

  “It’s important to me.”

  The fluttering of his eyelashes as emotions fight against each other within him makes me ache for what his life must be like on the inside. Andrew McCormick, CEO of Anterdec. He’s a wheeler and dealer, the young CEO everyone is watching for his first big mis-step, eyes of the business world on him not in admiration but with a smirk, just waiting for him to screw up.

  And here I am, in his bed, listening to him talk about missing his mom.

  “She would have liked you.” His hand crawls under the sheet, seeking mine again. The threaded pull of our ten fingers intertwined like roots makes me smile.

  The stinging pain of unexpected tears and a protective tenderness towards him makes me inhale slowly, like discovering a new flower so beautiful you have to smell it.

  “I’m sorry I never got to meet her.”

  He leans over and kisses my cheek, all while squeezing my hand. “Me, too.”

  The picture frame set aside, he reaches for my coffee and puts it on the end table, then slowly, sweetly, makes love to me as if I’m his entire world, as if eternity were an unending loop of all that is good and right in the world and each time our bodies connect, we create a new universe.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I think there is a checklist of Things You Do in a Relationship When You Live in Boston, and going to a Red Sox game at Fenway Park is one of them.

  Except when you’re dating a CEO and a near-billionaire, the experience is a wee bit different from the masses. I’m standing in a premium suite behind home plate, after spending an hour drinking beer and munching on little lobster and sushi bites. Andrew’s company is hosting an event here for some investors in a new office building in the Financial District, and I’m arm candy.

  I’m enjoying being arm candy. It’s a new role for me.

  We’re here for a mid-afternoon day game. Being Andrew McCormick, we’ve come by limo, doorstep to doorstep, from the underground garage in his apartment building to a back door he walked through so quickly you would think he was on fire.

  He is certainly in his element, dressed in a polo shirt and khaki casual trousers, wearing the requisite Red Sox cap. I am dressed in a too-tight V-neck Red Sox jersey that he gave me last night, especially for this event, and I’m learning something about myself as I make small talk with eight men who each are worth more than the Gross National Product of half the countries in the world.

  I am pretty hot.

  That sounds so braggy. I know. But coming from someone who has never based her self-worth on her looks, but rather on her ability to fix problems, this is new. Being with Andrew makes me feel attractive. Desirable. Worth the male gaze.

  And this jersey he gave me is eating up gazes, all right. My boobs have never had so many conversations.

  Most of them with Andrew himself.

  He extracts himself from some scintillating talk about reinforced steel and snakes an arm around my waist.

  “Nice shirt.”

  “Someone gave it to me.”

  “He has great taste.”

  “He doesn’t know my size.” I tug at the hem to cover my quarter inch of exposed belly. All that does is expose another half-inch of breast.

  “Oh,” he sighs, so hard I feel his hot breath on my cleavage. “He most certainly does.”

  “Game starts in ten minutes!” someone shouts.

  “Ready to get to our seats?” he asks my breasts.

  I touch his chin and make his eyes meet mine.

  “They don’t talk, you know.”

  “If they could, though, they’d say really nice things about me,” he says with a smile. “That Andrew is so attentive.” He pretends to be my breasts, his voice shifting into a falsetto. “He’s so sweet. We wish Amanda would let him touch us more.”

  I hit him gently, right above his belt buckle.

  “Oof.”

  “My breasts don’t talk like that. They have a genteel southern accent.”

  He starts to put his ear on my cleavage. “This I have to hear.”

  I sprint for the door, knowing that only propriety stops him from hungry-handing my ass.

  We wind our way up stairs to the pavilion suites, where a wall of glass faces the ball field. One of the men in the group lets out a low whistle. I join him.

  Andrew whistles, too, but I don’t think he’s looking at the ball park.

  “That is a view,” I say.

  “Sure is,” he agrees, staring at my rack.

  “Can that glass wall open up?” one of the men asks.

  Andrew tenses and answers, “No. We’re keeping it closed. It’s too humid out there.” While he’s right that it’s a nasty, swampy June day in Massachusetts, he’s not telling the whole truth.

  “The glass wall does open,” I correct him. “This can become an open-air suite if we want.”

  Andrew’s glare makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong, so I shut up instantly. My teeth snap together from the force of how fast I close my mouth. He doesn’t even have to ask.

  Suddenly, this shirt is all wrong. Being in this suite is intolerable. I can’t be here. I give him a shaky smile and go back downstairs to grab my sweater, practically running. The suite is over air-conditioned anyhow, so I have my excuse if anyone wonders.

  In the downstairs lounge, I give myself a few minutes to catch my breath.

  What the hell just changed upstairs?

  “Honey?” one of the female bartenders asks as she dries a fresh rack of washed glasses. “You okay? Those guys harassing you?” She gives me one of those looks that only two single women can give each other in a sports setting where alcohol is everywhere.

  “I’m fine,” I assure her. “Just, you know. My date is here with his clients and I needed a break.”

  Her eyebrow shoots up. “Andrew McCormick’s your boyfriend?” She makes a whew sound. “Nice.”

  I smile. “Thanks.” It definitely feels weird to hear someone call him my boyfriend. Andrew and I haven’t had that conversation yet. I let it slide, because I can. He’s nowhere nearby to overhear.

  “Have fun. Not that you won’t,” she says with a wink. “You’re living on a whole different plane of existence from the rest of us.”

  As I walk to the staircase, slipping my arms into my sweater, it hits me how true that is. I zip up the cardigan and square my shoulders, pasting on a smile.

  The game opens just as I reach the suite, and all the men are lined up in their tall stools at a long counter, facing the glass wall. The room smells like freshly-popped popcorn and a burnt sugar scent. A quick glance at the counter reveals the source of that.

  Caramel corn.

  Andrew pats an empty chair next to him, on the end, with no one else next to me. “Saved you a seat.” There’s no trace of his earlier anger, which is a huge relief. As I settle in, he hands me a small cone of popcorn and we face the field.

  Play ball.

  As I look over the crowd at Fenway Park, an uneasy familiarity creeps over my skin. Andrew’s hand is on my knee and he’s avidly watching as the players get ready
for the pitcher, the first inning about to open. Loud organ music pounds through the air, muted in here.

  I’ve been here.

  Not in this suite, but I’ve been here. At Fenway Park.

  When Andrew asked me to this game, he questioned whether I’d attended a baseball game before. Other than once, in high school, I told him I had a vague memory of my mom bringing me to a game when I was really little. Or maybe my grandpa? I couldn’t remember.

  Suddenly, an image of myself as a tiny girl and the faint olfactory memory of peanuts transports me back two decades. My hand is in the warm clasp of a man’s callused palm, the back of his hand covered with black hair. He puts a baseball cap on my head and it’s too big.

  His laughter rumbles and he’s hugging me, the vibration of his chest against my ear so loud. His breath is sour against my cheek. I look up to find his face surrounded by a halo of bright sunshine. I have to squint hard to see his face.

  Crack!

  One of the pitches hits the bat and the shortstop makes a long throw to first base, barely beating the runner. Everyone’s on their feet, cheering.

  The roar of the crowd.

  A flash of sunlight and I’m blinded, except there is no sun outside right now. It’s a partly cloudy day, with no chance of rain, and no bright orb in the sky.

  What am I remembering?

  “You okay?” Andrew asks, concern in his eyes as I drop my cone of popcorn, the pieces spilling over my leg. Except my leg is tiny, and I’m wearing a gingham dress. It’s my favorite. It’s the one I wore for my kindergarten school picture, with tiny pink flowers against a chocolate backdrop, and brown piping along the hem.

  I look at Andrew and see my father’s face.

  “Mandy?” he says.

  Except Andrew actually says, “Amanda.”

  No one has called me Mandy since I was five. Since my dad disappeared. That was my father’s nickname for me. My dad, though, never brought me to a baseball game.

  I stand abruptly, shaking my head fast. “Uh, excuse me.”

  “Amanda,” Andrew repeats. “What’s going on? Are you sick?” He follows me to the doorway, his hand on my elbow. The gesture is protective and genuine. I’m worrying him.

  I’m worrying me.

  “I, um...can we just go for a walk?” I beg. The room closes in on me, even with the expansive view. The billboard flashes with numbers and videos. I can’t blink hard enough to get clarity.

  “Now?” If I were in a better frame of mind I would see the fear in his eyes. Not anger. Not disappointment.

  Fear.

  “Yeah. I’m having this weird memory about Fenway Park.”

  “From high school?”

  I start to breathe through my nose in short little spurts. “No. Earlier.”

  He cocks his head and bends down. I can smell the popcorn he’s been eating. “I thought you said you were maybe here with your mom or grandpa once.”

  “I thought so, too. But now I’m remembering coming here with my dad.”

  Shock registers in the way he moves. “Your father? But he abandoned you.”

  “Right. This memory...I don’t know. I just need to go for a walk. I need fresh air. Please, Andrew? Please?”

  Adrenaline pours through me like an overflowing bucket under a full-throttle faucet. I am nothing but one big, nauseated cell.

  He looks over my head and outside, where the game is underway. His eyes scan the entire perimeter of the glass that faces the park.

  Then he looks down at me.

  Back up at the wall.

  Down at me.

  His face hardens. “I can’t. This is an important client meeting. And besides,” he adds, “you, um...photographers might be out there.”

  “Photographers?” What is he talking about? Who cares about my picture being taken?

  My breathing quickens. If I don’t get out of here, I’m going to pass out. Or vomit. Or just plain old die as my dad’s face takes over, the backs of his hands covering his face, his sobs cutting through me like a razor blade as I pat him on the back and ask Daddy for more ice cream.

  “Right,” Andrew says quickly, his rapid-fire speech an anomaly, his eyes nervously bouncing across sights outside. “You know. Boston Magazine, media outlets. You don’t really want—”

  Wrenching my elbow away from him, I walk as fast as I can down the stairs, pounding down them until I find a door I can burst through, the scent of the outdoor air sickening as I find myself next to a short man with a beard, making balloon hats for a crowd of children.

  Rushing past them, I round a corner and find myself on the sidewalk behind the park, where street vendors offer me Cuban sandwiches and Italian sausage.

  Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep breath.

  How can I have a memory of something that never actually happened?

  Only one way to find out.

  I call my mom.

  As her phone rings, I look toward the building, praying Andrew will follow. Yes, I ran away. Yes, I broke contact. But I need someone right now, because I am about as out of my own head and body as a person can get, and this feels suspiciously like I’m going a little—or a lot—insane.

  “Hello?”

  “Mom?”

  “What’s wrong, Amanda?” she asks with alarm.

  It’s that obvious, huh?

  “Did my dad ever bring me to a baseball game at Fenway Park when I was little?” My words come out in gasps and half-chokes, cracked in two like an egg just before the whites spit on the griddle in bubbling oil.

  “What?” she gasps. “What?”

  I find a tiny patch of grass next to the curb and sink to the ground, my forehead pressing into my knee.

  “Mom? I’m here at a game with Andrew and I keep seeing my dad. In my mind. Like we were in the stands watching a game. He put a baseball cap on my head.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” she says through a voice so thick it feels like it’s coming across twenty years of pain. “Oh, Amanda. I thought you’d forgotten.”

  “Forgotten? I really was here once with him?” A blast of relief counteracts all my fear. I’m not crazy. I’m not unraveling. I’m not insane.

  I look down the street toward the back of the building.

  Still no Andrew.

  “Mom?” She’s gone silent.

  “Yes, sweetie,” she says reluctantly. “You were.”

  “Oh,” I say, the sound coming out in waves, like it’s seven syllables, the same on repeat. “Oh, thank God. I’m not crazy. This is a real memory.”

  “It is.” She’s breathing slowly. Too slowly. Mom defaults to deep breaths when she has to control her pain. I hope I haven’t triggered any.

  “Why don’t I remember it all?” I ask. “Just bits and pieces.”

  “Do you remember anything more than the game?”

  I close my eyes and try. All I see is a void.

  “No.”

  “Okay.” She lets out a long sigh.

  “Why? What else happened?”

  My phone buzzes. I’m sure it’s a text from Andrew, who is probably trying to figure out where the hell I am.

  “Can you hop the Green Line? Come home now? Or grab a cab?”

  “I can do any of those, but I’m here with Andrew and he’s going to wonder.”

  “Is he still entertaining clients?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then text him. Tell him you need a couple hours. Then go back to him. We need to talk.”

  I just blink as I stare across the street at the graffiti.

  “Talk?”

  “Honey, you’re remembering the very last day you ever saw your dad. Let’s just say it was the worst day of my life, and probably one of the worst of yours, even if you don’t remember everything.”

  I look around wildly. Where is Andrew? Why didn’t he follow?

  “Okay.”

  “I’d feel better if we talked in person. I can come get you.”

  “No, I can get a ride. I’ll be home soon, Mom.�
��

  I end the call and pull up a ride share app. Estimated time for pick up: two minutes.

  Then I check my texts, expecting one from Andrew. Instead, it’s a text from Marie:

  Chuckles doesn’t have balls, so no worries about lotion for him.

  I click out of the text function and stand, then turn the text feature back on as the driver appears. I climb in. He has my address from the app and we speed off. I look back one last time.

  No Andrew.

  As a courtesy I type out a short text to him.

  Got sick. Went home. Talk later.

  I press Send and then turn off my phone completely.

  When I arrive at home, Mom’s in the door, hovering behind the screen. The shadow of her body shows her shoulders tight, her eyebrows high, face a mask of pain and despair.

  I hate knowing that I’ve triggered her pain.

  “You want coffee?” We walk into the kitchen, her arm around my waist. I’m taller than her, and ever since her car accident this is how it is. She can’t reach up very high without pinching a nerve in her neck. I’m grateful for the affection and take what I can get, leaning into the half hug.

  On the counter there is a tray of Cheeto marshmallow treats. I look at her fingernails.

  They’re stained orange.

  My eyes fill to the point of near blindness. “Mom? What’s going on?”

  “Where’s Andrew?”

  Half an answer suffices for most people. It’s startling how much you can get away with when you learn this. “He’s back at Fenway, entertaining his investors still.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes bounce from the tray of treats to the coffee she just poured to me. “Okay.”

  I grab milk from the fridge, my eyes blurred by hands acting from physical memory, and prepare my coffee. She takes a splash of milk as well.

  “Tell me,” I ask. It’s not an order.

  “I don’t want to make it bigger than it is, Man—Amanda.”

  “You haven’t called me Mandy in years, Mom. That’s what Dad called me.”

  “I know.” Her voice is contrite. Why?

  “Make what bigger?”

  “The day your father abandoned you.”

  “Why would you make it bigger?”

  She sighs and uses a spatula to dig out two pieces of Cheeto treat, munching on one as she hands me mine. I take a relieved bite, the familiar salty-sweet taste so comforting.