Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee Read Free Page B

ago.
    We’re back together, but there’s still so much left to learn about each other.
    Little things, like which side of the bed each prefers. Favorite colors. Food preferences.
    Or, you know, like whether we’re married or not.
    “How did I get Cheeto coochie?” she asks, pointing to her breasts, which look at me like Sirens on an island in the ocean. Andrew , they croon. Come play with us....  
    My mouth is cotton. Fermented cotton. And salt. Something salty. “What?”
    She peers at me. “Your mouth matches my coochie. It’s orange, too.”
    “Coochie?” We’ve only been back together for less than a week. I didn’t know “coochie” was part of her personal vocabulary. “Cheeto coochie” sounds like the name of a tapas dish at a low-end restaurant.
    Or a stripper name.
    “You know.” She peers down. “If your mouth is orange, and my breasts and, ahem,” she points down, “are orange, then we committed some kinky acts with snack foods last night.”
    “You’re the one with the Cheeto-marshmallow fetish.”
    She covers her mouth with her hand. “Don’t mention food.”
    I wave my ringed hand. “Too much talk. Basics first.” I force myself to stand and walk into the mini-kitchen. Water. I need water. Water and half a jar of ibuprofen-flavored beer.
    And my memory.
    Bzzzz.
    “Your phone!”
    “Probably Gina.”
    “Who is Gina ?” The arch tone gets my attention and makes me smile. Now I know something new about Amanda.
    She gets jealous. I grin and smother it with my hand.
    “My new admin,” I say, muffled by my palm.
    She lets out a cute little huff of relief. “What happened to...Bethany?”
    “She was three admins ago.”
    “Lucy’s gone, too?” Amanda asks, incredulous.
    “She was overly rigid.” I can hear the defensiveness creep into my voice.
    “She was great!”
    “She lasted ten days.”
    “You have an admin problem, Andrew.”
    “No, I don’t.” I ignore my phone. If I can keep a Sultan waiting, I can defer my admin back in Boston, the new young woman the temp agency sent me a few weeks ago. What I need right now is water. Water and Amanda. In that order.
    “Your admins have an Andrew problem.”
    “I’m a great boss!” Irritation sets in. We’ve spent five days trying not to talk about any topic more intense than whether to add cinnamon to our breves, how to handle all the sex chafing, or debating whether jalapeno-flavored aioli is better than bacon-horseradish mayo.
    After rescuing her from the pool at Dec and Shannon’s wedding in Boston, we became so wrapped up in the Vegas chaos that we settled into a pattern.
    A pattern of sex, food, gifts, and...sex.
    That’s right.
    Guy nirvana.
    Now she wants to talk ?
    Guy hell.
    My slow walk to the kitchen should be filmed by a documentary crew with the soundtrack to Apocalypse Now in the background. The bedroom looks tame compared to the living room and kitchen. No cat. No dog. No giant pee-covered teddy bear, which means the living room should be an improvement.
    I gag. Why does it smell like a distillery in here? A quick push of buttons on the wall and the curtains part, filling the room with light and, as the windows vent, some air.
    Then I see the pile of glow-in-the-dark sex toys on the coffee table.
    And a giant yoga ball.
    That is buzzing.
    “And soon you’ll be my boss,” Amanda tosses off.
    I don’t answer that, because the buzzing comes from a glowing appendage attached to the yoga ball. The tip curves to the left and if I squint, I can read some words on the shaft.
    Yo! G-spot Ah.... An acronym for YOGA.
    That’s a brand name? I’d fire the person who pushed that to market. No focus group on the planet would approve that .
    I solve the problem by grabbing a throw blanket and covering everything. If I pretend it doesn’t exist, then it doesn’t. That’s how Dad handles emotions in other people, and if it works for him, I can apply it to errant piles of sex toys.
    “Oh, my God. I don’t understand.