Shopping for a CEO's Honeymoon Page 5

“Shannon’s just plain old crazy,” I inform him.

  “You smell kind of sweet.” He sniffs me. “And weird. Is that a new perfume? I’m not sure I like it.”

  “It’s called Eau du Merde du Ellie.”

  He frowns. “Your French is terrible, but I think you’re saying–” He makes a face and looks at me. “Oh. Ew.”

  “The baby shat all over my arms and lap about thirty minutes ago. I showered, but...”

  “Is that why you’re wearing Shannon’s shirt? Definitely not a scent to wear again.” He leans forward and whispers, “Until we have our own kid.”

  “You want our baby to poop all over me? This conversation has turned very bizarre.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Good.”

  Just then, Declan comes into the living room holding Ellie, who is impossibly cute in one of those baby towel contraptions with a hood that mimics a giraffe.

  Andrew starts humming the theme from Mission: Impossible. He began doing it after Declan made an elevator repair crew open a panel at the top of the broken elevator where Shannon was trapped inside, giving birth.

  Yeah. Sounds crazy, right? Welcome to my best friend’s life.

  Declan’s face goes tight and dark as he diapers and dresses Ellie in an adorable red and white heart-themed outfit that makes me wish I were a baby again and could get away with those fashion choices.

  There’s even a heart on her bum.

  “That’s not funny anymore. She’s three months old and you do that every damn time you see me.”

  The humming continues.

  Declan throws a teething ring at him. It bounces off his shoulder and strikes Chuckles.

  Who promptly walks over to Andrew’s shoes by the door, lifts one leg, and–

  Huh. Doing CrossFit with Vince is really paying off for my husband. He makes it to the shoes in time to rescue them.

  Too bad about his other hand, though.

  “Gross!” Andrew shouts, holding his wrist at a severe angle so the dripping cat pee doesn’t get on more than his hand.

  “Score!” Declan whispers, stroking Chuckles’ neck as the cat purrs.

  “Now we both got peed on today,” I commiserate.

  “They say couples with similar interests have the greatest sense of life satisfaction and happiness,” Declan says, deadpan.

  Ellie lets out a sound that’s close to a laugh, an “ah ah ah ah ah” that makes Shannon and Declan focus all their attention on her, Dec laughing.

  “Are you giggling at Uncle Andrew? He’s a funny guy, isn’t he?” Declan says, pulling her little red shirt up and giving her tummy raspberries, which just makes the little baby “ah ah ah ah ah” continue.

  Cause and effect. It’s the backbone of life.

  Andrew hums the Mission: Impossible theme music in response, then says, over the sound of the kitchen faucet running as he washes his hands with more ritual than a neurosurgeon, “Not as funny as you delivering a baby at a charity ball!”

  “Uncle Andrew is just jealous!” Declan says to Ellie, whose eyes widen as her daddy comes in close. She takes one dimpled hand and bonks Declan on the nose. “He’s never broken into an elevator and delivered his own sweet baby.”

  “And punched out his wife’s ex.”

  “I would prefer to have my baby delivered the old-fashioned way,” Andrew announces. “With me in the waiting room drinking scotch and waiting to smoke a cigar.”

  “Is your name James?” I ask him.

  He smiles at me as he shakes his hands dry, then grabs a kitchen towel from a small rack by the fridge.

  “Fine. I promise I’ll break into a non-functioning elevator, punch out your ex-boyfriend Al, and deliver our baby in front of a crowd of paparazzi, Amanda. If that’s what you want.”

  “That is so not what I want.”

  “You make it sound dashing and fun. It was agony and terror,” Shannon pipes up, filling what looks like a gallon jug with a straw on top with filtered water from the fridge dispenser. “Dec was great, but a hospital birth is in the cards for our next one. I want an epidural just after the conception.”

  “Agony and terror is a bit much,” Declan protests, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as he holds Ellie, who starts licking his chest. Her mouth bobs up and down in little patterns, leaving small wet spots on his shirt.

  “You weren’t the one giving birth!” Shannon counters. “You don’t get to define my emotional and physical experience.”

  “Steve Raleigh was in one of the news articles and he used those exact words, Shannon. He said it was ‘pure agony’ and nothing but ‘sheer terror’ for him,” Andrew tells her.

  “Figures. Leave it to Steve to take credit for a woman’s deliverable,” I say, meeting my best friend’s eyes. We snort.

  The guys are smart.

  They say nothing.

  Shannon adds a lime to her giant water glass. “Congratulations,” she says to me. “You’re officially an aunt. You are so safe for Ellie that she pooped all over you. It takes a special kind of trust to be the recipient of that.”

  The guys are smart. They say nothing again.

  Neither do I.

  Because I am speechless.

  “Remember how I wanted to hurry up and have kids?” Andrew says to me out of the side of his mouth.

  “Yes?”

  “I take it back.” He sniffs. “I take it allllll back.”

  Chapter 4

  Andrew

  I am starting to get suspicious.

  Sex three days in a row is one thing.

  With lingerie every single time?

  Something’s up.

  And not just a particular body part of mine.

  “Thank you,” she purrs. Purrs. I am married to a cat, one who squints at me while smiling, her breasts splayed perfectly as she moves onto her back and stares up at the vaulted ceiling in our living room. More rug sex before the roaring fire.

  I know. Too much of a good thing can get boring over time. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

  Or... don’t come to it.

  “I am the one who should be thanking you.” I roll onto my side and stare at her, the creamy flesh still flushed with exertion. “I love coming home to a naked wife on the floor, ready for me.”

  “Don’t get used to it.”

  “Why not?”

  “According to Shannon, once you have a baby, you never have sex again.”

  “Dec hasn’t said anything.”

  “You think your brother is going to spontaneously volunteer how he’s not having sex?” Her eyebrows fly up, breasts bouncing beautifully as she laughs.

  “Good point.” I frown. “So it’s true.”

  “What’s true?”

  “Babies are nothing but cockblockers.”

  “I’m pretty sure they’re more than that.”

  “But you don’t deny they lead to less sex.” My hand has a mind of its own and caresses her torso, loving the feel of her body.

  “Maybe when they’re little and needy and you don’t get much sleep, but eventually people have more sex again.”

  “Eventually is a long, long time, Amanda.”

  “We just had sex, and now you’re worrying you won’t have enough sex at some undefined point in the future?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I am a guy.”

  “What does that mean? You sit around thinking about all the ways you might not be able to get enough sex in the future?”

  “That’s pretty much the definition of a guy, honey.”

  “I thought it was the other way around–all you do is think about having sex!”

  “We do.”

  “And you think about not having sex?”

  “No, no. We don’t think about that. We worry about that.”

  “Why would you, of all people, worry about not getting enough sex?”

  “I–well, maybe worry is too strong a word. How about ‘evaluate ri
sk levels.’ If sex gets to be too infrequent, we need contingency plans.”

  “You need a sexual-deprivation contingency plan?”

  “Maybe.” I’m in really murky waters here.

  “Just a minute ago, you said yes!”

  “Ok. Let’s go with that.”

  “You know what?” She sits up, a gleam in her eye. “I know one way to make absolutely certain you can have as much sex as you want.”

  “You do?” I sit up, too. I suddenly have a vested interest in this conversation.

  “Yes. It’s called a honeymoon.”

  I lie back down. A trap. I walked right into this, didn’t I?

  “We can have lots of sex without a honeymoon,” I remind her.

  “But Andrew, you said this is an obsession. Almost a compulsion all men have. A guaranteed two weeks of unlimited sex could make a material difference in your life, given your psychological construct.”

  “My what?”

  “Think of a honeymoon as an intervention of sorts.”

  “A sex intervention?”

  “Exactly! It’s practically a medical leave!”

  “HR is going to love this. Come on, Amanda. You know I can’t take two weeks off.”

  “Gina says your schedule is clear,” she announces in a tone that is the aural equivalent of a victory lap. “Two weeks can be arranged.”

  “Two weeks! You’re serious! I can’t just take two weeks and do absolutely nothing.” My turn to laugh. Nothing bounces, because I’m hard as a rock again. Negotiating does this to me. Especially negotiating with my naked wife, who is offering a two-week buffet of unlimited sex.

  Hold on.

  Why the hell am I negotiating against her?

  “I never said we’d do nothing,” she says. “You can do plenty.” There’s that purr again.

  “Okay, I love the idea of that much sex, but even I can’t fill every hour of every day for two weeks straight with nothing but sex.”

  “You should have disclosed that fact before I agreed to marry you. I feel like I’ve been sold a false bill of goods.”

  “I’m pretty sure you got more than you bargained for, Amanda.”

  She goes silent.

  My heart is slamming against my ribs. I can feel my pulse in my neck, a long distance from where I was feeling it just one minute ago. “You aren’t going to let this go, are you?” I ask her.

  “No. And also, Gina’s completely on board with getting rid of you for two weeks and having the office to herself.”

  “She said that?”

  “After the way you treated her about your coffee?”

  “That’s not an answer. And you got your revenge. That peppermint pumpkin stevia monstrosity was awful.”

  “Good.”

  Some element in her voice makes me stop with my automatic response. I pull back and think for a few seconds, letting the air between us still. She’s genuinely upset. I’m authentically convinced I can’t take two weeks to jet off somewhere exotic.

  My phone buzzes. Reflexively, I check it.

  My brother is selling one of his islands in Polynesia to fund a nuclear program. Would you like to buy it?

  The sultan.

  “Work. More work,” Amanda says with an exaggerated affect, her hands thrown up in the air in disgust. I stare at her. Wouldn’t you? Do you know what happens to nipples when a woman raises her arms? They stare you straight in the eye and dare you.

  “If we took this honeymoon,” I say slowly to her breasts, “a real one, where we go away, where would you want to go?” If she says ‘deserted island,’ it’s going to be hard not to say yes and buy an island in the middle of nowhere.

  Oddly enough, she averts her eyes and frowns.

  Bzzzz.

  “I’m ignoring that. I want to hear your answer,” I tell her, really intrigued by her reaction.

  “Get it out of the way, then turn the damn thing off.”

  I look.

  And I will be in Boston tomorrow for a meeting with a friend who has perfected preparation. I will pick you up at 11 a.m. on your rooftop. Bring ten jars of Marshmallow Fluff, a gross of condoms, and twenty Lush bath bombs. Please tell me your home has a solar set-up, water filtration, and a private massage therapist.

  I blink at the list of provisions. Gina is going to have a field day ordering that combo for me.

  My home has a swimming pool, the best wine collection in the world, and a fireplace George Washington leaned against while planning to fight the English.

  “Who are you texting with?” Amanda asks, peering over my shoulder.

  “The sultan.”

  “That crazy guy?” she shudders.

  “Don’t worry. He’s not visiting.” I watch as three dots appear on the screen.

  I had no idea, Andrew. Your poverty state troubles me, he texts back. In addition, you are delusional, for I have the best wine collection in the world. Perhaps you imagine you are me? I understand the adoration, but I fear you require an intervention. I am coming right now, my friend. I assume you have a helicopter pad in your backyard?

  The thought of bringing the sultan here, to my actual home, is a bad, bad idea.

  You are right, I reply, shining him on. It would be best to meet as quickly as possible, and you are a good friend to see through my troubles. Where?

  In Fitchburg, Massachusetts.

  I do a double take. Did I read that right?

  Fitchburg? I type back. That’s not an area you would like.

  You will see, he types back cryptically, followed by a set of GPS coordinates.

  This is how people end up buried in sewer pipes and never found, isn’t it?

  By the time I extricate myself from the phone, I see Amanda is on hers.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper, on hands and knees now, approaching her with a steady interest. Her hair is a mess. A mess made by me. Her makeup’s long gone, a little mascara at the tips of her lashes. She looks well satisfied, but the glow of her phone has her attention.

  “Finish the text,” I command.

  She ignores me.

  I see this requires higher-level negotiation skills.

  I reach for her legs and spread them apart so fast, she gasps.

  “Andrew!”

  “Finish.” Kiss. “The.” Lick. “Text.”

  You can guess what I do next that makes her moan.

  “Done!” she chirps.

  “Not even close, baby. I’m just getting started.”

  “No,” she says, fingers in my hair, rubbing my scalp with an encouragement that makes me smile against her thigh. “I mean it’s done. You have two weeks off starting Monday.”

  “MONDAY?” I look up at her, the long, rolling curves of sweet cream and pink goodness too gorgeous to be mad at.

  “Monday. You, me, staycation.”

  “What are we going to do for two weeks at home?”

  “Remodel.”

  My cheek rests against her leg as my fingers have some fun with her warm, wet body. Her breathing changes, low and breathy and then with a groan and a deep sense of need.

  “Remodel what?”

  “Our home.”

  I pause. “You want our honeymoon to be here, in Weston? For two weeks I’ll live here and be twenty minutes from HQ and not go in? Not work at all while we redo bathrooms and pick out floor tiles?”

  “It’s a bit more than that, but yes.”

  “We can’t remodel this entire place in two weeks!”

  “Reality television shows do it in a week.”

  “We don’t have corporate sponsors! And speaking of which, don’t say a word about this to my dad until it’s all done.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if he gets it in his head that there are reality television shows devoted to remodeling, and we’re remodeling on our honeymoon...”

  She pales. “Good point. He’d have a camera crew and Ty Pennington at the house with a snap of his fingers.”

  “That’s why the entire
idea is crazy.”

  “Only the James part is cray-cray. The rest is happening, Andrew.”

  “You really want to spend two weeks picking out doorknobs? Fighting over whether to pain the hallway Baby Beige or Early Ecru? You want that as a honeymoon?”

  The sultan’s texts ping in my head. Buying an island would be preferable to remodeling the estate. It’s not that I feel a need to preserve my childhood home as is. And redoing it to make it ours has its perks. But the idea of taking two entire weeks off work seems impossible.

  “You’re serious?” I ask her, moving my hand to resume my earlier, important work. I may not be a man who works with his hands every day, but in bed, I am.

  “Do I sound like I’m–” gasp “–joking?”

  “You sound like you’re about to orgasm, Amanda.”

  “Oh, do I? And what does that sound like?”

  “Let me show you.”

  “So,” she says, struggling to speak, “you’ll do it?”

  “I thought I was doing it.”

  “No, no, not that. I mean, don’t stop doing–that.” She inhales sharply. “The honeymoon! The remodeling.”

  “Tell you what. For every orgasm we have, I’ll take a day off.”

  “That’s a bit unfair, don’t you think? You can only have one! That means I have to have thirteen!”

  “Then I’d better get to work.”

  Chapter 5

  Andrew

  It’s four p.m. on a Friday, I’ve lost two UK deals that were supposed to be ironclad, I only got one orgasm out of fourteen (or maybe seventeen... it was hard to tell for hers) this morning during my second round of sex with Amanda, and I’ve committed to clearing my work decks for fourteen days, starting Monday.

  So what am I doing?

  Standing next to a stray dog taking a piss on a dented lamp post in good old Fitchburg, Massachusetts.

  The GPS coordinates my chauffeur, Gerald, followed brought us to this rinky-dink dead-end road right off a neighborhood Gerald informs me is called the Cleghorn. It looks like the neighborhood my dad grew up in, over in South Boston. He brought us there exactly once. None of our relatives remain. He just wanted us to see the poverty he dragged himself up from to create a Fortune 500 company.

  Places like this don’t feel real.