Shopping for a CEO (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 7) (38 page)

“I’ll do it. I’ll lie. But you’re crazy if you think Marie’ll believe this.”

“Don’t say a word. Go along with it. Pretend just long enough for us to escape. Just...trust me,” Declan says in a voice filled with so much authority that I can’t help it. 

I do.

“There will be a point after we leave when she will try to squeeze the truth out of you. Don’t cave in,” he demands. 

This is unreal.

“You’re serious! You’re ditching your own wedding?”

Shannon is beaming. Beaming! She looks happier than I’ve seen her in nearly a year.

And Declan is a man with a mission.

She walks over to me, where the door is thumping and Marie is muttering compromises in the background, something about stopping all the sex toy shops if we’ll just come out there.

I kiss Shannon on the cheek and whisper, “Go for it. I’m here. I’ll fix whatever mess is left.”

And with that, I let go of the doorknob.

Marie comes flying into the room, disheveled, followed by a very addled Jason.

“Marie! There you are!” Declan reaches for her and sweeps her into a huge hug, followed by a kiss on each cheek that makes him seem like James. “We were wondering what happened to you. Come on, now! We need to get this wedding going. You need to get moving!” 

“I—what?”

Jason shoots Declan a sly look.

“We’re behind schedule! The ceremony starts in forty minutes. You need to get with the program,” Declan adds, giving Shannon a secret wink.

“What is he—he’s the one who—I wasn’t delaying anything!” Marie sputters.

“Then get moving!” He spanks Marie on the ass, the slap making a
snap!
sound that echoes all the way to Pinterest.

And with that, he saunters out of the room.

Like a boss.

* * *

The ceremony starts like any other wedding ceremony happening on that same Saturday in July across the United States. The classical pianist begins the pre-ceremony music, giving guests the chance to settle into their spots. From the glass doorway I see familiar clusters along the fifty rows of twenty white chairs, each row decorated with festive flowers that Jordan has lovingly created, the Scottish feel evident.  

Each row of twenty white chairs is bisected by the aisle, and as the ushers lead people to seats, with the bride and groom guests all mixed together, the wedding takes on a beauty and order of its own.

There are Shannon’s distant relatives from the midwest. Marie’s yoga students are all together, Agnes in beautiful, bright-red glory with a hat attached to her pin curls that might well have been original when Jackie Kennedy wore the same kind. Corrine is next to her in a Coco Chanel inspired get-up, too. A ton of Anterdec employees dot the crowd. Some high school friends. Greg, his wife, Josh and...is that one of the strippers from the piano bar with him, in a suit? 

And hundreds and hundreds of people Shannon and Declan don’t know.

Declan’s at the altar with the minister, Terry next to him. James is in the front row, and I see my mom right behind him, obliviously sitting next to Jessica Coffin, who is admiring Spritzy and talking animatedly to my innocent mother, who appears to be inviting Jessica to take pictures.

Great. That’s like asking Dorothy Parker to write a poem about you. 

Someone sets Chuckles on the ground at the back of the large garden display, right in the center of the aisle he needs to walk down. Like a game lion, he takes large, slow steps, scanning the crowd to the left, then to the right, as if to say,
That’s right. You people are my subjects
.

And then he hisses.

And then a dog barks.

And after
that
? Five minutes of my life just disappear.

Muffin, who is in Jordan’s arms, shoots across the laps of all the guests in his row and tackles Chuckles, who takes the direct hit of a two-pound vibrating teacup chihuahua with what appears to be a bad case of psoriasis as an attack on his sovereignty. 

The cat and dog begin a tumbling log roll that takes them back towards us, and various members of the crowd stand to see the source of the ruckus. The pianists, bless their hearts, keep going.

“Chuckles!” Jason grunts, trying to pin down the exact location of the Muffin-Chuckles fleshfest. Out of the corner of my eye I see my mother come running over with James.

The barking and hissing make it impossible to understand the human commands people are delivering, and then an animated purse make its way into the melee.

“Don’t hurt my Muffin, you vile cat!” Jordan screams as Muffin sinks her teeth into Chuckles’ back leg, Muffin’s leash tangling with the flower basket attached to Chuckles, tying the two together in a kind of cross-species bondage that is just so
wrong.
 

“Don’t ruin the kilt!” Marie shouts.

Spritzy, who is so tightly zipped into the purse that only his head pokes out, yaps and barks until Chuckles attacks him, Muffin’s leash tangling all three into one big mess.

They make their way right past me, and I drop my flowers and bend down, running in almost a bear walk to catch them, oblivious to the large metal hook embedded in an enormous cement planter. 

The cheery display of peonies and geraniums—a flash of red, white and purple—blurs as a significant portion of my dress catches on the hook at the same time as I watch the clump of two dogs and one furious cat roll through the open pool gate and into the deep reflecting pool.

I try to run faster but in my panic, I just pull and pull, fighting against whatever hand is holding me back, determined to get to the animals, who are now sinking. One of the heels of my shoes snaps off and my ankle leans to one side, making me lose my bearings as all my weight pulls and I fall.

RRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPP

I stand and run to the edge of the pool, looking at the thrashing water, then stop as I feel a cool breeze in places where one normally does not.

A thousand gasps and a hundred giggles fill the air like bubbles in a swimming pool.

I am naked to the waist.

Completely naked.

In public.

“Amanda!” my mom shouts. Her voice sounds like it is coming from under water. Two thousand eyes are on me, eyeballs reaching across the courtyard to slime their way along my skin, blinking like headlights, chanting like gnomes. Someone has flayed me, scraped all my skin clean off, leaving blood vessels and tendons, fat and muscle, flesh and bone exposed for the world to critique and catalog, to condescend and shame. 

Worse.

To look at, then walk away, a silent judge without comment. Without explanation.

Being frozen in place means prolonging the humiliation, the horror cloud of the crowd lingering over me like the storm no town wants, but every town eventually gets.

Jessica Coffin just holds up her phone and taps.

And taps and taps and taps.

There is only one thing I can do right now.

I jump into the water to save the little beastly mammals who cannot save themselves.

Sinking down to their level is no problem. Holding my breath is. I’ve forgotten to take in a huge gulp of air and now I feel the weight of that mistake as thirty pounds of dress sink me down, down, down to a scratching furball of pain.

The leash on Muffin is the problem. If I can untangle that, I can get the animals to the surface.

My chest hitches with the automatic need to inhale.

I fight instinct.

Closing my eyes, I will away the pain that the animals’ claws cause on my forearms, going by feel to separate them. The water is warm and salty, not chlorinated. One collar—no leash. A second head and collar—no leash. Teeth sink into my hand and I shake them off.

My lungs spasm.

Finally, I find Muffin’s collar and free the leash, shoving him up with a push. Mere seconds have gone by, maybe twenty, but more than I can bear for much longer.

Chuckles’ basket is twisted in the leash with Muffin, their bodies impossible to disentangle, and someone bites me again.

Black spots begin to fill in my vision, yet my eyes are closed.

The serene simplicity of this underwater world stands in stark contrast to the calamity above, and as my hands slow down and find the leash, unweaving it until, alas, Spritzy floats up and away, allowing me to shove Chuckles up, too, I feel a stillness.

They’re free.

I kick my legs hard, willing my body up. Time for me to be free, too. 

The animals are rising in the buoyant waters, but I am not. I reach back to my waistband, to find the hooks and buttons to undo my skirts. The fasteners are a network of laces and metal, of buttons and fabric, old combined with new to make beauty.

I kick.

I try to breathe in.

I fight the impulse.

Panic sets in, my hands more frantic as I hold on to the pattern in my mind for how to organize my own ascent, the orderly steps of actions to take to get sweet oxygen, to rise back to the surface and just breathe.

Just breathe and
be
.

And then I inhale water, my muscles too powerful to battle.

There is a point where instinct overrides self-preservation.

A loud splash at the surface makes me hope someone got the animals, and I bite my lips to stop from breathing in again, my chest going concave, the struggle to hold my breath one I am losing.

My fingers fumble and then strong arms grab me, wrenching my shoulder with a tearing sensation that makes my neck scream. One of the stranger’s arms slides under my bare armpits, pressing my breasts flat as the stranger’s second arm pulls the water down, down, down to drag me up, up up—

Ah.

Air.

He freed me.

“Hold onto the side. Hold onto the side,” a man’s voice urges. He’s kicking the water, treading next to me, one hand on mine as he guides my fingers to the curled cement edge, my hands shaking but capable. 

“Get the paramedics!” he booms to the crowd, who I can’t see or hear, but know surround us.

Hacking and coughing, spitting out water, I try to breathe. My windpipe feels like it has shredded pieces of melted tires hanging from it, and I can’t cough hard enough to get the water out. A giant lily pad covers my shoulder, and as I finally find some semblance of a pattern for getting a thin, striated hole of air through my throat, I realize I’m still bare breasted.

In public.

“Jesus, Amanda, please say something,” says Andrew, who is the man, drenched and next to me, holding my hand, his dark hair soaked and wrapped like feathers around his forehead, his white shirt clinging to his shoulders, the only part of him I can see. “Please. Oh, God, please say something.” 

My vision begins to focus, the blackness fading, lingering only at the edges of what I can see, like a shadow that doesn’t know what to do with itself.

“Chuckles,” is all my hoarse throat can choke out. 

“We got ’em!” James bellows back. “All three of these little stinkers are just fine thanks to you!”

I’m shaking, still trying to breathe, as a uniformed paramedic bends down and offers me a hand.

“Ah, no.” I look down. “Naked.” I move one hand and start to sink again.

Andrew winds one arm around my waist and holds me up, his fist filling with the thick cloth of my wet skirts. He looks at the paramedic.

“Got a knife?”

“A knife?”

“A blade. Anything. I need to cut her dress off.”

In seconds, the guy hands Andrew a knife and he cuts loose the wool tartan overlay, which slides down around my legs like a mermaid shedding her tail. 

I take in a deep breath and cough. The next breaths feel more regular. Andrew’s hands are on my face, my shoulders, my back and waist, an endless sequence of touches that seem less about checking my status and more about verifying that I am above water and safe and really here.

Really here.

Wait.

He’s
really here.

“You’re outside!” I gasp.

“And you’re insane!” he says with a finality that I can’t argue with. “What in the hell did you jump in the pool for?” His voice shakes with a kind of post-trauma agony that makes me wince. With a caring hand, he holds my waist, his strong legs kicking for me. Salty water drips into my eyes, the stinging bringing on more tears. 

“To save the cat and doggies,” I croak out. 

“You nearly
died
. Don’t you ever,
ever
do that again! What in the hell were you thinking?” A crack in his voice, then a deep, sharp inhale and he starts to breathe hard, his eyes boring into me like he can only keep me alive if he looks at me. 

He can’t stop touching me, his steady kicking keeping him afloat, my own legs too weak to move. I’m clinging to the edge of the pool, one hand too sore to grasp anything. I look at it and see puncture wounds swelling at an alarmingly fast rate, the salt water lapping at them and hurting. My torso is smashed as far up against the cool mosaic of tiles as possible. I’ll probably have an imprint of that pattern permanently etched into my boobs and belly.

“But I didn’t die. I didn’t die because of you,” I say, resting my forehead against the edge. If I had the energy, I would look at him. Say more. Adrenaline that kept me going underwater drains out of me as if osmosis were at work, the water sucking all my focus from me. I am wet and my hand throbs and I am naked in front of other people and oh, God, Andrew is here with me. 

“He shot out of that glass door over there like a human rocket when you jumped in, Amanda.” Mom is holding a wet Spritzy while James feeds the dog a piece of cheese. “Only stopped to rip off his suit jacket and shoes, leaped into the air, launched off the black iron fence and—” Emotion overtakes her. “James plucked the animals out with the net and scooped them up just as Andrew dove in.”

“You’re outside,” I repeat. “In the sunlight. In July.” Andrew’s face is inches from mine and he’s clearly unnerved, body vibrating so fast he’s making the water radiate away from him in rippling waves. It’s warm, like bath water, and it’s not even four p.m., so I know he’s not cold.

“I knew that dress would keep you on the bottom of the pool.
Drown
you.” He can barely say those last two words.