I’ve completely underestimated and misunderstood Marie, though. She’s great in her own weird way. Maybe Shannon’s right about her mom. Maybe I’ve misjudged her.
I look over and Marie’s watching my hands as I brush off my bottom.
“You do have a fine ass, though.”
Sigh.
“Marie,” I growl. “Boundaries. Would you say that to your own son?”
“Maybe. I tell Shannon I’d kill for her boobs.”
Resting Asshole Face: Engaged.
“Okay, okay! Sheesh! Is it my fault that some people can’t take a compliment?” she declares as we walk back to where our respective vehicles are parked.
It’s going to be a very long marriage, isn’t it?
CHAPTER NINE
Two days before the proposal...
We’re at work, talking in the hallway. I’m between conference calls, and it’s been the kind of day that started at 4:30am with a crisis in Singapore and is going to end at 2 a.m. with a crisis in Dublin. I can feel it.
Meanwhile, a crisis is brewing right here, right now, between me and my beloved.
There’s this look Shannon gets on her face when she has to tell me something she’s not sure I’m going to like hearing. Her face tightens a bit, and she looks pained. Concerned.
Matronly.
A lot like Grace the other day when she was in my office, grilling me about my pending proposal. Minus the chicken soup and crappy advice.
“Just say it,” I might as well cut to the chase. When I’m at a negotiation I find the direct path is easiest. Insecurity is a wasted emotion. Wondering, worrying—all of that is just inefficient. An emotional drain. A horrible use of resources better spent elsewhere.
(See why I would make a good CEO? Tell that to my dad.)
Shannon’s shoulders drop and she starts playing with the ends of her hair, curling them up, almost chewing on them. It’s cute when she’s restless like this, but it’s ominous, too. Whatever she’s about to say is going to suck.
“Um, so, Greg called today.”
Oh. That. As far as I know, Greg’s kept the fake mystery shop conceit a secret, as planned.
“And?” I can play along. She thinks I’m going to be mad that she agreed to help Greg out in a pinch with a mystery shop. I keep my grin in check.
“And there’s this one job...”
“We agreed,” I say slowly, like I’m talking to a disobedient child, “that you wouldn’t do any more mystery shops. I played Santa for an entire suburban mall in exchange. I was hashtagged.” I unbutton my suit jacket and lean against the wall, ignoring the phone vibrating in my breast pocket.
“#HotSanta was pretty cool,” she says with a tone of cheeriness that reminds me what a good elf she was.
And then there was that costume. Ho, ho, holy smokes.
“#HotSanta existed for an hour and a half, but the odor of pee on my legs from terrified kids is branded in my scarred psyche for a lifetime.”
She pretends to punch my arm. “C’mon. This is a mystery shop at Le Portmanteau.”
I pretend to be impressed. “Really?”
“Full meal. We have to order a bottle of wine. And the shop fee is $300!”
I multiply that by four. Greg’s sharper than I thought. Affording it is no problem, and I’d spend ten times that on flowers to fill her apartment with roses if I thought it would make an impression. Somewhere deep inside, though, I feel like I can hear Greg laughing at me.
Laughing from the finest table at Le Portmanteau.
Focus. I need to focus. Shannon’s looking at me with excitement. “This is exactly the kind of shop secret shoppers dream of landing.”
“You’re an assistant director of marketing now. Those dreams should be dead.” My words echo in the room. Shannon’s right. I do have Resting Asshole Baritone.
She raises her eyebrows at me, blinking those big, brown eyes. “Someone woke up on the grumpy side of the bed.”
“Someone woke up at 4:30 a.m. with a screaming tech director from Singapore complaining about a web issues, and then someone else got up later and came to work without having sex with someone.”
She crinkles her nose and huddles with me. “Please don’t talk about sex with me in public at the office. You know we’ve talked about this.”
Shannon’s so cute when she’s protecting her professionalism. Yes, I know that makes me sound like an asshole. No, I don’t care. She’s smart, funny, great with clients and she’s helped push marketing conversion rates through the roof for explorative online campaigns in emerging social media.
I can admire all that and talk about her like she’s a piece of meat.
“Okay. I won’t,” I concede. But not really. “How about we find a nice supply closet somewhere and talk about sex in private here at work?”
Her deep sigh is tinged with frustration.
So’s mine, but I think for different reasons.
A commotion down the hall, at Dad’s office door, catches our attention. We both turn to look and hear a woman say, “No, I do not have an appointment, but this is important.”
A flash of a blonde helmet of hair on top of a flowing lilac dress shoots into Dad’s office.
Shannon and I turn to each other. “Was that—?” we ask in unison.
“No,” we say at the same time, shaking our heads.
“Can’t be,” Shannon insists, but she’s giving me a skeptical look that manages to have a strong pleading element to it. Like she’s begging me to say that is absolutely, positively not her mother making a scene in my father’s office.