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.