I open my eyes to find Andrew gone, the shower on, the sounds of water splattering hastily coming through. He says nothing, but within a minute he’s back to his pile of clothes, sliding one leg in his pants after the other, clearly going commando.
“Amanda? I’m sorry. I have to — ”
“I know how it works.”
“But this was going to be different.”
“Mmm hmmm.”
“No, really.”
“I know.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“You always do.”
“Please don’t be like this.”
“Like what?”
“So — ” But he can’t find the words as he buttons his shirt and tucks it into his pants. We just breathe together and try to find a way not to let the growing distance between what I want and what he wants become impossible to bridge.
Bzzzz.
If Andrew had a mistress, I could scream and wail, feel justly betrayed, sue for divorce and hate her guts. I could hang out with my friends and wallow in sugar sorrows, and I would get support.
When your husband’s “mistress” is his job, though, you’re “lucky.”
Lucky to be married to a CEO. A billionaire. A “hot man.” A success.
As he kisses my cheek and promises to spend more time with me tomorrow, Righty moves in a muted way, like a scoff.
Yeah, kid.
That’s right.
I don’t buy it either.
And as I hobble to the shower for a quick rinse before heading back to bed rest in the house, I remind myself how lucky I am.
At least Shannon and Carol left me a fresh pint of ice cream.
17
Andrew
Gina storms into my office with a red face, phone clutched in her hand, and I can tell this is going to be an expensive conversation.
“He is such an ass?”
“You're going to have to be more specific than that, Gina. Are you talking about Declan? My dad? The Paulson project? Rathi Industries in India? I know the guy was condescending to you, but–”
“Vince?”
“Vince who?”
“Your Vince?”
“I don't have a–wait. Vince? My trainer, Vince?”
“Yes?”
“Oh. Sure. He's definitely an ass. We're in agreement there. What else about him?”
“You told me to schedule a dinner at Consuela's for the two of you? He wants a list of all of the ingredients in every food she'll be serving?”
“Okay.”
“And I did that?”
“Good.”
“Now he wants a list of all the farms where Consuela buys her food?”
“Okay?”
“And you know how she grows some herself?”
“Sure.”
“He wants to know where she sources her soil and fertilizers and worms?”
“Worms?”
“THAT'S WHAT I SAID!”
Whoa. A statement from Gina. This is serious.
“Call him back and–”
“No need to call.” Vince appears in my doorway, filling the frame with his huge body. Dark eyes take in Gina with a flicker of appreciation that reminds me I know very little about Vince beyond the gym.
“Vince,” I say, standing and crossing the room to grip his hand. He gives me a quick shake, then turns his full attention to Gina.
“What's wrong with caring about what I put in my body? Don't you care about who–er, what–you put in yours?” he says to her, the stumble uncharacteristic.
Her face flames even more.
“I'm not your admin?”
“Then give me Consuela's number so I can ask her myself.”
“I'm not allowed? That's personal info?”
“You told me that already. That's why we're at an impasse. I'm in the process of shredding and it matters.”
“Shredding?”
“For a photo shoot.”
“Like, paper shredding?”
“Muscle shredding.”
“What does that mean?”
Vince reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it off, revealing a roadmap of anatomy and veins. “This is shredding.”
“This is Magic Mike!” Gina screams.
“Hell, no. Channing Tatum’s a Ken doll compared to this,” Vince grunts, pivoting to show off muscular hypertrophy of the finest kind. “So I need to source my food very carefully. Big endorsement shoot in two days.”
“This is a lot of bother for a business meal?” Gina says to me. I shrug. Her eyes aren't on me, though.
They're attached to Vince's pecs. If Gina keeps staring at his chest like that, in a few thousand years straight women will evolutionarily evolve to have velcro on their corneas.
“You want to touch it, don't you,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question.
“What? No? Of course not?” Is that a thin line of drool coming out of her?
“Look,” I announce, grabbing my suit jacket and shrugging into it. Rarely does another man's naked chest make me feel inadequate, but Vince has managed it.
“Take that off. And your shirt,” Vince orders me.
“What?”
“Let's show Gina the difference between a cut chest and... yours.”
“HEY! My chest is fine!”
“Prove it.”
“I'm not taking off my shirt to prove a point.”
“Then your pecs aren't doing their job.”
“What job do my pecs have?”
“To hold you upright.”
“My abs do that.”
“The pecs make the man. Your confidence is up here,” he says, tapping his temple, “but the body knows. And your pecs, lats, abs, and all the smaller muscles matter.” He glances at my suit with disdain. “Besides, go change into workout clothes. Screw eating out. Let me pick where we eat.”
Gina's shoulders drop with relief. “That would be great? Because I don't know how to find the flies that age the composted cow manure that the farmer put on the carrots Consuela uses in her gazpacho?”
“You should,” Vince says, deadpan.
Her eyes don't go to his face.
Ignoring them, I head into the small dressing room off my office and quickly change into workout clothes. I emerge in shorts, a tight Under Armour shirt, and wearing my heart rate variability tracker.
“Shirt off,” Vince says, grabbing my hem, pulling it up as Gina protests.
I can't see in front of me, the vision field covered with black, until I hear my brother say loudly, “Vince is your personal valet, now? Need help dressing?.”
“Hey,” Vince says as I pull the shirt off and glare at Dec. “Whose chest is better?”
Tilting his head slightly, Dec pretends to care. “Yours, of course,” he says to Vince. “Why the chest-off?”
“Because Vince is insane,” I inform him, wondering why my brother's at Anterdec, and how to get him out of here so I can hire Vince for my set of gyms. That's the point of this business dinner, and now the whole situation is FUBAR'd.
I'm shirtless. Gina is drooling at my shredded trainer. My brother is making fun of me.