Shopping for a CEO (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 7) by Julia Kent

Author:Julia Kent [Kent, Julia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-09-28T23:00:00+00:00

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.

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