Ms. Manwhore

by Katy Evans

  And they keep asking, curiously, if you’ve talked marriage, and they frown when you say, “No, don’t be silly.” As if they just added one plus one in their heads and your answer isn’t two, so it’s not the right one. Not the right answer, it can’t be.

  And despite my denials, maybe . . . no, not maybe . . . for sure, I kept hoping too. I kept wondering, after one of his smiles, those piercing, smoldering looks, I kept wondering: Does he sometimes wonder what it would be like to make me his wife?

  I kept wondering if that was even in the plans.

  I had hoped, and maybe fantasized, but I never expected him to propose.

  I hear my friends asking for details and grab my phone to call my mom and tell her the news, and even as I tell them everything and dial her number, I cannot believe that this is me.

  I cannot believe that this is us.

  My manwhore and me.

  At 9:18 a.m. I’m at my mother’s. She didn’t know. Emotions pass through her eyes when I tell her. Surprise. Happiness. Hopefulness. A little bit of natural worry. Then tears. We hug for like ten minutes.

  I tell myself I might have not cried so much if she hadn’t started rocking me as we hugged, as if I were still a little girl.

  Once we’ve used up a box of Kleenex and have wiped our faces, I spend the rest of the hour telling her all about it.

  She wants to know when!

  How exactly he proposed!

  And she especially loves the history of my engagement ring.

  At 10:43 a.m. I’m heading for work, dreamingly staring at the passing buildings as I ride in the back of the Rolls, when I get a call from him.

  “Mom’s thrilled,” I say when I pick up, smiling wide. “She says you did good. She especially commends you for your choice in brides.”

  “Speaking of my bride. She might want to consider working from home today.”

  “Why?”

  “We’ve got a couple of campers outside.”

  “Press?”

  “And their mothers and their pets.”

  There’s a trace of annoyance in his voice, which I’m sure is there because he knows how much I hate the attention that he gets.

  I exhale as I process the information.

  “Security’s taking care of it,” he assures. “Lay low today.”

  “Okay,” I agree. Then I lower my voice so that he knows I’m not discussing anyone else but us now. “Laying low but flying high today. I love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  At eleven, I’m back home to find dozens of floral arrangements. Flowers of all kinds are exploding colorfully out of all sorts of vases. Clear and colored, tall and short. Every arrangement has a card addressed to me in some way or another. Miss Rachel Livingston; Ms. Rachel Livingston. I open the first.

  Congratulations from all of us at Flowers and Bouquets, we’d love to do your wedding.

  Dear Miss Livingston,

  Wishing you and your beloved Malcolm Saint much wedded bliss! Modern Floral has been catering to young couples for three decades . . .

  And so on. And on. And on.

  It’s like I went to bed a normal girl, and woke up a princess. Engaged to a prince.

  I gather all the cards, slip them into a brand-new manila folder I quickly label with the word WEDDING, then I sigh and eye them all. Green tea steaming in a mug, I settle down with my laptop and get some work done, then I google wedding dresses and take a peek and get a little thrill.

  I want to be the most stunning bride my groom has ever seen.

  White. For Sin. For sure.

  ENGAGEMENT PARTY

  We have a small engagement party with only our closest friends that night, over at Sin’s penthouse. Wynn and Gina pull out their flashiest outfits because, to Wynn, “it’s at Saint’s place, right? I’ll feel so lowly if I don’t bring our best!” And because they look like exotic birds out of paradise, I pull out a dress, a little too sleepy to doll myself up much.

  I know I am underdressed, but when I arrive and Sin looks into my pale gray eyes, outlined by sooty lashes that spike up with the mascara I used, I realize he’s looking at me like there’s not enough material to cover me—a whole new definition of underdressed to him.

  He looks at me, checks me out in a quick sweep too, and sends a look to his friends that says don’t even look at her. Of course, his jeans hang low on his waist in a way that I can’t help but notice.

  The girls trail me inside with wide eyes, obviously continuing to be stunned by the glamorous luxury of Saint’s apartment. Natural stone floors, dark wood cabinets, pristine glass, shiny chrome, European leather furniture, and endless floor-to-ceiling windows—Sin’s place surpasses anything they’ve seen, even on an Architectural Digest cover.

  We settle on one of the lounges with direct access to the terrace and infinity pool. Warm coffee cup in my hands to help me stay awake, I take little sips while everyone else drinks like it’s Friday—because it is.

  “Getting kind of hooked on Rachel’s articles,” Tahoe tells Saint.

  My head snaps up in surprise.

  Saint smoothly answers, “They’re my new religion.” His lips quirk as our eyes connect for several seconds. “Catherine knows the moment I step into the office, I expect my coffee, and Face opened up to your column.”

  Liquid heat pools in my tummy. I can tell by his slow-spreading grin he’s delighted to have surprised me.

  We’re all chatting amicably but in my peripherals, I steal little peeks of him. All of him. His hand curved around his coffee cup, overwhelming it, his thumb on the ear—my stomach swirling with heat when I remember what he did with it.

  He’s the only one drinking coffee too. Thank you, sex marathon. I still wouldn’t change you for the world.

  He was looking ahead as we talked with our friends but he seems to sense my stare, turns to look at me, his smile fading as our gazes lock again.

  I love being seen like this. There’s this sensation in the middle of my chest, tight and achy. The way he concentrates so fully on me, nothing else; just me, as if I’m all he sees. I know it’s not true; Saint is always aware of his surroundings. But the kind of force with which he looks at me seeps into my bones. Inside that gaze are a new intensity and awareness that tell me, without a shadow of a doubt, what he wants and expects from me. Truth and loyalty . . . and everything.

  “So. Is she going to keep working?” Callan asks then.

  “She’ll be my wife; she can do whatever the hell she likes.”

  “Exactly, like not work,” Callan says.

  “She’s too much a woman to shop all day,” Gina says. “She has shit to offer the world, and her man’s a big man; she needs to be a big girl too.”

  “Exactly. Am I supposed to drop everything simply because I’m the biggest Sinner that ever lived?” I turn to Saint.

  “Only when I ask you to.”

  “Saint.” I shove him playfully in the chest, and he grabs my hand and flattens it against him.

  “I’m excited for you, Rachel,” Wynn says. “You get a wedding coordinator, you get to pick the cake . . . please tell me you’re going to do cute little figures on top?”

  “No. Just . . . no, Wynn.”

  “Ohmigod, you have to. It’s going to be the wedding of the century.”

  “The press is going to feast on it for weeks,” Emmett says, nodding his blond head.

  My stomach contracts.

  Malcolm appeases me with a gentle squeeze on my shoulder. “I’ll keep them out.”

  Gina heads off to the wine cellar, and minutes later, Tahoe stands and follows her. They end up meeting by the door. They start chatting and before I know it, I hear a familiar soft laugh.

  The sound of Gina when she was with Paul. Gina when she was happy. Gina when she was flirting.

  Tahoe, unaware perhaps of how rare Gina’s laugh is, takes two bottles of wine from her and heads toward us, and Gina follows him with another bottle.

  Gina grins at us and drops down
in her seat. “If you ever need a pitiful friend who’ll drink all your wine, I’m totally here for you, Saint.” She lifts the bottle and says, “The box you sent over to Rachel created a new addiction.”

  “I’ll make sure Rachel keeps you stocked,” Saint says calmly.

  I smile at Malcolm. I know he’s nice to my friends because of me, and maybe they’re growing on him. I still appreciate what he does.

  “I’ll be visiting Napa next month, Gina. You’re invited,” Tahoe says gruffly, watching her with his blue eyes looking bluer than usual. “After the wedding,” he specifies.

  Gina is frozen in place, visibly and uncharacteristically uncertain. “I’m not sure I can . . .”

  Tahoe doesn’t speak; he is clearly waiting for more.

  Wynn straightens in her seat. “Dude, are you blushing?” she asks Gina, frowning.

  “No!” Gina says, then she lowers her voice. “No.” She glances at Tahoe and quickly looks away, and then she smirks and signals at me. “I leave that to Rachel.”

  When she speaks, I feel Saint’s gaze slowly trekking across my face, greedily drinking up my quickly warming cheeks.

  It’s like a touch of summer sunlight, to have his eyes on me. The moment they touch me, I warm up all over.

  After opening and emptying all three bottles of wine, our friends leave.

  I take some of the glasses to the kitchen and then come back to find Malcolm booting up his laptop and tossing his Bluetooth headpiece nearby.

  I sit down next to him again. “I don’t want a big wedding. All that talk about wedding preparations . . . I just want you.”

  “I want my wife to have a big wedding.”

  “Let’s go to city hall and just do it.”

  He kisses my lips. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Make me your wife now.”

  “You’re already mine. This says you’re mine.” He taps my necklaces. “You’ll wear a ring to match. Right next to this one.” He touches my engagement ring.

  “Why are you determined I have a big wedding?”

  “Because you’re only getting married once.”

  “Once to you,” I tease.

  He smiles. “If I set the bar high, no one will even attempt to compete. Once to me is once.”

  I smile. “Okay, I’ll meet a wedding coordinator. I’m getting a white dress. And the hottest groom there will ever be. Marrying me. Once.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  I glance at an invitation, one of the dozens that arrive per week. This time it says Mr. Malcolm Saint and Miss Rachel Livingston.

  “What do you think it will say in a few months?”

  He looks at it. “It’ll say Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm Saint.”

  “Nah, it’ll say Malcolm Saint and his lusty, luscious little wife who he can’t get out of bed,” I tease.

  He laughs, then raises one dark eyebrow. “It’ll say Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm Saint. And that’s final.”

  “What about Livingston?”

  “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

  “Sin!”

  “Sinner,” he absently shoots back as he reads the invitation, then shoves it back into the envelope.

  “We’re not in agreement yet.”

  “Yes we are.”

  “No we aren’t.”

  “I’ll get it on the prenup, little one.”

  I groan. Seriously. Prenups. Though I know a man like Malcolm absolutely could not marry without one. “I understand we need one,” I say.

  “Don’t worry,” he answers softly. “My lawyers insist we do this. But I’ll look out for you.”

  “And I’ll sign it then. I’ll sign it because I love you and trust you and because I want to marry you.”

  “So do I.”

  “So will you indulge me? Your wife? And let me keep Livingston . . .”

  “I’ll indulge you in other ways. You, indulge me,” he says huskily, “and take my name.”

  Take his name.

  Because I love him.

  Because when I look into his eyes, nothing else exists but him.

  Because even when I don’t look into his eyes, nothing else exists but him.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say, throwing his words back at him with a smile. “And you think about the wedding.”

  I go slip into my jeans and a sweater, then I grab my bag.

  “Where do you think you’re going at this hour?”

  “I have a campout with End the Violence. Remember?”

  “Ah, fuck.”

  “You don’t need to come. This is my passion, yours is work.”

  “I have a conference call: China.”

  “I know you do.” I approach him and boost myself up with his shoulders. “Go nail it to the wall.” I peck his lips and pat his flat chest. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Rachel,” he says warningly, eyebrows drawn low, “wait for Otis to pull the car around.”

  PEACE . . . AND WILDFIRE

  I arrive at the park like never before: wholly unprepared. I forgot my chips, my music, my books. All I brought is a sleeping bag and it’s hardly enough to cover me. Scanning the park, I see everybody’s either quietly reading or listening to music. Some are huddled in their sleeping bags, talking.

  Rather than look for someone I know, I crave to be alone, so I look for the smoothest patch of ground to lie on, and when I can’t find a good one, I head toward the base of a big tree.

  I take off my shoes because my feet ache and I mourn for my fuzzy socks as I tuck my feet into my sleeping bag. It’s already fall. The air is quite cool tonight and thank god for my cardi.

  Propping my shoulders against the tree, I tilt my head back and stare up at the leaves and the very few stars you can see in Chicago. I squeeze my eyes shut in happiness and inhale. Being here centers me. It makes me wonder about things, the coincidences in this universe, our roles in the grand scheme of things, and it reminds me that this world is full of so many people, each of our actions creating a butterfly effect in others’ lives.

  I think of all the stories I am going to tell now, in my platform. I want him to be proud of me. I want to be proud of myself. My dad to be proud of me. My mom to be proud of me.

  And I want to be the kind of wife my husband deserves.

  I hear the crunch of leaves and twigs nearby.

  A tall shadow walks in the darkness toward me, and then I see the figure’s incredible eyes gleam in the dark and a sliver of moonlight falls on his tan, chiseled face. I close my eyes, disbelieving, and open them in shock. And he’s still walking forward with that achingly familiar walk. Sin.

  “I’m not a dream, Rachel,” he chides with a little chuckle. And his voice sounds like those leaves he just crunched, a little dry and earthy. It warms me better than my cardi. Oh god.

  Butterflies.

  “No tent to protect me from the elements?” I quietly tease him.

  His devil’s smile appears. “Just me.”

  “What happened to the conference call?”

  “I seem to have developed a new ability that’s called rescheduling.”

  He spreads a jacket, black as midnight, down on the ground right next to me, and signals for me to sit.

  Seeing him after these intense past twenty-four hours is making me ache more powerfully than ever before. “You know, I like touching the earth.” I slip my fingers into the dirt a little and then lift them and dust them off. “It grounds me.”

  When he only looks at me in the shadows and settles down next to his jacket, making me nervous to know what he’s thinking about that makes him so pensive and quiet, I feel flutters all over me. AAARGH. We were just in bed together last night.

  In fact we’ve been in bed every night together for more than four months.

  My eyes widen when he reaches out and picks me up from the ground and straight to his lap. Every bit of him is surrounding me, enveloping me, maddening me. Malcolm turns his head and narrows his eyes when he notices, like me, that some people ar
e whispering and pointing at us.

  Self-conscious, I drop my face and his lips press warmly into my ear. “I’m going to cry when I walk up the altar.”

  “I’ll hold you.”

  “I’ll be alone walking up there with no dad.”

  “Your mom can walk you to me. And then I’ve got you. For the rest of your life or mine.”

  It strikes me that he, too, will be alone waiting for me up there. No father, no mother, just his best man and groomsmen. Saint will be the only man in my life, and I’ll be the only living family that he loves.

  “Did you like being an only child?”

  “No.”

  I peer into his face. “So you’d be fine with us having two? When we’re ready?”

  He chucks my chin and chides me: “Where’s your sense of adventure, Rachel? I was thinking more along the lines of four.”

  “I’m going to kill you.” My eyes flare wide. “Four Saints running around the penthouse?”

  “I can get a double penthouse. And nannies for each.”

  “I’d be fat for almost four years. Of my life!”

  His eyes grow lusty as he spreads his hand widely, encompassing my flat stomach. “You’d be pregnant. With my children.”

  I blush. “So you want a Kyle, a Logan, and a Preston . . .”

  “I want a mini-Rachel.” He squeezes my tummy and looks pleadingly at me.

  “Noooo. You can’t have her. It’s a boy first . . . my precious little Saint. See, why should we wait to get married? The sooner we get married, the more we can enjoy each other before the babies come.”

  “We need to wait.”

  “So I can sign your prenup contract?”

  “That one. And the one making you my wife.” He loves my greediness. I can tell he loves that I’m eager to have him. “Do you realize this is something I never thought I’d want? I can’t think of anything else but making you my wife. My priority is merging your life with mine.”

  He looks greedy and anticipatory and strong and tender.

  My walls have crumbled before him and I don’t ever want them back up. My lids are heavy, but so are his. We’re both tired after our sex marathon last night.