Ms. Manwhore

by Katy Evans

  I follow her voice into her room as she extracts something from the very back of her closet.

  “A few years ago I had it vacuum packed to preserve it. It’s like new. I didn’t even eat cake in it,” she says excitedly.

  She hangs a long white dress on the top of the door, and I gape as I take it in. Simple and satiny, formfitting, with sleek shoulders and an elegant cleavage, a skirt that flares to a mermaid tail.

  My mother insists I try on her wedding dress. “You would look so lovely in this dress.”

  I have a ton of mixed emotions as I look at it. Among them is a wave of nostalgia so very deep, I get a little itch in my windpipe.

  This is the dress my mother walked to the altar in as my dad watched. And after only a year he would never see her, and we would never see him, again. I reach out to touch it but pull my fingers back, guarding myself against the pain it could bring. “But it’s yours, I don’t want . . .”

  “Everything mine is yours. Please. Indulge me.”

  I inhale, but she looks so hopeful I can’t bear not to indulge her.

  I unhook the hanger and slip into the bathroom to undress and ease it on. I step outside without even looking at myself, without even breathing.

  My mother can’t conceal the look of delight and emotion on her face when I emerge from the bathroom. Then her brows pinch and she eyes it critically as she circles me and inspects me with the thoroughness of a professional tailor. “We need to tuck it in around here. And the waist and hips. Just a tad.” Her eyes glisten.

  “Mother . . .” I begin.

  “ ‘Mother’? So serious? Since when do you call me Mother?” She frowns and hovers over me. “Please say yes.”

  “I . . .”

  “It would mean so much to me! For good luck.”

  My eyes water. “But Dad died.”

  I cover my mouth, my eyes widen, and I can’t believe I just blurted that out loud. I cover my face, ashamed.

  “But when he was alive, we were perfectly in love. We lived the most perfect romance.” She tips my face. “Rachel, I know who you’re marrying. I know that you want this day to be perfect. That you want to look and feel like you deserve to be the woman walking up onto that altar. And you are.

  “You’re the right one because he chose you and you chose him. Rachel, no dress will dictate your future. It dictates how you feel . . . on that day. That’s it. Because trust me, I know enough about him to know he couldn’t care less what you wear, so long as you walk up that altar to him. I see the way he looks at you. You’ve been here on Sundays in sports clothes, in dresses, in jeans; he was here when we flash-painted that first cover for Face. You were streaked with paint, and he couldn’t take his eyes off you. You could wear black or pink and that man will still love you.”

  I’m silent as I go and take off the dress.

  Malcolm wants to give me a big wedding because he thinks that’s what I deserve. I want to be the perfect bride because I think that’s what he deserves. But I know for a fact that every time we talk about the wedding, our main focus, what we’re looking forward to, is not the wedding itself but simply getting married.

  When I step back into the bedroom with the dress in my hand, my mother takes it and begins to tuck it away.

  “Mom, let’s . . . let’s alter it. Let’s make it perfect for me.”

  Her eyes widen, then her face softens.

  “Thank you, Rachel.”

  We hug. And just like that, I have my dress.

  THE DAY BEFORE THE BACHELOR TRIP

  I step off the elevators and into the top floor at M4 and head to Catherine’s desk. “Is he busy?” I ask.

  “For you? Or for the rest of humanity?” She shoots me a smile and rings me in. Then she comes around her desk and walks me to the frosted glass doors.

  I grab the handle, but she puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me. “Rachel.”

  She has my attention, but I watch a play of emotions on her face as she seems to struggle to start. “I’ve been with him almost ten years.” She nods toward the office. “Since his mother died, and he was estranged from his father. He was the one who put me through business school. He could’ve had his pick of top graduates, yet he picked me. I saw him fight when there was no one to cheer him on. I saw him get better just to spite his father, to show him. I’ve seen him do everything he was told he couldn’t do just to prove to himself he can. But I’d never seen him fall for a girl until now. I wish you both the very best. Really.”

  Though I’ve always known Catherine has a helpless crush on Saint, she looks genuine. She looks happy for us.

  “Thank you,” I say and give her a quick hug, then ease through the frosted doors into his lair.

  Sin winks at me in greeting. He’s wearing jeans and a green sweater that brings out the forest in his eyes.

  Sparks fly as our gazes latch and we smile at each other. My stomach flips. My toes curl in my pumps.

  Tearing his eyes free of mine, he goes back to business as he drops back into his chair and waves his assistant over. “Catherine.”

  Saint makes a change to some contract stipulations, initials them, then signs his name on the last page and slides the documents over to her.

  “I will FedEx these ASAP, sir. The blueprints for the extended parking lot are here.”

  “They’re here. But not on my desk?” His brows go up, but his eyes sparkle in amusement.

  When she explains the reason, he leans back and listens in that closely sophisticated, natural way that he pulls off so easily. Behind his desk, he nods and thanks her, then he prowls over to where I’m standing by the window.

  He holds the back of my neck and brushes a kiss to my temple. “Hey. Didn’t want to wake you this morning.”

  “Can I show you what my mother did for our next covers?”

  I stretch out the folder to him.

  He takes it in one hand and reaches out to run his knuckles down my cheek with the other.

  My body crackles as the touch bolts through my veins, heating me all over.

  “Impressive.” He’s concentrating now on the cover shots. His head bent. So beautiful he’s like from another species.

  He slowly shuffles through them, scanning each of them thoroughly while I scan him.

  Oh god.

  How I love and need this one man.

  “Does one scream at you?” I ask, trying to read his unreadable profile.

  “I like the one with your handprint. You open with that article on End the Violence. Talk about what you want. Issue after issue, keep setting the stage, directing your readers’ expectations.” He scans them again. “I’d follow with this one. The world. Cementing the human interest part of the magazine.”

  I edge nearer and take a long, discreet whiff of him as I point to one of the shots. “And if I start with the world, then on the next issue, use my hand?”

  He turns his head to look at my profile. His voice low—slow, like midnight-hour sex. “Works. Keep the scope wide, then zoom in.” I look into his eyes and smile, buzzing like I do every time I stand close to him. He looks at me with that same wonder my mother speaks of and my stomach contracts, hot and tight. “I’m proud of you,” he says.

  He glances at the ring on my left hand. I just had it perfectly resized to fit my finger.

  “So I was thinking I’d cook you dinner. Or attempt to, tonight.” I count with my fingers. “I can make a salad, get some loaves of freshly baked French bread, some really good deli meat . . .”

  “I’ll tell you what.” He lifts me up, carries me to the edge of his desk, and sits me down, holding me by the hips as he leans forward. “You do the salad, warm the bread, I’ll make pasta.”

  My lips curl upward. “Nobody ever cooked me dinner but my mama and grandmama.”

  His brows go up. “Will I get to meet this gentle grandmama?”

  I shake my head. “She’s gone.”

  His smile fades, replaced by concern. “I’m sorry.”

  He’
s still holding me by the hips, leaning so close that I could kiss him. “You can really cook pasta?” I ask softly.

  His smile turns cocky. “Just wait and see.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  He shoots me a look that says You haven’t seen anything yet. “Been a bachelor,” he tells me.

  “You’ve been a bachelor with chefs,” I shoot back.

  The twinkle I love so much dances in his pupils as he slowly nods. “That’s right. I’ve learned a few tricks along the way.”

  “I’m all too familiar with your tricks.” I laugh, thinking about his ghost kisses, his seduction, his teasing. “A perk of dating such a worldly man is getting firsthand, front-row seats, and personal with his tricks.”

  Silent, he simply looks at me with that wondrous smile. Then, again, his knuckles run down my cheek. “The perks of marrying him,” he whispers hotly down at me, “will be even greater.”

  I’m breathless, flushed and warm under his looks when I finally breathe out, “You have yourself a date.”

  It was heaven, even though I was in abstinence hell.

  I tried not to notice. Tried to be strong. But I wasn’t the least bit immune to watching Saint cook for me. Guys in kitchens are hot. And Saint was setting the kitchen on fire just by being there, tall and easy, confident and quiet. His hair in one eye, his hands chopping easily, a ton of spices for the pasta. Rolled shirt sleeves to reveal his thick forearms.

  We had an amazing time. We laughed. Had dinner on the terrace next to the outside fireplace. Drank wine. Ate. Even toasted to great teamwork on our first kitchen efforts because the food turned out surprisingly well.

  At night I slipped into one of his white men’s shirts, and we curled up in bed. He kissed me, gently caressed me over his shirt, and I returned the thorough, delicious attentions of his mouth with the abandon of a teenager. I bit the hard skin between his neck and shoulder, then rubbed his bare chest and tried not to think about the way his lounge pants were straining. When we were too worked up to continue, we lay in silence and I was held in those arms. I laid my head on his chest and he set his chin on top of my head, and we slept.

  In the morning he woke me up to say goodbye. Freshly showered, he pressed a ghost kiss to the fringes of my mouth. My guy. My bachelor. Going off with his buddies to work and play.

  “Have fun,” I whispered, giving him a ghost kiss back.

  “I will.” He looked down at me for a long moment, his eyes going hot after my ghost kiss.

  “I’ll miss you.”

  “Take care of my girl for me.”

  “Take care of my guy.”

  And he left. He texted me before taking off:

  Next time it’s you, and me, and whipped cream.

  And I died.

  Now it’s night in Dubai, and day in Chicago. A dreary Malcolmless Saturday in Chicago. Saint’s bachelor party is well under way while I am in my apartment with Wynn and Gina, drinking wine and stalking social media for a whiff of what his friends had planned for him.

  @malcolmsaint CONGRATULATIONS!

  I hope @malcolmsaint keeps my number for when they’re done

  @RachelDibs YOU ARE SUCH A BITCH I HOPE HE DUMPS YOU

  I think men with wedding bands are HOT call me anytime @malcolmsaint

  Now that @malcolmsaint is off the market maybe I stand a chance in hell with the club chicks

  I go back to read his last message for the thousandth time.

  “You are obsessed,” Gina leans over and says smartly. “No more words are magically appearing, you know.”

  Next time it’s you, and me, and whipped cream.

  “I know,” I admit.

  “Well, stop staring at it!” She laughs.

  I smile. “It’s a joke.” Message reread, I close my eyes.

  “Saint is Rachel’s reward for torturous years of being single,” Wynn says happily.

  “There’s nothing from Dubai,” Gina states. “But people are hanging on to news of the wedding.”

  Wynn and Gina watch me closely.

  “You’re jealous that he’s in Dubai?” Wynn asks.

  I laugh and dismiss the observation and I pour from one of the wine bottles that Saint gave me once—my favorite. I sip and look at the fourth finger of my left hand. My newly resized ring.

  “I think it’s healthy for a relationship if everyone gets time to hang out with their friends.”

  I pour a little more wine.

  “And every man has a bachelor party. I’m happy he’s saying goodbye to his old ways.”

  My bachelorette party consists of Valentine, Sandy, Wynn, and Gina, and the wine box Saint had sent after our first wine tasting. I’m drunk by the time it starts and I doze throughout most of it.

  I have a nightmare . . .

  “Saint!” the girls squeal as he watches two groupies and me swim in the water from the deck of The Toy. “Saint, Saint, please, Malcolm Saint!”

  I hold my breath when his hands go to flick open his shirt buttons. “All right, girls.”

  My eyes widen as he shrugs off his shirt. The blood courses through my veins, suddenly swollen by the fast pounding of my heartbeat. Large, long-fingered, tanned hands tug on the drawstrings of his swim trunks, and my eyes blur when he actually strips them off and for the three seconds he stands on the edge, I see him all. I see everything. I see that he is hard. That he is perfection—ripped, cut, narrow-hipped, broad-chested; long and muscular legs, thick and lean arms. I’m boiling in the water and I can’t take it. I dip my head under, squeezing my eyes shut until I hear the water crashing as he dives in.

  When I come up, he surfaces with a laugh and smooths his hair back.

  “Oh god!” The girls start swimming over, and I can hear the harsh, uneven sounds of their breathing as they try reaching out to him in soft, husky pleas. “Saint, you’re so hot,” one whispers. “Can we stay over? Sleep over tonight, Saint?”

  “Not tonight,” he says, ducking into the water before they reach him. He leaves them both pouting behind him and pops up behind me and pokes my back. “Hey,” he says.

  I notice the girls hop onto the yacht and each of them slips into one of his white shirts.

  A pulsing knot forms in my stomach as I turn and stare into his green eyes and we just float there, staring, and there seems nothing else but dark water, the sky above, and him, the darkest thing that’s ever had such a pull to me. “Hey,” I say.

  “Come here,” he whispers.

  I start awake.

  It’s 5 a.m. in Chicago—which would make it 3 p.m. in Dubai—and the girls are still partying and wake me.

  “Rachel, pick up your phone,” Gina says.

  She’s got her iPhone pressed to her ear as I stir and groggily search for mine. She lowers hers for a moment and tells me, “They’re flying. Your man’s as good as married. He seemed to leave his dick home. Hang on.” She places it on speaker and I hear Tahoe’s Texan drawl.

  “Congrats, Rachel. You’re still his number-one girl. There were redheads, brunettes, double Ds. Carmichael and I got them all.”

  Gina takes him off speaker, and I grin like a dope because I’m still the apple of my Sin’s eye.

  “He wants to talk to you.”

  “Tahoe?”

  “Saint!”

  Leaping forward, I take the phone, my voice groggy and slurring with sleep. “Hello, bachelor.”

  His voice is husky with drink and no sleep. “Hello, bride.”

  The words feather all over my body. There’s something so warm and enchanting in the way he says “bride.”

  Hmm, just a tad possessive too?

  “I’m flying this bird straight home. Nonstop. Full speed,” he says quietly.

  I clench the phone tighter as my body grips in complete anticipation. “Okay. Did you have fun?”

  “Lots,” he says. But he sounds weary. Weary of traveling maybe?

  “Did you miss me?”

  “Lots more. I called you, but no answer.”
/>   Belatedly, I realize that Wynn, Gina, Valentine, and Sandy are watching me with curious looks, so I move to the window and lower my voice. “I slept through my party.”

  “No whipped cream, baby?” His voice drops an octave, and I think I detect a silken thread of warning in his voice.

  “No.”

  “Good.” His voice, though quiet, has an ominous quality. “I’ll keep my record clean of murder for now.”

  I make my tone match his. “I guess I’ll let the brunettes, redheads, and double Ds live for now.”

  He chuckles, a laugh that’s long and soft, so close that I remember how warm his breath feels when he laughs in my ear. “Mrs. Saint,” he begins, unapologetically delighted, “you’re an angel.”

  “And you, Mr. Saint, are a devil.”

  “In fifteen hours your devil’s home.”

  When I hang up, everything in me has gone butter. My thighs butter, my heart butter, with the added bonus of butterflies in my tummy too.

  HOME

  Since it’s a fifteen-hour flight, I get to hang around with the girls, a little hungover for the day, then by early afternoon I head to the penthouse to shower and change.

  By 7 p.m. I am waiting for him in his apartment, wandering around a little bit and fixing my things. I don’t want my Rachel Invasion to wear on him too soon, and I was a little less careful when I had a bedroom all to myself.

  Exhaustion wears me down. But if my head touches our bed, I’ll be asleep. I curl in the seating area in the living room, with a perfect view of the elevators to one side and Chicago to the other, and stare out the window, watching the flickering city lights as I doze off.

  I hear the elevator ting and I perk up as adrenaline shoots me to my feet.

  It’s like electricity ignites in the room the moment Malcolm steps into the penthouse.

  I see him, he sees me. The air heats and crackles like a live thing, leaping in arcs from him to me, from me to him. His gaze latches on to mine and my heart dances as I stare at him with homesickness and longing and happiness times a million.

  The air of confidence around him radiates like a power line, lures me like a flame in the dark.

  He drops his luggage. “Wow, look at you.”