“Are we done?” I asked, eager to leave.
“I’d like to do one more thing. An ultrasound just to do a double check.”
I’d never had one before. “Isn’t that what they do for pregnant women?” I shivered. Maybe I was pregnant and that stupid store-bought test was wrong.
“Yes,” she said, first pressing down on my abdomen. “Does this hurt?”
I had to be honest. “Just a little.”
Her lips pinched, she pressed down harder. I gave a little yelp. A frisson of fear rippled through me. “Is that normal?”
“Yes. Some women are just very sensitive. If you really had a lot of pain, you would have jumped off the table.”
Inwardly, I sighed with relief as Marcy wheeled the ultra-sound machine closer to me. It consisted of a monitor and some kind of computer with lots of buttons and attachments. She then lifted up my paper gown and rubbed some gel on my tummy. The surprising warmth of it contrasted sharply with the chill of the air conditioning.
“Is this going to hurt?” I asked, fear creeping into my voice.
“Not at all.” She smiled again. “It may even tickle.”
I watched as she glided the head of a shaver-shaped probe around my belly while her other hand fiddled with the buttons and keys on the computer. She was right. It did tickle.
Her intense blue eyes alternated between my abdomen and the screen as did mine. I was intrigued by the volcano-like image on the screen, but had no clue what it was.
“Hmm,” she murmured, her eyes on the monitor.
My muscles tensed. “Is something wrong with me?”
“You have a number of fibroid tumors on your uterus.” She pointed them out to me on the monitor. They looked like shadowy dark spots. There were five in total.
“Oh my God. Are they dangerous?” Panic shot through me. Tumors? The C-word was on the tip of my tongue.
“Actually, they’re very common and benign. Many women have them although they’re a little unusual for someone as young as you. They explain your heavy, irregular period and the cramping.”
“What should I do?” I asked anxiously as she cleaned off my shiny tummy with one of those moist wipes.
“Really nothing. We’ll just have to monitor them to watch how fast they grow and see if they affect your ability to get pregnant.”
My panic button sounded. I was such an alarmist. “Does that mean I won’t be able to have a baby?”
“Not at all. Most of the time, they’re harmless and very slow growing. If they do interfere with your ability to conceive, they can be laparoscopically removed.”
“Laparoscopically?” I could barely pronounce the scary-sounding word.
“It’s a noninvasive surgical procedure. It’s rather painless and can be done as an out-patient.” She set the probe down on the ultrasound stand while I lay there motionless. Worry was etched on my face.
“Jennifer, honestly, there’s no need to worry at this point,” Marcy said with a comforting smile. “I want you to stay on the pill and eat foods rich with iron so you don’t get anemic. Just let me know if you experience any unusual discomfort.” She took off her latex gloves and washed her hands as I collected myself.
“Would you like to have lunch?” she asked. “I close the office and take an hour break every day. There’s a great little coffee shop downstairs.”
I was pleasantly surprised by her offer. I’d never spent a lot of time with Blake’s sister. And Blake rarely socialized with her. Maybe this would be a good opportunity to get to know her and learn more about their brother-sister relationship. And she was, after all, going to be one of my bridesmaids.
*
The coffee shop Marcy took me to was right next door to her office. It was small and totally unpretentious and kind of reminded me of the old fashioned coffee shops in Boise. We both ordered iron-rich medium rare burgers and kale salads, along with Cokes—she, a diet one and I, a cherry one.
I anxiously bit into my delicious burger, not quite knowing what to say to her. Marcy, on the other hand, wasted no time starting a conversation.
“I thought we should get to know each other since we’re going to be sisters-in-law.”
Swallowing, I agreed. “Thanks for inviting for me for lunch.”
“My pleasure.” She took a sip of her soda through her straw. “You’re probably wondering why Blake and I don’t get along that well.”
Ten years younger than Marcy, he had mentioned once that the two of them fought all the time as children. “He doesn’t really talk about it much,” I replied. “Mostly, he refers to you as being the best gynecologist in all of LA.” The truth.
Marcy’s eyes widened with surprise. “He said something nice about me?”
“Yes. He’s very proud of you.”
With that, Marcy began to tell me what it was like growing up with Blake. She had enjoyed being an only child, and though never the beauty her mother was, her parents lavished her with attention. She was quite the bookworm and pleaser, always studying and scoring high grades. She sounded a lot like me.
When Blake came along, everything changed. The beautiful blue-eyed baby was the apple of everyone’s eyes. The center of attention. No matter how mischievous he was, he got away with everything. Marcy grew jealous of Blake, who knew how to wrap both his father and mother around his little finger. And his grandma too. While sixteen-year-old Marcy was going through an awkward stage with raging hormones and pimples, six-year-old Blake was getting more adorable each day.
“I felt threatened by him,” Marcy sighed. “I was the smart one, but I really wanted to be the beautiful one.” She paused to sip her Coke. “Thank goodness, I have identical twins. And even if they weren’t, I’d never pit one against the other that way. Or lavish more attention on one over the other.”
I processed what she’d said. Being an only child, I had no clue about sibling rivalry. I stored her information in my mind for the future.
“How are Jonathan and Jackson doing?” I interjected.
“Thanks for asking. They’re actually doing surprisingly well. In fact, better now that Matt and I are separated. I think all our fighting really affected them. Kids model themselves after their parents’ behaviors.”
More words of wisdom. And so true. I was so much like my pleasing mother, so non-confrontational. And I dissected things like my father. I told Marcy I was sorry about her marriage.
“Don’t be. We weren’t good for each other. It was a marriage of rebellion and convenience—he was a good-looking poor guy and I came from a lot of money. But we didn’t make the other half better.”
I thought hard about what Marcy had just said. Blake was still cocky, stuck-up, and arrogant. Maybe we weren’t meant…
Before I could finish my thought, Marcy jumped in. “Jennifer, I just want to tell you that you are so good for Blake. You make him better. I see the way he acts around you. He’s sweet, considerate, and loving. He’s more patient and so much less into himself.”
“But he’s still so cocky and self-assured.”
Marcy rolled her eyes. “You have no idea. And those bimbos he used to hang with…”
“Do you know Kat Moore?” The question slipped out of my mouth.
Marcy’s blue eyes darkened. “That girl is pure trouble. Stay away from her.”
“She’s helping plan our wedding.”
“Be careful. Don’t let her manipulate you.” She pressed her lips thin as if she wanted to tell me more and was holding back words. Before I could ask her what she meant, she changed the subject.
“The boys are so excited about being the ring bearers. But they’ve been fighting over who’s carrying which ring.”
Still mulling her previous words, I feigned a chuckle. The check came and Marcy reached for it. Her treat. She smiled warmly at me and then did something unexpected—she affectionately clasped my hands in hers.
“Jennifer, I’m so glad you’re marrying Blake. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. I’m thrilled
you’re going to be my sister-in-law.”
We ended lunch with a hug. A new mission impossible awaited me. I was determined to get Blake to like his sister as much as I did.
Chapter 20
Blake
I owned half a dozen tuxes, but Jennifer was insistent I get a brand new one for our wedding. One that had never been photographed at the many galas I’d attended or touched by one of my former hook-ups.
Driving my Porsche with the top down, I headed to Beverly Hills where I was going to meet with my personal shopper, Daniel, at the Saks Fifth Avenue Men’s Store. I was actually looking forward to it. Unlike a lot of men who hated shopping for clothes, I actually loved it. And I especially loved buying beautiful Italian designer suits. I must have owned over two hundred of them. Jennifer’s analytical friend Libby called me a metrosexual, and one night when we went out for dinner, she made me take a Cosmopolitan magazine quiz.
1. You just can’t walk past a beauty supply store without making a purchase. True.
2. You own fifty pairs of shoes, a dozen pairs of sunglasses, just as many watches and you only wear Calvin Klein briefs. True.
3. Mani-pedi is part of your vocabulary. True.
4. You shave more than just your face. You also exfoliate and moisturize. True.
5. You can’t imagine a day without hair styling products. True.
6. You spend more time in the bathroom showering and grooming than your girlfriend. True.
7. You carry a man bag. False.
Okay, so, I blew one question (guess which one), but I was a high maintenance kind of guy. Trust me, any rich, good-looking guy who tells you he isn’t is full of shit. Jennifer couldn’t believe I had to annex my closet to make extra room for all my suits—and all my grooming products. She’d threatened to buy me a man bag for Christmas. But that’s where I drew the line. No fucking way. Our silly squabble flashed into my mind as I valeted my car at the back entrance of the venerable department store. As competent as I was when it came to suiting myself up, I wished she were here with me. But I didn’t want her to miss her hard-to-get appointment with my sister, and she didn’t want me to postpone the fitting with the wedding so close. It was less than a month away.
The valet attendant welcomed me warmly as I stepped out of the car. I was a familiar face. While a lot of guys I knew, including Jaime Zander, preferred to shop at hip Barney’s down the street, I liked Saks. Because all three floors of the store catered only to men, it was kind of a refuge. The last place I’d get assaulted by a blond bimbo. Besides, this is where my father shopped and his father before him. Legacy.
Upon entering the store, I headed to the elevator and took it straight to the third floor. Daniel met me quickly. To my astonishment, I was the sole customer. Well, at least I’d get done quickly. In fact, I knew what tux I liked already—it was draped on a mannequin. Simple. Elegant. A one-buttoned tapered jacket and a thin satin stripe along the pants leg. The kind Brad Pitt might wear.
“An excellent choice,” commented the perfectly groomed, androgynous Daniel. “An Armani. It just came in. I’ll retrieve one in your size and send Luigi to the dressing room to tailor it.”
Five minutes later, I was looking, if I have say to so myself, damn good in my new tux, complete with a slick new tux shirt and bow tie as well as a snappy pocket square in my signature blue. The spacious dressing room was the size of a guest room, done up in soothing shades of gray. Standing before the tri-fold mirror, I watched as Luigi, my tailor, expertly made some alterations. A stocky Italian craftsman in his late seventies with a shock of never-graying jet black hair, he’d been with the store forever and had tailored both my father’s and grandfather’s suits. He was practically family.
“Howsa your grandma?” he asked in his still thick Italian accent as he squatted down and let out the hem of the pants to accommodate my long legs.
“She’s great.” I’d long suspected that Luigi had a crush on Grandma.
“You tell her Luigi give her his love.” I made a mental note: Invite Luigi to the wedding. Grandma needed a date. And sex.
Luigi stuck a few pins along the legs of the pants, taking them in. I always took one size bigger because I needed the extra crotch room. While the crotch could be let out, having pins anywhere near my dick gave me testicular tingles—not the good kind.
“So who’sa the lucky girl?”
“Her name is Jennifer. You’ll meet her, Luigi, at the next fitting.”
“Luigi cannot wait.” He finished up. “All-a done.” The jovial Italian reassembled his tailoring kit. He carefully helped me off with the jacket and then left me alone in the dressing room, closing the door behind him.
About to unbutton the pinned-up trousers, I heard a knock on the door. I recognized the voice. Daniel.
“Mr. Burns, your fiancée is here. May I send her back?”
“Of course.” That was just like my tiger to surprise me. A rush of tingles spread from my head to my toes. The thought of having a little quicky with her right here in this dressing room sent my dick into a dither. I could feel it rise and harden against the fine wool fabric of my trousers. Maybe I’d wall-bang her or fuck her over the velvet bench or have a roll on the carpet. We could even watch ourselves come in the tri-fold mirror. My pulse quickened as the unlocked door swung open.
“Hi, Blake.”
My jaw dropped to the floor and so did my cock.
I watched in the mirror as one of her long, toned bare arms wrapped around my shoulder while the other one grabbed my crotch. Hot kisses singed the back of my neck. Every muscle in my body clenched.
“Kat, what the fuck are you doing here?” Rage fueled every word, but I didn’t move, afraid her claws would dig into my balls.
“You know you want me.” Smirking, she squeezed my equipment harder. I yelped. And then, in one swift move, she unbuttoned the tuxedo pants and unzipped the fly. The pants slid down to my feet. She worked her hand under my briefs.
“Fucking let go of me.” Impulsively, I jerked myself free, almost smashing into the mirror.
I turned to face her. “Get the hell out of here.”
Her fierce green eyes pierced me like poisonous darts. “You should be marrying me, Blake, not that pathetic excuse for a woman. You need a Rolls Royce, not a pickup truck.”
“Don’t you ever fucking talk about my future wife like that.” Seething mad, I clutched the tails of my tux shirt so I wouldn’t raise a hand and slap the shit out of her.
Another smirk flashed on her face and then she huffed. “Are you threatening me, Blake?”
I didn’t respond. “Just. Go.”
“Does Jennifer know yet what really happened?”
My blood curdled. I still hadn’t told her. I sucked in a gulp of the thickening air. “We don’t sit around talking about you. We’re too busy fucking like bunnies.”
“Ha! Aren’t you the funny one? Well, you’re fucking with the wrong person.”
Her double entendre wasn’t lost on me. “You mind your own damn business, Kat, and keep your fucking mouth shut. And if you come near me one more time, I’m going to get a restraining order.”
Collecting herself, she smirked yet again. “Oh, is that another threat? Don’t worry, Blake.”
With a fling of her mane of hair, she slithered out the door.
Chapter 21
Jennifer
I wove down trafficky Santa Monica Boulevard en-route to my office. Adele’s “Rumor Has It” was playing on the radio.
My mind occupied, I forced myself to pay attention to the congested road. The findings of Marcy’s examination were unsettling. While she seemed nonplussed, I was concerned. A new F-bomb. Fibroids. As I sat at what felt like forever at a red light, I debated whether or not I should tell Blake about them. With the wedding getting closer, we just didn’t need more stress.
And while our lunch had drawn us closer, one of his sister’s remarks had made my blood bubble. Yes, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out Ka
t was trouble…but what did she mean about not letting her manipulate me? The way she immediately switched the subject made me think there was something more. Something she wasn’t telling me.
My mind drifted to Blake, and I glanced at my dashboard clock. It was almost one thirty. I wondered—was he still at his tux fitting? Maybe there was still time to show up and surprise him. Saks was only one turn away. Using my Bluetooth, I speed-dialed him. It went straight to his answering machine. I bypassed leaving a message. When the light turned green, I decided to take a chance. I made a sharp right onto Beverly Drive and headed south toward Wilshire.
My cell phone rang. A familiar number. I hit answer. My heart leapt into my throat.
Horns blared at me as I ran a red light.
Oh. My. God. No!
The End of THAT MAN 4
THAT MAN 5
The gripping, epic conclusion to the THAT MAN wedding story.
Be prepared to laugh, cry, and swoon!
COMING DECEMBER 2014
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m going to keep this short and sweet as I will be writing a book-length list of all those I want to thank for sharing this rollercoaster ride at the end of THAT MAN 5. Big shout-outs go to the following:
My wonderfully honest and insightful Beta readers. In alphabetical order: Kelly Butterfield, Amber Escalera, Kellie Fox, Kashunna Fly, Gloria Herrera, Wanda Kather, Adriane Leigh, Cindy Meyer, Jenn Moshe, Arianne Richmonde, and Karen Moshe Silverstein.
My terrific family for putting up with me (and boy, have they!).
All the hardworking bloggers who have supported and embraced THAT MAN.
And finally, never last nor least, my incredible readers. You are the reason I write.
I love you all!
♥ MWAH!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nelle L’Amour is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author who lives in Los Angeles with her Prince Charming-ish husband, twin teenage princesses, and a bevy of royal pain-in-the-butt pets. A former executive in the entertainment and toy industries with a prestigious Humanitus Award to her credit, she gave up playing with Barbies a long time ago but still enjoys playing with toys with her husband. While she writes in her PJs, she loves to get dressed up and pretend she’s Hollywood royalty.
THAT MAN 4 (The Wedding Story-Part 1) Page 11