Ms. Manwhore

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.