Ms. Manwhore (Manwhore #2.5)(15)

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.”