Ms. Manwhore (Manwhore #2.5)(20)
“No. We can’t.” He signals to my smartphone on the nightstand. “Whatever is in there . . . stays in there. Not here.” He taps my brain. “Or here.” He taps my heart. “All right?”
I nod.
“Go back to bed; you’re jet-lagged.” I slip my shoulder under his head and run my hands through his hair.
He turns and exhales near my neck. He kisses my forehead. Tightens his hold. “God, I missed you.”
READY
Saint teased me on Whipped Cream Night. He wanted to know if I was ready.
I am so ready.
The fleet of M4 airplanes is ready.
Invitations are out.
Gifts are flowing in and they sit perfectly wrapped, waiting to be opened.
The invitations specify only the time and date we leave from O’Hare, and the date guests will be flown back. Apparently nobody is going to know where we’re going beforehand.
Everything is set.
Malcolm Saint and I are getting married next weekend.
LEAKED
Secret wedding info leaked!
Speculation on magnate Malcolm Saint’s marriage to reporter Rachel Livingston has simmered across the city. Sources confirm there has been a secret wedding scheduled at a very exclusive private island resort for sometime this month. No more than fifty close relatives, business associates, and friends will be in attendance.
More to come . . .
THE ISLAND
The M4 fleet of airplanes leaves early Wednesday to this perfect resort island, a favorite among celebrities. Private residences and beach bungalows occupy most of the land, along with a central resort hotel building where all cars arrive and depart from; the rest of the island is accessible only by golf carts, bicycles, or on foot.
Our reception will be held at the island botanical gardens, a mere three-minute walk from the chapel.
When the fleet of M4 airplanes land, Saint, my mother, and I emerge from one of the planes. Another brings Tahoe, Callan, and a dozen of Saint’s friends. Another flies in Wynn, Gina, Valentine, Sandy, and my old Edge colleagues. One more carries Saint’s business acquaintances. A handful more fly in our security and wedding crew.
Everyone is impressed by the lush surroundings and the deliciously warm breeze because Malcolm Saint and I are getting married in paradise.
“Wow.” Tahoe strides over and slaps Malcolm’s back, his Texan drawl coming out. “You did good, man.”
Saint laughs and slaps him back. “Tell me something new.”
PLAYING AT THE BEACH
We’re sleeping in side-by-side presidential suites overlooking the water.
Our guests occupy the rest of the resort, all of them in bungalows, save for my mother and friends, who want to be near me for preparations the day of the wedding. The hotel staff has treated us like kings and queens since arrival, which makes sense given that Saint booked the whole island for us—our guests, the security, photographers, and chefs are the only ones here.
Sin has been spending every day since we landed with me, but when night comes, I end up alone in my suite, sometimes inviting my mother or Gina over so that I’m not tempted to sleepwalk—awake—and end up knocking on his door.
Nights feel eternal, but between travel, getting settled, and the last of the wedding preparations, the days have flown by so fast, I can hardly believe that tomorrow, at last, is the wedding.
Tomorrow we wed.
We wed, and then bed. Yes!
The girls have gone bike riding. My mother has been reading in her room. Saint and I spend our last free day on the island together, drinking Bloody Marys (me) and Aviator gin (him), diving into the waves and then lying out in the sun to get warm.
The sky is orange as the sun sets right now. I’m wet enough that my fingers are crinkled and as I float in the water, too tired to swim, I’m pretty sure I see a flat, dark-colored moving object swim beside me.
I freeze, hold my breath as it passes.
“Malcolm, there’s a stingray. Right here, it just grazed me. Holy shit! ”
I hurry out of the water, and instead of swimming away he dives into the water and swims forward, and after it.
He comes back up. “It’s a banded guitarfish.”
“Well, why are you following it?”
He laughs and slicks his hair back as he swims forward and comes to his feet. “It’s harmless, Rachel.”
I drop into the sand, clutching the towel to my chest. Sunlight gleams in his eyes as if it’s being reflected in water.
He wades out of the waves.
“You have no respect for predators,” I chide. “You’re absolutely irreverent. How do you even know it’s that kind of fish, Dr. Aquatics?”
“Snorkeling across the world. Swimming with sharks. The adrenaline, Rachel.” He shoots me a devil-may-care smirk.
My heart starts thudding, my mouth running dry. I miss him terribly. I miss the way his body talks to mine. The way he loves me with his hands and mouth.
His wet swim trunks cling to his powerful hips and thighs as he comes over; he looks powerful but fluid, chest broad and muscular, and agile. He is a man whose muscles were built testing out his thirst for adrenaline.
He drops down beside me, stretches his legs out, props himself up on his elbows, and gazes at the sky. I study the sky too, but only for a minute. I find the sight of him more interesting; in fact, I always seem to find myself constantly trying to read his thoughts. I study his confident profile and notice his mouth is curved humorously.