Ms. Manwhore (Manwhore #2.5)(23)



“I am so touch. In fact if we go an hour together and Emmett hasn’t held my hand, I’m convinced he’s stopped loving me.”

Gina shakes her head and curls her legs beneath her. “I don’t trust words. Touch makes me uncomfortable. But I’ll take the gifts.”

I wag my head no. “That’s not your love language, Gina. You service others. You put food in the fridge. You look out for them.”

“If a guy does that for you, and speaks to you in your looooove language,” Wynn warns, “you’ll be toast. Buttery hot toast.”

“No problem, since most guys are selfish. They want to be serviced, not the other way around.”

“They’re like us, Gina,” Wynn counters. “Except with a lot of sexy testosterone. Which, thanks to the abstinence, will have skyrocketed by the time Rachel reaches the honeymoon. I can feel Saint; he’s just a tad pissy with Tahoe. He’s sexually frustrated. He wants you, Rachel.”

I think I feel it too and I’m speeding a thousand miles an hour on the highway to heaven.

“What you can feel is our girl’s pre-wedding hormones gone crazy.”

I hug my pillow and grin so hard, pressing the pillow against my body and all the aching places, my nipples, between my legs, even my stomach, which is whirling. “I shall not apologize for lusting after my fiancé. Everybody else does it, and I get to do it for the rest of my life, which is pretty damn fine to me.”

The heat of our bodies. The pull is so strong between us, even in silence we seem to communicate.

I can’t wait to melt into the protectiveness of his arms.

How I feel wistful and relaxed when close to him. This comfort of being close—his presence so male, strong. Every fiber of my being aches. I let my mind drift off to our wedding night. The almond oil, sweet smelling and glistening, that I plan to wear on my skin. The La Perla bra and panties, perfect lace, perfectly see-through, that I plan to wear on my sexy parts . . .

I realize then that Gina is really withdrawn and unusually quiet. “What’s happened with Tahoe, Gina?” I ask softly.

“Nothing. We’re friends. We . . . I guess we talk. A lot.”

“What about?”

“Things.”

“Paul?”

“I told him about Paul.”

Disbelief widens my eyes. “You did! Babe, that’s huge for you! To open up like that to a guy.”

“He’s a friend. He’s a great listener, actually. But I don’t really want to talk about that now.” She spreads out my veil a little more. “How did you choose your wedding dress?” Gina then asks. “And the veil?”

“It’s as hard as choosing the groom, I bet,” Wynn says.

“Actually no. They both chose me. I was afraid of both . . . a little. But I’m sure he’s the one.” I point at my mom’s dress and my mother’s eyes instantly widen. “And that’s the one.”

“Really?” Mother asks.

“Really. I’m sure.”

“It’s a sexy dress, Mama,” Wynn gushes. “I wish my mom had that cleavage. Your Saint is going to think all devil thoughts while in church. Another benefit to . . . abstinence!”

“Abstinence!” they all cheer.

“Easy for you to say, but revenge will be sweet. I’ll be the one wrapping the chastity belts around you two before your wedding days.”

“Gina’s chastity belt is her mouth, she opens it and the guys run. Except Tahoe.”

Gina shoots Wynn a withering look. “He’s my bud. You two don’t get to talk evil about him.”

“Well, Gina, one day . . .” my always-optimistic mother says.

“It’s nice to imagine it, that it’s out there. Doing more is hard, though. I can imagine it, I can see it, and I like seeing it. I just don’t want to pull back the curtain with my name on it and find out I’m the one who picked the losing card. I’d rather . . . imagine there was something wonderful in store.”

“There could be,” Mother insists.

“Maybe. But right now, it’s enough to think that there could be. I’m not ready to find out that there isn’t.”



We’re tired enough to run out of talk but too wired to sleep. The girls propose watching a wedding movie. “My Best Friend’s Wedding?” I ask as I scroll through the offerings on the hotel pay-per-view.

“You’ve seen that one a gazillion times. Let’s watch Steve Martin. This one is fun. Fun, Rachel. Really,” says Wynn.

“I don’t know. Father of the Bride . . . Mom?” I ask my mother uncertainly.

It’s a movie I’ve always shied away from simply because . . . well, my father isn’t here.

My mother wavers a little bit, an instant of worry on her face, but then she looks at my friends’ faces and the hopeful look I wear—a look that might say I want her to tell me I am strong enough to watch it. I’m happy, I’m older, I’m good.

“It’s a beautiful movie,” my mom finally says before she heads off to her room, to bed.

Pacified, I click the purchase button, cross the room, close the open windows, and settle in bed to watch it with my friends.

It starts perfect. Proposal. Funny, jealous dad. The parts where he is acting a little nutty and protective make the corners of my eyes start to leak. Soon, the dam breaks. And I’m a waterfall.

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