Ms. Manwhore (Manwhore #2.5)(26)

She holds the purple orchids that I’m supposed to carry, and stares at me with tears in her eyes.

Wynn and Gina stop arguing, and they catch their breath when I turn. “So you like it?” I ask them.

This is the one dress they hadn’t seen on me.

And once they see it, they get misty eyes too.

“No crying,” I plead, my heart suddenly feeling like a thousand pounds in my chest.

I’m too excited to cry. I’m too happy to marry my Saint. I’m too determined not to have puffy eyes.

“No crying,” Gina softly concurs as she goes and takes the bagel from Wynn’s hand and slaps it down on the plate. “We have a wedding to take her to. Her player will be a player no more; he just got himself a missus.”



Down in the lobby, the hotel staff is waiting in a neat line to greet me. “Congratulations! You make a beautiful bride. Oh, and your friend was just here. She worried she was already late for the wedding but we assured her she was just on time.”

“Friend?” I ask quizzically.

I glance behind me, where Gina and Wynn stand along with Mother. Do they mean Sandy? Valentine? I mean to ask, but then I spot a familiar person ducking with her arm raised to cover her face. I spot a bun, and an executive outfit like some paparazzi pro. For a moment my body stiffens at the shock of seeing her. Pretty as you damn well please. But the shock gives way to indignation and protectiveness. I purse my lips in anger, I lift my skirts, and walk over.

“Victoria.” I stop her.

She freezes, turns, and gets this “oh-my-god-you-here?” look on her face. “Hey, Rachel.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I, well, there were rumors. I’m representing the people.”

“She’s like a bloodhound sniffing them out!” Gina cries.

“You’ve got some nerve,” Wynn huffs. “We’re calling Saint.”

“Wynn, no,” I say, reaching out to stop her.

I step aside and pull Victoria along with me.

“Rachel, I won’t do any harm. I’m so sorry for what happened,” she says.

“No,” I say. “You’re sorry my boyfriend canned your article and got you out of a job.”

“No!” Her eyes widen. “I like this job. I’m like Perez Hilton on Twitter. I’m free; I like it. I have you and him to thank.” She lifts her phone. “One picture?”

“You’re kidding me,” I say, outraged.

“Press can’t come in, cameras controlled, but I’m not press, see, not officially; my phone does the trick, please. I know your single name, and described you . . . so. I mean, we are friends.”

“Were,” I whisper, then I try to calm myself. “Please leave.”

We stare at one another.

She was someone I wanted to be like.

But I don’t anymore.

She has her path and I have mine.

I don’t want to hate her either.

And I don’t think she hates me. In fact, I see regret in her eyes. She bows her head in shame and wrings her hands as she presses her phone to her chest. “Rachel, I’m sorry. For what it’s worth.” She looks contrite. “I saw him walk past.” She signals. “You’re lucky.” I don’t reply, and she adds, as if to make me feel better, “So is he.”

“You still need to leave, Victoria.”

There seems to be a battle inside her. The professional versus the human being. “I’ll go because I owe you one. But I’ll see you at the christening of your firstborn, or maybe sooner.”

I smile at her na?veté. This is the last time she slips by me. “I don’t think so,” I say.

She smiles a little and walks away. And I watch her take my past with her, all of it.

I have a future to look forward to.

I have a storm to catch.

A leap to make.

A man to love.

A Sin to take.

And I’ve never looked forward to something in my life like I look forward to





MALCOLM


KYLE


PRESTON


LOGAN


SAINT.





WEDDING


There’s only one chapel on the island, and it’s barely a year old. When the original one suffered a fire, one of the billionaires who frequently vacations here had a new one made. The architecture is exquisite, with thick columns and high arches, old mosaics gracing the windows, brought here from antiques shops and auction blocks from across the world. The altar is all white marble, with sculptures hiding in strategically positioned nooks, as well as frescoes on the painted ceiling, reminiscent of Michelangelo.

Today the chapel feels like a garden.

I know this because I came to look at it yesterday, and I know that a waterfall of white orchids hangs over the altar. I know that the aisle rows are dripping with more orchids that trail down to the long red carpet. I know that there are thousands of warmly lit candles awaiting behind the massive antique doors, and that the chorus is accompanied by one of Chicago’s finest orchestras, all flown down here for the wedding.

I can’t breathe in this dress. I CAN’T BREATHE knowing that he’s waiting for me. Behind these doors. Down that freshly cleaned, red-carpeted aisle. Up on the luminous white marble altar and under the hanging orchids. My groom.