Ms. Manwhore (Manwhore #2.5)(6)

He kisses my lips. “I’ll think about it.”

“Make me your wife now.”

“You’re already mine. This says you’re mine.” He taps my necklaces. “You’ll wear a ring to match. Right next to this one.” He touches my engagement ring.

“Why are you determined I have a big wedding?”

“Because you’re only getting married once.”

“Once to you,” I tease.

He smiles. “If I set the bar high, no one will even attempt to compete. Once to me is once.”

I smile. “Okay, I’ll meet a wedding coordinator. I’m getting a white dress. And the hottest groom there will ever be. Marrying me. Once.”

“That’s what I said.”

I glance at an invitation, one of the dozens that arrive per week. This time it says Mr. Malcolm Saint and Miss Rachel Livingston.

“What do you think it will say in a few months?”

He looks at it. “It’ll say Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm Saint.”

“Nah, it’ll say Malcolm Saint and his lusty, luscious little wife who he can’t get out of bed,” I tease.

He laughs, then raises one dark eyebrow. “It’ll say Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm Saint. And that’s final.”

“What about Livingston?”

“Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Sin!”

“Sinner,” he absently shoots back as he reads the invitation, then shoves it back into the envelope.

“We’re not in agreement yet.”

“Yes we are.”

“No we aren’t.”

“I’ll get it on the prenup, little one.”

I groan. Seriously. Prenups. Though I know a man like Malcolm absolutely could not marry without one. “I understand we need one,” I say.

“Don’t worry,” he answers softly. “My lawyers insist we do this. But I’ll look out for you.”

“And I’ll sign it then. I’ll sign it because I love you and trust you and because I want to marry you.”

“So do I.”

“So will you indulge me? Your wife? And let me keep Livingston . . .”

“I’ll indulge you in other ways. You, indulge me,” he says huskily, “and take my name.”

Take his name.

Because I love him.

Because when I look into his eyes, nothing else exists but him.

Because even when I don’t look into his eyes, nothing else exists but him.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, throwing his words back at him with a smile. “And you think about the wedding.”

I go slip into my jeans and a sweater, then I grab my bag.

“Where do you think you’re going at this hour?”

“I have a campout with End the Violence. Remember?”

“Ah, f*ck.”

“You don’t need to come. This is my passion, yours is work.”

“I have a conference call: China.”

“I know you do.” I approach him and boost myself up with his shoulders. “Go nail it to the wall.” I peck his lips and pat his flat chest. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Rachel,” he says warningly, eyebrows drawn low, “wait for Otis to pull the car around.”





PEACE . . . AND WILDFIRE

I arrive at the park like never before: wholly unprepared. I forgot my chips, my music, my books. All I brought is a sleeping bag and it’s hardly enough to cover me. Scanning the park, I see everybody’s either quietly reading or listening to music. Some are huddled in their sleeping bags, talking.

Rather than look for someone I know, I crave to be alone, so I look for the smoothest patch of ground to lie on, and when I can’t find a good one, I head toward the base of a big tree.

I take off my shoes because my feet ache and I mourn for my fuzzy socks as I tuck my feet into my sleeping bag. It’s already fall. The air is quite cool tonight and thank god for my cardi.

Propping my shoulders against the tree, I tilt my head back and stare up at the leaves and the very few stars you can see in Chicago. I squeeze my eyes shut in happiness and inhale. Being here centers me. It makes me wonder about things, the coincidences in this universe, our roles in the grand scheme of things, and it reminds me that this world is full of so many people, each of our actions creating a butterfly effect in others’ lives.

I think of all the stories I am going to tell now, in my platform. I want him to be proud of me. I want to be proud of myself. My dad to be proud of me. My mom to be proud of me.

And I want to be the kind of wife my husband deserves.

I hear the crunch of leaves and twigs nearby.

A tall shadow walks in the darkness toward me, and then I see the figure’s incredible eyes gleam in the dark and a sliver of moonlight falls on his tan, chiseled face. I close my eyes, disbelieving, and open them in shock. And he’s still walking forward with that achingly familiar walk. Sin.

“I’m not a dream, Rachel,” he chides with a little chuckle. And his voice sounds like those leaves he just crunched, a little dry and earthy. It warms me better than my cardi. Oh god.

Butterflies.

“No tent to protect me from the elements?” I quietly tease him.

His devil’s smile appears. “Just me.”