Читать онлайн «Manwhore»
Автор Кэти Эванс
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Playlist
“Firestone,” by Kygo
“Want to Want Me,” by Jason Derulo
“Nothing Really Matters,” by Mr. Probz
“Gold Dust,” by Galantis
“Paradise,” by Tove Lo
“All We Need,” by Odesza
“Addicted,” by Saving Abel
“Kiss You Slow,” by Andy Grammer
“Peace,” by O. A. R.
Dear Readers,
When I finished writing
Here’s to every
BEST DAY
I said yes times four, because one didn’t seem like enough for my boyfriend.
This is the best day of my life.
The excitement buzzing in my veins is so off the charts I cannot sit still.
I’m having dinner with the Hottest Man on this Earth at the top of one of Chicago’s premier skyscrapers. The city skyline twinkles with night lights, and a set of standing heaters blazes around us, protecting us from the cool wind. Tiny electric candles flicker down the path where my man led me out into this very terrace.
He sits across the table and neither of us is paying attention to the exquisite food the chefs brought out to us.
We can’t stop touching, reaching across the table to touch and kiss each other.
My brain keeps seizing and going back to only minutes ago, when I heard him say that he loves me . . . that he wants to marry me .
. .Oh god,
This man has the power to turn anything ordinary into extraordinary. A men’s shirt. A green grape. A pair of necklaces. A ticket to a baseball game. An office visit. An evening. A bed.
Well, today Malcolm Saint turned my average weekly workday into the day that I became his fiancée. His one and only ever fiancée.
We are officially . . .
And Malcolm looks so very pleased with himself right now, his lips curled, his dark hair a little tousled by the wind, watching me through dark-as-night lashes as he leans across the table to refill my wineglass.
He won’t take his eyes off me. Thoroughly and unashamedly, he watches me with happily dancing, liquid green eyes as he sets the bottle back in the silver bucket that stands near our table, and as he does, I inhale the cool breeze.
We’re both still dressed for the workday, but Malcolm rocks his office attire, while I look a little bit secretarial. He discarded his sable jacket and tie a little while ago and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, and I’m in a pencil skirt and button-down top, my hair tied in a haphazard bun at my nape to keep it out of the wind.
“What are you thinking?” he asks softly as he takes my hand once again over the table and traces his thumb along the back of mine, dipping it into the hollow of my palm.
