Текст книги "Ms. Manwhore"

Автор книги: Katy Evans

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ENGAGEMENT PARTY

We have a small engagement party with only our closest friends that night, over at Sin’s penthouse. Wynn and Gina pull out their flashiest outfits because, to Wynn, “it’s at Saint’s place, right? I’ll feel so lowly if I don’t bring our best!” And because they look like exotic birds out of paradise, I pull out a dress, a little too sleepy to doll myself up much.

I know I am underdressed, but when I arrive and Sin looks into my pale gray eyes, outlined by sooty lashes that spike up with the mascara I used, I realize he’s looking at me like there’s not enough material to cover me—a whole new definition of underdressed to him.

He looks at me, checks me out in a quick sweep too, and sends a look to his friends that says don’t even look at her. Of course, his jeans hang low on his waist in a way that I can’t help but notice.

The girls trail me inside with wide eyes, obviously continuing to be stunned by the glamorous luxury of Saint’s apartment. Natural stone floors, dark wood cabinets, pristine glass, shiny chrome, European leather furniture, and endless floor-to-ceiling windows—Sin’s place surpasses anything they’ve seen, even on an Architectural Digest cover.

We settle on one of the lounges with direct access to the terrace and infinity pool. Warm coffee cup in my hands to help me stay awake, I take little sips while everyone else drinks like it’s Friday—because it is.

“Getting kind of hooked on Rachel’s articles,” Tahoe tells Saint.

My head snaps up in surprise.

Saint smoothly answers, “They’re my new religion.” His lips quirk as our eyes connect for several seconds. “Catherine knows the moment I step into the office, I expect my coffee, and Face opened up to your column.”

Liquid heat pools in my tummy. I can tell by his slow-spreading grin he’s delighted to have surprised me.

We’re all chatting amicably but in my peripherals, I steal little peeks of him. All of him. His hand curved around his coffee cup, overwhelming it, his thumb on the ear—my stomach swirling with heat when I remember what he did with it.

He’s the only one drinking coffee too. Thank you, sex marathon. I still wouldn’t change you for the world.

He was looking ahead as we talked with our friends but he seems to sense my stare, turns to look at me, his smile fading as our gazes lock again.

I love being seen like this. There’s this sensation in the middle of my chest, tight and achy. The way he concentrates so fully on me, nothing else; just me, as if I’m all he sees. I know it’s not true; Saint is always aware of his surroundings. But the kind of force with which he looks at me seeps into my bones. Inside that gaze are a new intensity and awareness that tell me, without a shadow of a doubt, what he wants and expects from me. Truth and loyalty . . . and everything.

“So. Is she going to keep working?” Callan asks then.

“She’ll be my wife; she can do whatever the hell she likes.”

“Exactly, like not work,” Callan says.

“She’s too much a woman to shop all day,” Gina says. “She has shit to offer the world, and her man’s a big man; she needs to be a big girl too.”

“Exactly. Am I supposed to drop everything simply because I’m the biggest Sinner that ever lived?” I turn to Saint.

“Only when I ask you to.”

“Saint.” I shove him playfully in the chest, and he grabs my hand and flattens it against him.

“I’m excited for you, Rachel,” Wynn says. “You get a wedding coordinator, you get to pick the cake . . . please tell me you’re going to do cute little figures on top?”

“No. Just . . . no, Wynn.”

“Ohmigod, you have to. It’s going to be the wedding of the century.”

“The press is going to feast on it for weeks,” Emmett says, nodding his blond head.

My stomach contracts.

Malcolm appeases me with a gentle squeeze on my shoulder. “I’ll keep them out.”

Gina heads off to the wine cellar, and minutes later, Tahoe stands and follows her. They end up meeting by the door. They start chatting and before I know it, I hear a familiar soft laugh.

The sound of Gina when she was with Paul. Gina when she was happy. Gina when she was flirting.

Tahoe, unaware perhaps of how rare Gina’s laugh is, takes two bottles of wine from her and heads toward us, and Gina follows him with another bottle.

Gina grins at us and drops down in her seat. “If you ever need a pitiful friend who’ll drink all your wine, I’m totally here for you, Saint.” She lifts the bottle and says, “The box you sent over to Rachel created a new addiction.”

“I’ll make sure Rachel keeps you stocked,” Saint says calmly.

I smile at Malcolm. I know he’s nice to my friends because of me, and maybe they’re growing on him. I still appreciate what he does.

“I’ll be visiting Napa next month, Gina. You’re invited,” Tahoe says gruffly, watching her with his blue eyes looking bluer than usual. “After the wedding,” he specifies.

Gina is frozen in place, visibly and uncharacteristically uncertain. “I’m not sure I can . . .”

Tahoe doesn’t speak; he is clearly waiting for more.

Wynn straightens in her seat. “Dude, are you blushing?” she asks Gina, frowning.

“No!” Gina says, then she lowers her voice. “No.” She glances at Tahoe and quickly looks away, and then she smirks and signals at me. “I leave that to Rachel.”

When she speaks, I feel Saint’s gaze slowly trekking across my face, greedily drinking up my quickly warming cheeks.

It’s like a touch of summer sunlight, to have his eyes on me. The moment they touch me, I warm up all over.

After opening and emptying all three bottles of wine, our friends leave.

I take some of the glasses to the kitchen and then come back to find Malcolm booting up his laptop and tossing his Bluetooth headpiece nearby.

I sit down next to him again. “I don’t want a big wedding. All that talk about wedding preparations . . . I just want you.”

“I want my wife to have a big wedding.”

“Let’s go to city hall and just do it.”

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, fuck.”

“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.”

“What happened to the conference call?”

“I seem to have developed a new ability that’s called rescheduling.”

He spreads a jacket, black as midnight, down on the ground right next to me, and signals for me to sit.

Seeing him after these intense past twenty-four hours is making me ache more powerfully than ever before. “You know, I like touching the earth.” I slip my fingers into the dirt a little and then lift them and dust them off. “It grounds me.”

When he only looks at me in the shadows and settles down next to his jacket, making me nervous to know what he’s thinking about that makes him so pensive and quiet, I feel flutters all over me. AAARGH. We were just in bed together last night.

In fact we’ve been in bed every night together for more than four months.

My eyes widen when he reaches out and picks me up from the ground and straight to his lap. Every bit of him is surrounding me, enveloping me, maddening me. Malcolm turns his head and narrows his eyes when he notices, like me, that some people are whispering and pointing at us.

Self-conscious, I drop my face and his lips press warmly into my ear. “I’m going to cry when I walk up the altar.”

“I’ll hold you.”

“I’ll be alone walking up there with no dad.”

“Your mom can walk you to me. And then I’ve got you. For the rest of your life or mine.”

It strikes me that he, too, will be alone waiting for me up there. No father, no mother, just his best man and groomsmen. Saint will be the only man in my life, and I’ll be the only living family that he loves.

“Did you like being an only child?”

“No.”

I peer into his face. “So you’d be fine with us having two? When we’re ready?”

He chucks my chin and chides me: “Where’s your sense of adventure, Rachel? I was thinking more along the lines of four.”

“I’m going to kill you.” My eyes flare wide. “Four Saints running around the penthouse?”

“I can get a double penthouse. And nannies for each.”

“I’d be fat for almost four years. Of my life!”

His eyes grow lusty as he spreads his hand widely, encompassing my flat stomach. “You’d be pregnant. With my children.”

I blush. “So you want a Kyle, a Logan, and a Preston . . .”

“I want a mini-Rachel.” He squeezes my tummy and looks pleadingly at me.

“Noooo. You can’t have her. It’s a boy first . . . my precious little Saint. See, why should we wait to get married? The sooner we get married, the more we can enjoy each other before the babies come.”

“We need to wait.”

“So I can sign your prenup contract?”

“That one. And the one making you my wife.” He loves my greediness. I can tell he loves that I’m eager to have him. “Do you realize this is something I never thought I’d want? I can’t think of anything else but making you my wife. My priority is merging your life with mine.”

He looks greedy and anticipatory and strong and tender.

My walls have crumbled before him and I don’t ever want them back up. My lids are heavy, but so are his. We’re both tired after our sex marathon last night.

But I still want him, every second more and more.

Barely surviving the dull throb between my legs and in my heart, I lift my head and kiss his jaw and settle back down at his side, close for warmth.

“Look at me. I was just sitting on the ground . . . with bare feet. I’m a simple girl. I like simple. And I want us to get married without the world watching us so closely.”

“You chose the wrong guy.”

“I’ve got enough complexities in my guy . . . so if we have a simple wedding then we can get to the good stuff. Like a honeymoon.”

“You would deny me the pleasure of giving you a big wedding?”

“I wouldn’t deny you anything, much less myself.”

I close my eyes, relaxing against him. Saint works so hard and leads such a fast-paced life, I treasure my calm moments with him.

“But I do want you to be my wife as soon as possible,” he tells me. “And I do want to protect you from the media frenzy.”

My eyes fly open. “You do?”

“You’re my passion, Rachel. More than work. We’ll do what makes you happy.”

“What about you?”

“Either one we go for, I get what I want.”

He pulls me back against him. We fall silent and just stay there, leaning against the tree trunk.

PEACE, a sign posted by a fellow camper, stares back at me. I’m doing one of the things I most love, with the guy of my dreams. My body starts relaxing into its arousal and into him. My body’s on fire and my soul is serene. Peace is what I find in his arms.

Peace and wildfire.

MOMENTUM

We’ve settled on a small wedding with our fifty closest friends. Malcolm is making plans to fly everyone to a little island in the Caribbean exactly five weeks from now. Nobody knows but our small circle, and we plan to keep it that way. That Sunday when we finally have all our plans in motion, Saint shoots Tahoe a call about keeping a lid on it. Tahoe has been warned.

On Monday, we meet with the lawyers.

On Tuesday, the prenups have been drafted and signed. Saint has given me more than I even wanted—but he was insistent. He wants me to feel safe. His lawyers weren’t that pleased with the terms he offered me—I could tell by their slightly pinched eyebrows—but Malcolm only had eyes for me, and he wore a perfect, satisfied smile as I signed it.

Wednesday at noon, Saint takes a lunch break to go with me and meet with Chicago’s most famous wedding coordinator. He does business on his phone while I get to pick out Tiffany cake, flowers, and invitations. By the time we’re done and we’re heading back to M4, it seems all I need to get married is a wedding dress. And that afternoon, while hunting for dresses with Mother, Gina, and Wynn, I discover that couture wedding dresses are difficult to find on such short notice.

I still don’t have a dress by Thursday afternoon when Malcolm steals me away from work. He blindfolds me . . .

. . . and the suspense is killing me.

We step off an elevator that seemed to go up forever. Then I hear the click of my heels on what sounds like a marble floor. The air smells of fresh wind and concrete. Malcolm’s hand, strongly gripping mine, leads me along the darkness. Thanks to this blindfold, that’s all I can see: blackness. His thumb rubs against my knuckles as he holds my hand and mumbles commands. “Careful,” “hold on to my hand,” “watch the boxes.”

There are bubbles of excitement in my stomach as I follow him.

Where are we?

I know he’s being careful to go slow, since usually one of his steps equals three of mine in heels. But he’s winding through the area slowly, and then we stop, and a wall of heat is now pressing against my back. My awareness of him heightens, and a surge of anticipation floods me as I wait for him to remove the blindfold. He pushes my hair to the side and presses a hot kiss to the back of my neck before reaching up to untie the velvet covering.

“What do you think?” he whispers into my ear.

God. I still shudder when he talks to me.

I shudder when he looks at me.

Stands close to me.

Exhaling, I finally open my eyes to see sky. Pure sky, the bluest of blue, specked with clouds. A huge window spanning the width of a wall stands in front of us, and Chicago sits below us. The room is flooded in light, and the clouds outside almost seem as if they will drift right into the room at any minute.

I’m . . . speechless.

Saint’s apartment is the most luxurious thing I’ve ever been in.

Until now.

We’re inside what would make the next list of Architectural Digest’s most jaw-dropping apartment penthouses in the world. Twenty-five-foot ceilings. A terrace outside with an infinity pool that seems to blend into the sky. Limestone walls, marble and limestone floors. Thick wood beams crossing strong and proud from one end of the ceiling to the next. Dark mahogany cabinets. And so many windows it’s like you’re part of the sky.

I’m speechless as I quickly start exploring. My heels click on the floor as I trail my hands against a modern wall in soft gray tones, as elegant as you please. The place is huge. At least six thousand square feet. I see what seems to be another elevator at the far end—separate from the set of elevators we arrived in—and when I spot the sweeping staircase, I realize that it leads to a second floor.

I whirl around and look at Malcolm, who wears a black button shirt and black slacks today. He seems to pull in his surroundings like a black hole, power and money clinging to him. He fits right into the spectacular setting as if it was made for him. I give him an awed glance. “This is amazing.” A sudden thought strikes me, and my eyes flare wide. “Is this . . . ?”

“Ours.”

My stomach flips in excitement. “You’re not teasing me?” I laugh in disbelief.

He walks toward me and takes my hand, kissing my forehead. “Here, I’ll show you around.”

I just follow, dumbstruck as I look around the massive apartment/house/villa/castle nestled in the heart of Chicago.

He stops in a huge room that has a view of our park. The park where we slept together for the first time. Not slept as in sex, but just slept. For the first time. I can see it from here. I can see . . . everything.

“This is the living area,” he says, in that delicious rumbling voice of his. He spreads his hands wide, and I realize there’s room for at least three or four lounging sections.

“And then,” he continues, signaling to the center of the room, “a fireplace can divide our lounge areas in two. Two plasma TVs, one on each side,” he says, matter-of-factly.

I step in. “What? No, no fireplace. It’ll block the view of the window.”

I point outside.

He frowns. “I want a fireplace though. We’ll read right here. Chill out by the bar.”

“Well, we can put it here.” I point to the back of the room.

He assesses the area. “Fine, whatever, we’ll plan that later.”

I smile privately, intending to bait him a little bit.

He takes my hand and I’m led through a series of corridors into another room.

This one has a wall of mirrors on one side, cabinets, and state-of-the-art gym equipment. And it connects by a glass door to a freaking indoor pool.

I arch a brow.

His smile is absolutely cocky. “Indoor exercise room. For when it rains and outdoor sports are out.”

“Of course.”

Then I’m being pulled away again. We go up a flight of stairs that stand close to the elevator.

We reach the top and I see another room with a dividing wall in the middle, and another huge window with perhaps the best view in the world. Skyscrapers sit below us and the clouds seem to be within a hand’s reach. It’s like we’re on top of the world.

Malcolm comes up behind me. “This is our room.”

I picture the bed somewhere here. All I picture is a freaking bed. With a thick suede headboard—a cushion for my head when he fucks me deep. I’m immediately bombarded with images of Malcolm and me lounging in bed on a Sunday morning. Laughing about something I said, a plate of grapes on the nightstand as he feeds me some for breakfast. The sun rising through our huge window. The white bedsheets tangled at our feet. His hands traveling up my back and down my legs, while he nestles his head in my neck, his lips lazily traveling along my jaw. I get goose bumps at the thought.

“This is incredible.”

Turning, I wrap my arms around his waist, tipping my head up to look at his face. “Just when I’m finding my balance, you sweep me off my feet again.” I kiss his neck. And then his jaw.

He cups my face in his hands and gives me a slow, delicious kiss. I break the kiss because I start to get breathless, and I look around again. We’ll have a fireplace here also, and there’s a door that leads to a terrace.

“Well, what about children? All of these floors too hard for them?” I ask.

He looks down at me with the most curious look on his face, his eyes searching mine with a little heat and anticipation.

“Hand-woven rugs. Plush, thick carpets for them. We’ll keep them safe. I’ll take care of you all.”

He takes me to see the bathroom and I spot another room adjoining it. It has that perfect wood smell because, inside, there are all sorts of aisles with white-lacquered mahogany cabinets. The ceiling has a beautiful cut-glass dome that lets in the sunlight. It looks ethereal, like a church, but Saint informs me it’s just my closet.

My closet? What twisted, delicious, fabulous world is this? This man will be the death of me, I swear. And I will die happy.

Saint’s closet is to the other side of the bathroom, all of his cabinets in coffee-colored wood, a dome exactly like mine but with a modern design to match the masculine mood.

Between the closets, the bathroom has two sinks, one to each side. One huge shower with the most beautiful tile design in gray and white, a waterfall showerhead hanging from the ceiling, and at the end of the room, a marble bathtub that spreads out endlessly. It’s smooth and sleek, and the sexiest bathtub I’ve ever seen.

“That’s quite a Jacuzzi.”

I lift my lashes to his, and see a smile touch his eyes.

He has been watching me all this time.

“Enough room for you and I to play around in.”

My lungs practically collapse when he says that and I can feel my heartbeat between my legs.

He just smirks and leads me down the stairs again and toward black granite counters.

“Kitchen,” he says, showing me a huge island in the middle. The work is still under way but I’m amazed by how clean and tidy everything is.

Awe-inspiring colorful Murano glasses that look alarmingly by Dale Chihuly hang from the ceiling, lit from behind. Sleek cabinets frame a set of stainless steel refrigerators. The wrappings are still on. There’s a pair of Wolf stoves. And vacant spots within the cabinets seem to be waiting for even more state-of-the-art equipment.

“This looks fit for a chef . . . and I can’t cook.”

He laughs softly.

He picks me up by my hips and sets me down on the counter. He pushes my legs apart so he’s nestled in between, and the smell of his cologne engulfs me in our bubble. His slight scruff scrapes the skin of my neck as he kisses along my collarbone.

“We won’t be doing much cooking,” he murmurs. “I see you here, in my shirt.” He places a kiss on my neck. “Your hair is messy, and tangled, and you’re making me deviled eggs.”

“Deviled eggs for Sin?” I try to laugh but it comes out choked because he’s doing some very sexy stuff right now that I can’t pull my mind away from enough to think.

“Yeah, or . . . waffles, crepes, or omelets,” he adds, his hands rubbing against my thighs and traveling under the silky material of my shirt to my lower back.

“And you smell like roses”—another kiss—“like that shampoo you always use.” He kisses my jaw again, pushing my hair back to let his tongue rub against the slight pulse on the side of my neck.

“I’m sitting right here, looking at you in my shirt, thinking about all the things I’m going to do to you later”—another delicious kiss—“in our bed.”

I moan right then. He looks up to me with smoky green eyes and kisses my lips, his hot tongue rubbing against mine. I can’t breathe. I hug him to me because I want him so close I want him to become part of me. His skin feels hot under his shirt. I wrap my legs around his hips.

He laughs against my lips. “I take it you’re warming up to the kitchen.”

I feel like my heart is going to explode in my chest because this man is everything to me, and he is here, between my legs, telling me about our future. About me making him breakfast. About our bed. Our bathtub. About our kids.

My heart gives another squeeze. I’m panting, holding on to his shoulders.

His soft hair is tickling my jaw as he starts unbuttoning my shirt. He’s going slowly. Painfully slowly. His fingers rubbing against my skin, and with every button he undoes, I become undone.

He pushes the straps of my bra down and pulls my legs tighter around him. “You drive me crazy,” he whispers.

I pull his head up to kiss him, and he gives me the longest kiss of my life. I am pouring myself into this kiss, letting my lips and my tongue tell him everything he needs to know. That I crave him. That I love him. That I’m completely his to have, and cherish. I see us lounging by that fireplace he wants to put in the living room, I see us having drinks in the kitchen without friends, I see us looking out at Chicago, late at night, the lights of the buildings imitating the stars in the sky.

We’re home. We. Not him, not me. We. This will be our home.

We kiss for a little while, hands wandering, mouths savoring. I could go on and on like this with him, but the elevator pings and I realize we’re getting company. A handful of contractors start to shuffle inside, back from the hour-long break Saint requested they take so he could show me around. Sin buttons up my shirt and I quickly arrange my hair and hop off the counter, then I wander the apartment while the contractors consult with him.

From their conversation, I hear that he bought the whole top floor and the floor beneath it. Two-level penthouse, twenty-one-foot ceilings on the bottom one, twenty-five-foot ceilings on the top one. They’re being connected through a private elevator, as well as a staircase that curves upward from the lower floor, connecting to the foyer of the penthouse.

My mother used to say that a big house was every woman’s dream. That is, until you moved into it, and it became a nightmare to keep clean. I can’t imagine this place ever being my nightmare.

As Saint talks to some of the contractors, I walk across the empty space. He’s hired an architect to design a huge play area down below. Upstairs is for our friends, near the huge bar and terrace. The floor below has another terrace where he’s making preparations for a pool that’s only a couple of feet deep, for the kids; there will be a mini golf as well.

He’s thought of everything. Nannies’ rooms. Where our children can have parties. Where we can get together with friends. He’s thought of double offices. Huge bathrooms. And an extra room where I can keep a crib and a nursery upstairs. We won’t move our little Saint downstairs until there are a few more and he’s a little older. Our spot of paradise in Chicago.

And I get my own closet.

I walk back to our room and admire it. Even the bathtub has a view, I see now that I admire it again. On one side I can watch the city. On the other I can watch my husband in the see-through, pristine glass shower.

Life is full of tough choices.