Page 20 of Tempt
Sure, I’d had to rip up awful carpeting and tear off hideous wallpaper and repaint all the walls in soft, neutral shades, but I hadn’t minded the work. It had kept me busy the last couple years, and I’d had help—my dad and Frannie had not only helped me secure the loan but had also helped me renovate. Felicity had been living in Chicago when I bought the house, but she’d come up for a long weekend to help me move in. Winnie had a fantastic eye for good finds at estate sales and antique shops, and she helped me reupholster dining chairs, shop for rugs, and find the perfect sapphire blue velvet sofa for my living room. Even Mason pitched in, helping me stain the wood floors last summer.
He and Lori were redoing their own home now.
And Brendan, the guy I’d dated before Mason, had just moved to Denver with his new wife, Sasha. I’d introduced them too—she used to cut my hair. Daniel, the boyfriend before that, was expecting twins with his wife, Amy. An invitation to the baby shower was on my fridge.
Reaching the top of the stairs, I took a sip of my coffee and sighed. I was happy for them all, I really was. They were good people and deserved to find love. My sisters too. I had a feeling Dex was going to pop the question to Winnie over the holidays, and then there would be another wedding to plan. The thought of it made me smile.
Moving into my bedroom, I set the mug on my dresser and started pulling off my workout clothes, tossing them in a laundry basket. I glanced at the bed, and for a moment, I imagined Zach sleeping there, just like he had been in the hotel room when I’d tried to sneak out.
After my shower, as I combed through my wet hair, I fantasized what it might be like if he saw me standing there at the mirror. He might give me one of those low, growly sounds and reach for the towel wrapped around me, yanking it off. I’d laugh and sayno, I have to go to work, but he wouldn’t let me refuse him. He’d grab my arm and pull me back into bed with him. His body would be warm and firm as he stretched out above me, his hips and chest heavy and masculine over my curves. He’d bury his face in my neck and tell me how good I smelled—I remembered how he’d liked the scent of my perfume—and his mouth would travel down from there, over my breasts and stomach and hips. He’d push my thighs apart with enough force to tell me he’d brook no resistance, and his tongue would sweep up my center with those long, languid strokes that made me arch and moan and beg for more.
Suddenly I realized my eyes were closed, my nipples were hard, and I was frozen in place with the hairbrush halfway through my damp locks. Between my legs I felt the tingle of arousal.
Setting my brush down, I went over to the edge of my bed and sat down. Opened the nightstand drawer. Took out his card. I stared at it for a full minute, wondering if Winnie was right and I should reach out. Was there something there worth pursuing?
Yeah,said my lady parts.Orgasms.
I stuffed the card back into my drawer and closed it.
* * *
My two o’clock bride, whose name was Taylor, came with her mom to look at Cloverleigh Farms as a potential venue for her wedding. She apologized that her fiancé wasn’t available, but he traveled a lot for work, so she was doing some of the initial research on her own.
“My mother sort of invites herself along,” Taylor whispered to me as we walked from the inn toward the wedding barn, where we hosted indoor ceremonies and receptions. “But she’s so critical, she stresses me out.”
I eyed her mother, who’d hurried through the glass doors into the barn ahead of us. “Some mothers are like that,” I said. “But it’s your day, not hers.”
Later, Taylor and her mom sat across from me at my desk as I listed Cloverleigh’s available dates for a Saturday wedding next summer and fall. “There aren’t too many,” I said apologetically. “We tend to book up fast for summer. Have you considered a Friday night wedding? I have some Sunday afternoons available this spring too.”
“Maybe we could do that,” Taylor said. “I just have to—”
“I think that’s too soon,” said her mother. “Taylor needs more time to lose the weight.”
Taylor’s chin dropped, color rising in her cheeks. “Mom.”
“Not one of the dresses you’ve tried on fit,” her mother said, lips pursed. “And we’ve gone to three different bridal salons.”
Taylor, who was plus-sized and short, met my eyes. “I’m having some trouble finding a dress.”
My heart went out to her. “I understand.”
“Everything is either billowy like sheets or all covered up.” Taylor shook her head. “That’s not what I want.”
“What kind of dress do you want?” I asked, thinking I might be able to point her in the right direction.
“I’d like a dress that shows off my curves,” Taylor said, her eyes flicking toward her mother. “Something glamorous and elegant but also sexy. My fiancé loves my curves.”
“That’s all well and good, but they don’t make dresses like that for bodies like yours,” snapped her mother, who was short like her daughter but several sizes smaller. “I’ve been telling you for years to lose the weight.”
I bit my tongue, although the conversation was triggering terrible memories. My real mother, Carla, had been hard on me about my size too. After she’d abandoned us and moved back to Georgia, we only saw her a couple times a year, and those visits always involved comments about my appearance.
You look just like me at fourteen, Millie. If you weren’t so heavy, you could try on my prom dress.
What on earth is your dad feeding you? He must not want you to have boyfriends.
You’re never going to be a professional dancer if you don’t control your weight.
For years, I took what she said to heart. I cut gluten and dairy and sugar and fat. I deprived myself of what the rest of my family and friends ate in the misguided attempt to look like the slender, small-boned girls in my ballet classes (pink tights are so fucking brutal), even though it was never going to happen.
