Page 7 of Bridesmaid for Hire
It’s time to clear the cobwebs and allow my body to be thoroughly owned, preferably a man with dimples above his ass and a bulge twice the size of my fist.
Your girl has been working hard.
Wedding after wedding after wedding.
If you don’t know already, I am the proud owner of Magical Moments by Maggie, an up-and-coming event planning business in San Francisco. I started the business right after I graduated, and in the last year, I’ve picked up some very large clients, which has landed my name in bridal magazines around the country. All the exposure has given my business the kind of boost that meant I could afford a one-bedroom, over-the-water bungalow in Bora-Bora, accompanied by a first-class trip where I drank far too much champagne, passed out before meals were served, and ended up drooling all over my complimentary Saks Fifth Avenue pillow.
And sure, I might have gotten a discount on the bungalow, but that’s neither here nor there. What matters is this girl has run fast and hard for the past few years, and I’m ready to take a break to focus on me.
Because let me tell you, I’ve had a hell of a year so far, wrangling drunken fathers who can’t possibly understand how their little girl grew up and trying to rein in wedding parties with too much drama—like when the maid of honor used to sleep with one of the groomsmen and now she can’t even look at him, let alone be near him. I’ve dealt with divorced parents “accidentally” kicking each other. Wonky wedding cakes with poor structure because Aunt Susan thought she was better than the pros. Candles being tripped over, setting the outdoor ceremony’s lawn on fire—despite my warnings to the bride and groom that this would happen. Flowers being trampled because the wedding guests didn’t understand to enter the rows of chairs from the outside, not the aisle. Late officiants, grooms falling into bodies of water, brides crying their makeup off before the wedding, rings gone missing, and so, so much more.
This girl is tired.
Which means this week—it’s all about me.
No emails.
No texts.
No insane phone calls at two in the morning because the bride can’t possibly walk down the aisle without her cat by her side and I need to find a way to convince the venue to allow felines in their facilities.
Nope…this vacation is about my skimpy bathing suits, my glowing spray tan, and my much-needed lady pleasure.
And I couldn’t have picked a better place.
The Saint Hopper.
Located on the northeast side of the island of Bora-Bora, surrounded by a turquoise lagoon filled with protected coral reef, it is absolutely picturesque and includes kid-free pools, palm-shaded lounge chairs, and poolside service.
Heaven.
Absolute heaven.
“Good morning,” a staffer holding a towel says as I approach the shaded pool area.
“Good morning,” I say as he hands me the towel. “Oh, thank you.”
“Miss Mitchell, correct?” he asks.
I press my hand to my chest, my bosom nearly on full display. “Yes, that’s me.”
He holds his arm out to me. “Shall I show you to your lounge chair?”
“I would be absolutely delighted,” I say as I slip my arm around his beefy one. It doesn’t take me long to notice the way his white polo shirt sleeve clings to the boulder in his bicep, or the tattoos that slide down his arms to his wrist. Or the obvious veins in his hands indicating this man likes the gym when he’s not escorting ladies around the pool.
“Have you worked here long?” I ask, wanting to strike up a conversation since my body seems to approve of his tattoos. Seems like that’s all it takes to awaken the desires inside of me.
“Two years now,” he answers as he brings me to a lounge chair situated on the wood deck right next to the pool. Shaded by a giant palm tree with a small table to the side, it’s the perfect location for me to relax and read, maybe listen to some Hayes Farrow songs that often gets me in the mood. *wiggles eyebrows* If you know what I mean. “My wife works here as well, and she was the one who helped me find the job.”
Wife?Uh, not the term I want to be hearing around these parts. These breasts are not glistening under the beautiful, bright sun for married men.
But figures, Mr. Tattoos is attached. There were two options when it came to the beauty of this man—he was either attached, or forever a bachelor, hooking up with all single ladies that frequent the resort.
Too bad he’s the attached kind.
“How nice.” I offer him a smile, despite wanting to shake myself free of him. “Do you see her often while working?”
“Yes, I get to see her beautiful face anytime I walk in the lobby.”
