Moore To Love (28 page)

“ASH, IF I DIDN’T KNOW
better, I’d think he’s trying to plump me up!” I stare at myself in the three-way mirror, wondering how I managed to go back to feeling—and looking—like I’m back to square one.

“You’re exaggerating. You look great.” Ashley fusses with the dress while the seamstress works on my hem.

I don’t want to stress her out with the wedding getting so close, so I drop the subject to touch on something far more pressing. “So, can you believe the whole Hudson Blackman thing? How did we not know who he is?”

Immediately following the catastrophe at my apartment, I found myself dwelling on my lack of current events knowledge. In other words, I wanted the scoop on Hudson Blackman so I did some digging. Turns out, Lane was right. Hudson’s worth millions, and while he is most definitely out of my league in
more
than a million ways, the fact still remains that he
was
interested in me. “I still can’t wrap my head around it. Why would a guy like him want someone like me?”

“We’re back to this again?” Ashley whines, practically stomping her foot.

I throw my arms up, earning a scowl from the elderly Italian seamstress. “I’m sorry. I know I’m a total PITA, but I don’t get it. Nowhere in any of the pictures in the rag mags is he seen with a woman my size. He’s usually photographed alone, but on the rare occasion he does have a chick on his arm, she is so far my opposite she might as well be from Mars.”

“I think you mean Venus.”

“Oh, whatever. You know what I’m talking about. Why, Ash? Even Tatum’s speechless about the whole thing. Someone of his wealth and power shouldn’t be single
or
chubby chasing.”

Ashley’s hands fly to her hips, her diamond sparkling when the light filters in from the window and catches it just right. “Would you stop it, already! I don’t like when you talk this way about yourself.”

“You mean, when I tell the truth?” I laugh. “Face it, Ash, this is me. I can diet, work out, starve, but I’ll never be a size two and guess what, I’m finally okay with that. So, if I can poke fun at my weight, just shut up and let me roll with it. I promise I’m not fishing for compliments. Just explanations.”

She closes her eyes and lets out a long sigh before shaking her head. “Why are you harping on this? Are you regretting your decision? Do you want Hudson instead of Lane? Is it about his money?”

“Ouch. Now
that
kinda stings.”

“Well, you did say honesty. So tell me. What gives?” She sits on the stool just outside the dressing room curtain and makes herself comfortable.

“Maybe I just don’t know how to be happy because, for once, I’m
so happy
with every aspect of my life, it’s scary. Myself, my career, Lane. It all feels so good, I wonder if I’m setting myself up for failure.” Admitting that feels like a brick’s been lifted from my chest.

“And this has what to do with Hudson?”

“Nothing, really. I guess the attention from him and now Lane is just a lot to swallow.”

Ashley giggles, bringing her hands to her lips. “You said swallow.”

“Seriously?”

Her giggles turn into cackles and my body starts to shake with her infectious amusement.

“Ouch!” I shout when the seamstress pricks me with a pin right in my calf. I look down but she doesn’t offer an apology, save for the Italian curse words I recognize from my days with my crazy great-grandma.

“So, you still haven’t told me. Is he your plus one?” Ashley composes herself as she bobs her knee up and down.

“Who? Lane?”

“No, Donald Trump. Of course, Lane. He is your boyfriend now, right?”

“That he is.” I beam, remembering last night when he spent the evening at my place and whispered sweet nothings in my ear until we fell asleep in each other’s arms. With our clothes on.
This waiting thing is getting harder by the day and it’s only been five.
But all that aside, things are going much better than I could’ve imagined.

“Okay, so he’s coming to the wedding, then. I’ll adjust the seating chart.” She claps her hands and wiggles on the stool.

“Someone’s excited.”

“And it shouldn’t be me. I already found the man of my dreams. Maybe Lane’s yours.”

Could he be? Is it too soon to tell? I mean, I’m happy and for me that’s a huge deal. The notion that I haven’t seriously stressed about my weight since before Miami says a whole lot about how Lane has changed me for the better. Couple that with how great he treats me and how wonderfully we get along, without even sleeping together yet—“You know what? Yeah. All that’s left to do is catch the bouquet. You think you can hook a sista up?”

A smile brightens her already bride-to-be glow. “I’ll see what I can do, but watch out for Tatum. She might trample anyone who gets in the way of her being next.”

“Things with her and Paul are so weird right now, I don’t know if she’s focused on marriage so much anymore.”

“That sucks. Trouble in paradise?”

I step down from the pedestal when the seamstress tells me she’s done and head for Ashley with my back toward her so she can unzip me. “Who knows. I never get a straight answer. Maybe we should hook her up with Hudson. One of us should benefit from his inheritance.”

“Leni!”

“What? He’s loaded! I may not be a gold digger, but Tatum has a not so subtle tendency to check a guy’s net worth before she gives him the time of day.”

Ashley snickers. “Get Hudson off your brain. It’s trouble. Lane sounds like a good guy.”

“He totally does, doesn’t he?” Giddiness overcomes me and all thoughts of Hudson and his oodles of cash vanish into thin air.

“Now, chop, chop. Get yourself dressed. We have cake tasting next.” She draws the curtain closed and leaves me to change.

“Doesn’t my brother want to be part of any of the planning?”

“Let’s get one thing straight. I love your brother, but he’s useless and couldn’t care less if we even have a cake.”

I shimmy into my jeans, and pull the zipper closed. “Then you’ve come to the right Moore sibling because me and cake—we’re tight like that.”

“These jeans are tight!” I whine louder than I intended, hating Ashley for talking me into that tenth sample of wedding cake.

“So, wear something else. Like a skirt. I love your legs.” Lane calls from the living room where he’s waiting for me to get dressed so we can meet up with the Cake Nazi and my brother.
He
should be the one squeezing
his
ass into ill-fitting jeans after all the tasting
he
should’ve been forced to do today.

I throw the once skinny jeans to the floor and rummage through my closest. Lane’s suggestion is adorable, but it’s chilly outside and a skirt would mean tights and tights would mean Spanx and what I really want is to be comfortable. With no other outfit options in the forefront of my mind, I grunt and groan, and consider cancelling our plans. Suddenly throwing on my bathrobe to watch a movie on the couch with Lane sounds mighty tempting. But then I remember how excited he was when I told him I wanted him to meet Reynold and Ashley. That came after his enthusiasm over being asked to be my date for the wedding. The guy is meant to be a boyfriend; I can tell you that much. So far, I’ve yet to find anything he doesn’t want to do as a couple or any excuse not to appease me. He’s wonderful, and it’s not merely because he looks at me like I’m the only woman in the world. It’s because I’m my best me around him. I don’t think I’ve ever been my best me before.

“Need any help in there?” he calls again, forcing me to pick something out in a pinch.

“No! I’ll be right out. Just a slight wardrobe malfunction.”

I overhear him chuckle, probably remembering my runway story, and the sound travels through my apartment and spreads to my own lips. Another Lane induced smile dances across my face and I realize that I’m being stupid over a pair of freaking pants. “Screw it!” I say to myself, heading for my dresser. “Trusty old black stretch pants, it is.”

As I pull them up over my silky shaven legs, the reason they’re actually called
stretch pants
becomes evident when I tug the tight, black spandex over my thighs. “Mother hell! You too! Just two weeks ago you fit like a glove. A loose one. Fucking Ashley and that cake!”

“Talking to yourself again?” Lane appears in the doorway, propped against the frame with an expression only a girlfriend could love.

“Get out of here, Mr. Impatient.”

He strides into my room, ignoring my request for him to leave, and kneels in front of me, where I’m playing tug of war with my pants. “Allow me?” I should be embarrassed because I’m only half-clothed, but I’m not. His eyes calm me, his tone hypnotizes me, and his hands soothe me into submission.

Luckily, I had enough sense to put on a top I liked before fighting with the bottoms. But I’m pretty flustered from rushing and tugging, and I’m trying to get the guy to sleep with me one of these days, not run for the hills. If any man can survive the wrath of me and my closet feuds, he’s a sure keeper. And right now, with Lane’s hands traveling up my now clammy legs as he guides the stretch pants over the parts of my body I hate most—I cannot believe he’s still smiling like that. Like he likes what he sees. Like I’m still the most beautiful girl in the world. Like he wants me.

“What?” I ask, when his eyes find mine and the silence becomes too painful to bear.

“I know I’m supposed to be putting these on, but I think I’d rather take them off.” Tonight, Lane wears confidence almost as well as he wears that tightly fitted button down. But we’ve been down this road before and we have dinner plans.

I place my hands over his, where they’ve so fittingly stopped right before my crotch, and I shake my head. “I know you don’t want this yet, so let’s just get me suited up and go meet my brother.”

“Do you always mention your brother when another guy’s between your legs?”

“Ew, and no.” I shove Lane’s hands away to get back to the original plan, but before I can slide the pants up any further, Lane is pushing me onto the bed.

He hovers over me with dark eyes, and then buries his face into the spot of my neck where I just spritzed an extra dab of perfume. “What are you doing? I thought you wanted to wait until you were more comfortable.”

“I never said I was uncomfortable with
your
body. Now, don’t take this the wrong way, but,
shhh
.” He hums against my skin as his hands meander, working my pants—and panties—totally down my legs and to the floor.

I could be my regular big-mouthed self and argue that he was the one who started this no sex policy in the first place, but I’ll be damned if his
shhh
hasn’t totally shushed me. And his fingers . . . those magical fingers have found their way to the sensitive skin around my navel and they’re teasing, exploring, lower, lower—“Oh, yes!” He finds the Mecca of womankind and I moan rather prematurely. I’ve been imagining this exact moment for as long as I can remember. Way before Lane became my boyfriend, prior to the tree, maybe even the first day I laid eyes on him on the runner’s track.

Needing to kiss him, I dig my fingers into Lane’s hair and force his face to mine. I kiss him like my life depends on it and it totally does because now that he’s started this, I might just die if he doesn’t continue. His tongue slides with mine and then darts in and out of my mouth with deliberate, torturous strokes that match the pace of his fingers down below.