VISIT BEFORE THE WEDDING

In my room I find four dresses.

The Vera Wang, Reem Acra, Yumi Katsura, and Monique Lhuillier—two of them even include handwritten notes from the designers themselves.

From simple, to Regency style, to one covered in what looks like diamond dust, these are the most beautiful dresses I’ve ever seen—the finest for his girl. I feel warm just thinking about him having a hand in making sure they were ready for our day.

I touch the materials, then I spend the next hour trying them on.

They’re so spectacular, each one as pretty as the last. I wouldn’t even know which to pick!

But no.

I think I’ve set my fear aside. I’m getting married with his mother’s engagement ring and my mother’s dress.

As I take off the last dress, Gina, Wynn, and my mother are all oohing and aahing in my living room.

“He spoils you, girl!” Gina says laughing.

But Wynn and Mom are gushing.

I remember my mother reading about love languages. After my father died, she wanted to be sure that I felt loved as a child, so she read books, went to conferences, and explained to me that people express love in different ways. She said there were five basic ways, which include: touch, gifts, service to your loved ones, quality time together, and verbal feedback. Not everyone responds to, or uses, the same language, which can cause miscommunication in relationships.

Touch was my language. She was told to be tender, and she was . I responded well to her hugs. I simply respond well to physical contact.

I can’t explain, even on the evening before my wedding, how good and perfect it feels when Saint holds the back of my head in one hand and my entire back in the other and kisses me. I think Sin’s love language is touch too. But also gift giving—this man is relentless when it comes to showering me with amazing things!

While the girls and Mother help put each dress back into its protective cover, I head into the adjoining bedroom to change.

I slip into Saint’s large, white button shirt, a pair of leggings, and my socks, then I pull open the glass doors and step out to feel the breeze and get some fresh night air. Through the crashing of the waves, I hear the guys talking in the private patio. My skin crackles pleasurably as I hear Saint’s baritone.

“. . . reason both you and Gina didn’t bring dates to the wedding . . . ?” Malcolm’s tone is cool and quiet, but there’s an underlying threat of caution in his words.

A full-on silence that follows, broken only by Tahoe’s quiet “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Gina. Now there’s a lady who goes down as smoothly as an abrasive,” Callan says.

“Stay away, T. She’s Rachel’s best friend.” This from Saint. No nonsense, and kind of exasperated.

Tahoe stays quiet.

The silence stretches, and then comes the sound of what seems like ice cubes being pulled out of the chiller.

“When you saw Rachel for the first time, what did you feel?” Tahoe asks, low.

“Felt new. I felt like I saw a woman for the first time.”

Oh my god. I’m fluttering to my toes.

“Yeah. That’s not how I feel,” Tahoe says.

“You’re just irked that she hasn’t thrown her underwear at your head,” Callan lazily deduces.

“Fucking pissed.”

“Pissed that she’d rather have anyone else than you and your billions.” Callan keeps on expertly rubbing it.

“Absolutely ludicrous, but there you have it.”

“She’d rather be your friend than be in your bed.”

“Motherfuck me, yes,” Tahoe growls.

I get that little squeeze right in the center of my tummy when Saint’s voice floats up to me next. “She’s a good girl, T. The kind you play house with, not games.”

“Fucking relax, Saint. I won’t do anything you wouldn’t do.”

There’s a soft laugh. “Touché.”

I turn back to the living room and realize the girls are wide-eyed, especially Gina. Could she hear them, too, through the open doors? An amused smile touches my lips, and I grab my phone from the bed and text Malcolm:

We heard you

Just thought you should know

Gina looks like she just swallowed a little bit of wire

Shortly he replies:

Sorry

He’s had a bottle of Pinot

U going to sleep any time soon?

Me: Too excited to

Saint: You miss me?

Me: A little

Saint: Text me when you miss me a little more

Me: Oh don’t wait up! Enjoy the booze and the boys. I know how HARDcore you are

Saint: How well you know me

I smile at the phone. And ache in all sorts of places. I write, I do miss you. Perfect wedding night seems more impossible by the second, but I’m determined

Saint: It’ll be perfect

Me: So don’t tempt me, SIN!

Saint: I want my girlfriend in my arms, our last night together

Oh, fuck him and the Saint Effect. My butterflies are flapping, so awake right now I can hardly stand steady enough to text: I want my boyfriend too. Tell him to come over before he goes to sleep. He’s been the best boyfriend I’ve ever had. He should get one last kiss.

He replies simply, I can taste you already.

The guys keep talking with lowered voices. Heading back to the living room to drop myself on a couch, I pop my phone into the stereo and play soft music so the girls don’t overhear anymore.

Gina’s super thoughtful, though.

She’s spread out, all her voluptuous curves hugged by the extra-long T-shirt she wears. She’s like Marilyn Monroe in brunette, and now very quiet. Wynn’s hair is spread out behind her on the other side of the couch. My friends are both pretty, young, and sprightly. But no match for Saint’s friends.

Callan and Tahoe are attractive and unscrupulous enough to take any woman without a thought.

“Four dresses, that’s . . . unheard-of,” I hear Wynn say as her eyes drift back to the four designer dresses hanging in their plastic coverings. “What’s your language, Rache?” Wynn asks.

My attention snaps back to the group, and it takes me only a second to catch on to what she means. “Words for sure.” Dibs! “Touch, too.”

“I am so touch. In fact if we go an hour together and Emmett hasn’t held my hand, I’m convinced he’s stopped loving me.”

Gina shakes her head and curls her legs beneath her. “I don’t trust words. Touch makes me uncomfortable. But I’ll take the gifts.”

I wag my head no. “That’s not your love language, Gina. You service others. You put food in the fridge. You look out for them.”

“If a guy does that for you, and speaks to you in your looooove language,” Wynn warns, “you’ll be toast. Buttery hot toast.”

“No problem, since most guys are selfish. They want to be serviced, not the other way around.”

“They’re like us, Gina,” Wynn counters. “Except with a lot of sexy testosterone. Which, thanks to the abstinence, will have skyrocketed by the time Rachel reaches the honeymoon. I can feel Saint; he’s just a tad pissy with Tahoe. He’s sexually frustrated. He wants you, Rachel.”

I think I feel it too and I’m speeding a thousand miles an hour on the highway to heaven.