She slaps her hand against my chest, distracted by her ring, then follows with a sarcastic laugh. “How quickly you remember the blonde with the lean legs.”
“The most ridiculous concept for a movie… mannequins coming to life. Give me a break.”
She shakes her head left to right grinning like crazy. Staring back at me is this beautiful woman who’s just agreed to be my wife. Wrapping her arms around my neck, I settle my hands on her hips and bring her in for a long-awaited kiss.
She said yes.
Zoey Richards is going to be my wife.
Chapter Two
Zoey
I’m having that dream again.
I am late for work, and the only item of clothing I can find is my Guns N’ Roses tank. It’s very roomy and shows some major side boob. Not even side boob—just all boob. For some reason, I cannot locate a bra, choosing to let the girls hang loose. And down below, I am completely naked.
I run for the bus o
nly to miss it, watching it drive down the street and around the corner. It doesn’t occur to me to hail a cab, so I wait for the next bus to come along. My watch says it’s ten in the morning, and work started an hour ago.
The bus finally arrives, and it is crammed. Commuters are squished together like sardines. The bus takes off with a jerk flinging my body against others as I hang on for dear life, almost naked.
I’m well aware that people are staring at me. A mixture of amusement, disgust, and sheer concern etched all over their pathetic faces. No one offers me a coat, happy to continue watching me as I carry on like this is normal. My legs cross purposely covering my lady bits as best I can while the bus stops completely and doesn’t move for an hour.
Yes—one hour. And no one says a goddamn thing, continuing to stand in silence.
Oddly, it never occurs to me to call my boss and tell him I’m going to be late. And by the time I reach the office, it’s after lunch, and I am still naked.
I wake up with my skin crawling in sweat. My heart is beating a million miles a minute forcing me to sit up while rubbing my eyes to allow me to take in my surroundings.
It was just a dream—a stupid recurring dream.
I’m in bed with my fiancé.
That never gets old.
Drew crawled into bed at some ridiculous hour. These late shifts are killing him. Okay, not him. He’s used to a changing body clock. They kill me. I hate him doing nights. One, I didn’t like being alone since that creepy dude with the ferrets moved in downstairs. Ferrets—plural. The most annoying and useless pet anyone could have thought of.
And two, I miss him.
I have somewhat gotten used to it. Plus, I guess it has its perks sometimes. Telling people your then ‘boyfriend’ is a doctor generates excitement in women, mainly. Men couldn’t care less. On second thought, I’ll take that back. Gay men care. They care a lot.
And when he works nights, it allows me to get my secret girl business done. The stuff I did behind closed doors when we were roomies. Things like plucking hairs in odd and random places, placing my feet in moisturizing booties while I lie in bed and watch re-runs of Charles in Charge. Then, with a bag of Cheetos, I secretly gush over how cute Scott Baio was, my fingers orange after eating the entire bag. A guilty pleasure Drew will never understand, Cheetos being the devil’s food according to him.
Drew is lying on his stomach. The sheets are pulled down exposing his back muscles and sitting just enough to cover his cute and toned little man ass.
I lie back down and turn to face him staring and wondering how I got so lucky. Things haven’t always been like this between us. That whole ‘roomie’ thing turned out to be four years of pent-up sexual frustration on both our parts. Finally, being in a relationship means we get the best of both worlds. We already know each other and are best friends, so the anxiety of being with someone and having your secrets spill over one drunken night is happily not needed. He knows everything about me, witnessing my not-so-proud moments, and vice versa.
And the best part—we still experience that whole butterfly thing.
Flying back into the country and admitting my feelings for him started a chain reaction—a sexual chain reaction. It’s like we needed to make up for four years’ worth. There were days where I could barely walk because my vagina was on the verge of broken. Seriously, I needed a closed-for-repair sign hanging so I could recover. Drew, being the witty doctor, had an answer for that. Any hole’s a goal.
And that it was.
That first day when I returned, he took the entire week off, and we never left the bedroom. Okay, so I’m exaggerating just a little. We left the bedroom for the shower, kitchen, and sofa, all of which had one thing in common—sex.
Drew’s like no other man I’ve ever been with. He’s a mixture of raw yet attentive. He knows me inside and out. He pleasures me in ways I never imagined. Everything between us is so perfect, and him proposing is the icing on the already delicious cake.