Malcolm makes his way over to his tent, admiring his employees’ handiwork and placing his duffel bag on the ground. He scans the crowd, looking for someone, and I feel my heart stumble again. Everyone’s trying really hard to act normal, but I can sense their attention is fixed on the six-foot-plus man in black slacks and a white shirt standing next to a big-ass ten-person tent. Like Rio’s, their faces display open amazement as they speculate and probably start catching on to who that man is.
A young strawberry blonde stumbles over. “Saint? What are you doing here?” she asks as her chest starts to heave a little too fast.
Saint looks at her. He seems to be trying to place her when the blonde speaks again.
“Tammy!” she tells him, almost giggling and ready to explode. “Tammy from the Ice Box, remember? You were there with your friends, I was there with my friends. . . .”
“Oh, that’s right,” he murmurs with no inflection, and then lifts his hand in a casual goodbye. “Good to see you, Tammy.”
He leaves her gaping longingly at his retreating back and heads straight—straight—toward me. Oh god. Since when did he spot me?
I faintly hear myself saying, “I’ll be right back” to Rio, or maybe to myself, as I sling my bag across my chest, stand, and dust myself off. I feel several pairs of eyes follow me toward Malcolm and his big-ass tent.
I can hear the grass and leaves crunch beneath my feet as we walk toward each other. He’s smiling at me, and once again, I feel myself blush a little.
“Aren’t you a little out of your element, Saint?” I laugh. He’s wearing his black suit with ease, those black slacks covering his long legs, and a white shirt that molds perfectly to his toned chest.
He smirks and eyes me up and down. “I was looking for you.”
“How’d you know I’d be here?” I ask.
Then I remember what I said at the Tunnel. My heart kind of warms a little bit that he came looking for me tonight. Why?
I gesture to his tent. “Nice little house you got there.”
He laughs. “House?”
“Yeah, you can fit what, like, ten people in there?”
“I was only planning on two,” he says in his deep voice.
I raise my eyebrow at him. “Two?”
“Yeah.” He adds, “You and me.”
My breath kind of gets stuck in my throat.
“Um, I’m sleeping with Rio over by the oak.” I point back to our sleeping bags.
He scrunches his brows. “Where’s your tent?”
“I don’t have one, my sleeping bag is all I need.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy.
I laugh. “Do you always have to be the center of attention? You know everyone else is sleeping in sleeping bags just like me, right?”
“I don’t care about everyone else—I care about you.” He looks down at me with those killer green eyes. “So you’re sleeping in my tent.”
Before I can protest, he takes my hand and leads me to the tent.
“Wait, I need to get my sleeping bag.”
“You don’t need it, I brought one,” he says over his shoulder as he continues pulling me inside the tent.
Once I’m inside, I can see this tent isn’t for ten people; it’s probably for like twenty. The ceiling is about seven feet tall. Or maybe a little lower, since Malcolm has to bend down a little to fit inside the tent. There’s a huge sleeping bag already inside that looks more like a mattress to me.
I can’t help laughing.
“What?” He’s grinning at me and he looks so delicious I laugh harder.
“Nothing.”
I sit down on the mattress/sleeping bag and pat the seat next to me. He sits down, his huge body warming mine just with how close he is. We’re not touching, but I can feel his hand is close to mine. I can see his profile from the corner of my eyes: his strong jaw, sexy-ass lips, and spiky black lashes. He is too beautiful. I have no idea how it’s even biologically possible to look like he does.
I’m left thinking about his strawberry blonde. And her long legs.
Her lips.
Her breasts.
And whether or not he slept with her.
“I bet she made you a great girlfriend,” I whisper.
He looks at me, his eyes sparkling. “I don’t kiss and tell.”
“You just kiss.”
“Exactly.” God, he’s teasing me again.
And I’m one big throbbing nerve of want and obsession.
I wonder. About those kisses he gives. I’ve read quite a bit on it, actually. His activities. Day, morning, and night, four women a day sometimes. And why not? Sexual energy courses through his veins. His body hums with it.
“Is it true you only sleep four times, tops, with a woman because your favorite number is four . . . ? ”
“I eat babies, too.”
“Malcolm! Serious.”
“Do you waste all this energy thinking about me?”
I blink.
“Do you?”
“No,” I say. “In fact, I’m super tired after just two minutes of trying to figure you out.”
“Don’t try to figure me out,” he helpfully suggests.
I tear open a package of marshmallows. I turn around and see him lying back on his elbow, watching me curiously.
I take out a marshmallow and place it in his hand. I pop one in my mouth. “It’s for eating?” I tease him. He laughs because my voice is muffled by the huge marshmallow. I laugh too and he pops the marshmallow I gave him into his mouth.
His lips. His mouth . . .
Lust slams into me like a train at full speed, and I’m suddenly trying to think of anything but how close we are.