Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(46)

“Female. I’m taking her to greasy Chinese to make sure she knows how to pig out properly. I hate having dinner with a little stick. Which is why it’s so hot to dine with a man. Nothing gets me going like a healthy appetite.”

I keep surfing the internet, researching.

“Did you know penguins are monogamous?” I ask.

“Yes, I was among that tribe once but have rebelled. See, I’m no longer going to be restrained by traditional dating rules, and neither should you. Oh, wait, you don’t date. Do you?”

I smirk. “Just because you didn’t change my mind doesn’t mean nobody else can.”

“See! You ARE dating him.”

“NO! NO! Just . . . silence, please. You need to go and . . . meditate. To your desk. Shoo!”

I field questions all day, pretending that last night didn’t give my little world a little too big of a shake.

17

NIGHT

This Sunday, at another neighborhood campout, I’m still thinking about the club as I scan my phone for new links about him. Strange. He’s been rather socially quiet lately. There’s hardly been any big party he’s been linked to since that after-party he refused to allow me to attend.

I notice in the back of my mind that there have been about five guys parading in and out of the park, setting up what I think is the biggest-ass tent I’ve ever seen in my life. Everyone is settling into their sleeping bags, snacking on nuts and berries or marshmallows. I turn to look at the big-ass tent again and wonder what the hell is going on.

“Hey, do you know whose tent that is?” I ask the girl settled next to me, a frequent campout attendee named Rio who’s organizing her stuff next to her sleeping bag.

She turns to look at the big-ass tent situated at the edge of the camping site and shrugs lightly. “I have no idea, but whoever’s in that tent really wants to make a statement.”

I laugh a little and turn back to my sleeping bag. The men haven’t come back in like ten minutes, so I think the tent is finished.

I place my sleeping bag next to Rio’s. The sun is setting, and everyone seems to be winding down. Deciding I need to tune them out and try to relax and gear up to hunt you-know-who next weekend, I take out my earplugs and listen to some music, lying down on my back and looking at the sun drift in through the leaves of the trees. Occasionally a gust of wind comes, and I feel it cool my skin and move my hair.

I breathe in deeply, enjoying the feel of grass beneath my flimsy sleeping bag. I’ve had it for years now. I took it to my first sleepover in seventh grade, and I’ve been using it at these campouts, so over the years it’s lost a lot of its cushion, but I refuse to get rid of it.

Rio taps my side and I sit up for a moment, reaching out to take a marshmallow from her hand, and in my peripherals, I see a dark figure. I turn around and see Malcolm Saint getting out of his car, swinging a duffel bag over his shoulder. I feel like my heart just tripped inside my chest. I turn to look at Rio and see that everyone is glancing at Malcolm and whispering in each other’s ear. Great.

Rio stares. “This is not the kind of candy I expected us to have at the campout.”

I gulp and focus on chewing the stupid marshmallow in my mouth.

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?”