“What business thing?” asks Wynn.

“What do you fucking mean? This should have been yelled out since you stepped in the door!” Gina cries, indignant.

“Oh god.” I moan into my pillow, then toss it over to them, red. “I can’t talk about it. I need to process! Good night, guys!”

I hear them murmur to themselves and speculate, I sit on my bed and scroll my contacts in my phone.

Do it, a part of me prods. No, don’t do it, another part goes. Yes, ask him something he needs to answer. But I can’t. I can’t push that hard. I need to take a page from his book and be patient.

I hug my pillow instead. Saturday, I think, making a mental list of things.

I need to look perfect.

I need to not make a fool of myself.

I need to remind him of what great friends we were even when we weren’t deliciously fucking.

I need to win Saint back.

SATURDAY

When a shiny silver Rolls-Royce pulls over outside my apartment building on Saturday, I fairly shoot out the door.

I’m wearing a pair of white slacks with a cardi and silk top, and I colored my cheeks a little bit, and glossed my lips, opting to look professional, and I tied my hair back in a braid that hangs down my back. When I walk out and see Otis standing there, guarding the Rolls as he waits, I can’t control the excitement surging in me.

“A pleasure, Miss Rachel,” he says, beaming.

“It really is,” I admit with a smile.

I settle in the backseat and Malcolm’s familiar scent reaches me. Clean and expensive. I take a good whiff of his aftershave and cologne and am sure I just stepped into heaven—a heaven ruled by a green-eyed devil.

The scent lingers strongly, along with a whiff of top-quality leather. I feel butterflies. Eat your heart out, Pretty Woman.

Soon the car pulls up at the driveway of a 5-star resort hotel, where Catherine H. Ulysses greets me at the door. As she leads me across the sumptuous lobby, she explains the situation. “Every summer, Mr. Saint’s winemakers invite him, along with a few of his choice business partners and employees, to a wine tasting so he can select his favorites for the yearly M4 gala. He wanted you to meet them, considering . . .” She shoots me a disgruntled look. “He wants you at M4.”

As we walk down the hall, a group of men come forward, one of whom rushes to catch up with us. “Cathy! We really want Saint to place an order with us at South Napa Vineyards.”

“I couldn’t sway him either way.” Catherine keeps walking with a clipboard to her chest, and I try not to break stride either.

“Please put in a good word for us, we’ve brought all of our best whites.”

“What can I say, Richard? Some days he likes reds, others he likes whites, others he’s up for pinot noir rather than the cabernets. He likes his variety; what can you do?”

“Catherine, we’ve been doing this for years. By now we’d love some sort of commitment. It would speak highly of us if we were to be the prime supplier this year.”

“And I’ll tell you what I told the rest of them: good luck. May the saints be with you.”

We wade into a beautiful restaurant already full of people. The space boasts twenty-five-foot ceilings and is set up with long tables, each one draped in white linens with elegant silverware and sleek chrome centerpieces holding long, lone orchids.

Pure luxury surrounds us.

At the far end of the room, expansive glass doors open all the way to the walls, revealing dramatic views of a golf course to one side, and a pool, waterfall, and pergola to the other.

After we cross the room, we head into another section, even more luxurious than the first. This area is strategically scattered with white-upholstered conversational seating, lines of delicate folded menus standing open at the centers of the sleek glass coffee tables. Wine racks line one side of the room while the other side reveals a beautiful view of a terrace and golf course.

Catherine is checking out the area while telling one of the waiters who approaches, “This turned out perfect. Mr. Saint likes the view. He also likes his privacy. Nice little area here. Good job, thank you.”

Holy god, it’s all so beautiful. It reminds me of his apartment, his cars.

Everything about him.

I’m letting my eye appreciate every inch of this place, when I see Saint walk in. My eyes hurt.

Catherine lifts her head too. “Excuse me,” she tells the waiter. “Excuse me,” she then tells me, flustered as she heads for the door.

As Catherine threads through the crowd to greet him with her chart to her chest, there’s an almost imperceptible hush in the room.