“What’s that?” Gina counters, sounding curious, leaning over to him flirtatiously.

Tahoe murmurs something in her ear.

I hear a sharp sound of skin hitting skin, which I don’t have to see to know Gina just playfully whacked Tahoe on the arm.

The boys laugh, all except Malcolm, who’s not laughing but whose perfect lips are forming his perfectly lopsided smirk.

“Sorry, ladies,” Tahoe apologizes. “To be fair, you did ask.”

“Of course we know it’s just about sex, with men,” Gina says. Her trademark realism, what others call sarcasm, is heavy in her words.

“Why do you say that?” Tahoe asks, sounding somewhat serious now.

“Men don’t love like women do. It’s different for them.”

“Well, I object,” Tahoe says. “I love my mother,” he finishes proudly.

Gina chuckles a little. “That’s different. We love our mommas too. In fact, Rachel’s momma is anxious to meet Saint.”

Saint looks at me.

Then Callan says something about going on the yacht tomorrow, and Gina and Wynn start debating about bathing suits and weather predictions. Slowly, Saint wades his way through the terrace and drops down beside me. He stretches his arm behind me and looks down at me soberly.

“Your mother wants to meet me?” he asks.

I chew the inside of my cheek. “Everybody wants to meet you,” I hedge. And when he just stares at me, I admit, “She’d love to. She’s been asking.”

“Then I’ll meet her,” he whispers.

“Serious stuff, that,” Tahoe whistles, sitting down nearby. “Just don’t take her to your dad, Saint. Unless you want her to quit you.”

I look at Malcolm, and he’s as calm as usual, though I’m all tense now at the mention of Noel Saint.

“Why?” Gina asks.

“His dad’s a real piece of work!” Tahoe declares.

“He couldn’t even stand us stopping by the house,” Callan growls angrily.

I smile wanly at Malcolm and although he returns my smile, he promptly steers Tahoe back to the topic of his portfolio and ends the subject. Easy as that.

“So T,” he begins, and everyone follows his direction into that.

I know Saint’s dad is an ass. He’s called an ass by most everyone who knows him. Blunt, rude, presumptuous. I read it and saw it online, countless times, how he tries to pretend he’s so much bigger and grander than his son. Though Saint seems to reject even the thought of the bastard, he’s made it clear he doesn’t want me within the same zip code as his father. Still, the thought of Noel Saint setting a foot on Edge, a place I have come to love and sacrifice so much for, haunts me a little.

It doesn’t last long.

Five minutes later, Otis comes up to the penthouse. Saint greets him for a minute by the elevator, then comes back to head to the guys. On his way there, he says, “Livingston?”

I perk up from my chat with the girls and turn to see him ball a piece of fabric into his hand.

“Got you something,” he says.

He tosses it into the air, and it lands softly on my lap.

“What is it?” Curious, I spread the cotton fabric open and make out the Cubs T-shirt, size small. Signed by every fucking player who played tonight.

“You didn’t!” I look up at him, balling it up and tossing it back at him as if it burned.

Holy shit!

Holy, holy shit!

He catches the shirt easily, then frowns and looks down at it. “Yeah, I did.” Frowning harder even as his eyes start glimmering with pure amusement, he brings it over and presses it into my hands. “It’s yours,” he chastises me.

When he bends to kiss my cheek, I burst out with glee, “I’ll frame it!”

My friends manhandle my present so much, I hide it in Saint’s closet next to his perfect designer clothes, occupying a hanger of honor right in the middle. When I return to the living room, the girls inform me they’re leaving. Sin’s friends are still going strong and seem cranked up for more, as if it’s not 2 a.m. already.

I waver on what to do.

This staying-over, not-staying-over thing is new territory for me.

For . . . us.

“Saint?” I draw him out of the group for a moment. “I think I should maybe go with Gina,” I tell him.

He glances at the girls for a second, then peers down at me with a little smile. “I think you should stay.”

“I . . .” God, I’m blushing? “I don’t have fresh clothes. And don’t even mention my T-shirt ’cause that’s getting framed.”