But I’m surprised my tongue didn’t catch fire, because I don’t feel flippant. I feel anticipation of the kind that makes you concentrate on nothing. Makes you try to do ten things at once and fail at them all.

I haven’t seen him since he Frenched me outside my apartment right before the elevator doors closed.

By the time Gina gets home, I’ve got clothes strewn all over my room. I had texted her: Sin is at the Tunnel tonight and we’re going!

Whereas I’d been deliberating what to wear since before I even opened the door, she instantly storms inside and takes charge.

“What are you still doing in bra and panties? Get dressed! Wear that top that’s cool and modern in blue and white that says MY BOYFRIEND IS A SAILOR, just because you want to appear taken and like you didn’t try too hard.”

“Not try too hard? I spent four hours at a spa. I paid for my silly makeover.”

“Wear that top anyway that says your boyfriend is a sailor. If he wants in your pants, he’s going to loathe that.”

I pull the top out of my closet and eye it, my nerves skyrocketing as the seconds tick by. I decide maybe I will wear a skirt and the boyfriend top. Not as seductive as a dress but still, he can get an eyeful of long legs now that they’re slick and oiled up nicely. And why are you wanting to show him your long legs, Rachel?

“Is this a good idea, G?” I leap into my skirt.

“It’s a fucking great idea, it’s exactly what you wanted!”

“Um, no, it isn’t. I wanted research, but this is almost like a date.”

“No, it’s not. Saint doesn’t date. He just hooks up.”

God, I’m wishing he’ll drool for me.

I’m wishing that at least one night, one night in his existence, he will have a wet dream about me.

But I’m still so uncertain. I turn and ask Gina, “Is this all right? I’m treading such a fine line. . . .”

“Rachel, just remember he’s using you, you’re using him; you’re not in a relationship, nor will you ever be. Just do the job and don’t get involved.”

“Okay,” I quickly agree, just to get her to stop saying the word using.

I gulp back a ball of nerves the size of a lemon and as bitter as the peel, then grab my bag and tell myself that I can do this, that I want to do this, that I want to do this more than I want to do him.

16

TUNNEL

“Okay, we’re mingling. Help me find Emmett.”

Wynn, Gina, and I roam the mazelike rooms inside the Tunnel with the smells of clay walls and sweat filling our nostrils along with perfume, cologne, and alcohol. Flashing lights and music hit us as we head toward the heart of the Tunnel, the “pit.” Wynn leads the pack while I trail behind, head turning as I look for him.

“Bet he’s there.” Gina points at a room to the right, which is filled to capacity, so I can’t even see past the wall of glittery dresses and skin at its fringes.

“Why there?”

“Hello? Where there’s smoke there’s fire? Where there’s Saint, there are GIRLS.”

Frowning at that, I wedge myself through to the busiest corner, and my heart stutters because there he is, the Guy Who Owns My Hormones. While Callan and Tahoe look good, Saint could be wearing a sign that says BRING EXTRA PANTIES.

Two women sit on each of his friends’ laps, and a pretty blonde socialite is talking to Malcolm, looking at him in complete rapture.

Music pulses through the speakers. Bodies bump and jostle as I steal this moment to watch him while he’s not watching me. Tan, his hair standing up a little bit, his shirt rolled to the elbows like it always is at the clubs, where it gets hot and crazy. God, butterflies.

He’s laughing as he turns, rather casually scanning the room, and then his shoulders tense. My heart stops, flips, because he’s noticed me. Then I’m subjected to the seriously uncomfortable pressure of his scrutiny.

He cocks a brow, and once again he gets that curl to his lip. You going to stay there all night? I can almost hear him say.

Saint sets his drink down on the side table and comes over. Every step makes my heart beat faster and faster. He looks at me, starting at my feet and working his way upward—his eyes miss no detail.

“Rachel.” He draws me into his strong arms and presses a kiss to my cheek, the brush of his lips so incredibly light I can’t believe such a minuscule gesture can do so many things to my body. I’m having a war inside myself as I try to steady my breathing as he takes my hand and tugs me to their table in the back. I was born a girl; I’ve got proof of that on my birth certificate. But I’ve never felt so much like a girl until this moment, when my hand feels tiny and fragile in his strong grip.