He laughs.

God, his laugh.

Butterflies.

“Where are you?”

“Golfing with the guys.”

“When did you change your status?”

“What?”

“On Facebook.”

“I didn’t change it. One of my assistants must have.”

“Oh.”

He laughs and I feel like a dick.

“You’re disappointed, Rachel?”

“No, I wouldn’t even expect monogamy from you.” I guess I’m testing him with that comment. I’m doing a girl thing, needy for reassurance, needy to hear him define what it is we have going on between us.

He doesn’t give me much, but he says, “I do. From you.”

“What? You think I can tackle any other guy at the same time I tackle you?” I ask.

Oh, my heart.

“Tahoe’s dicking with the golf cart—I’ll call you back.”

“Fucking Tahoe,” I mumble to myself as I hang up.

“Tahoe. I swear he needs something to do,” Gina says.

“Like you. Just say it.”

“Never.”

“He’s the product of your every fantasy.”

“He’s an animal.”

“He thinks you’re succulent.”

“What?”

“Yes, he asked me your name. ‘That succulent friend of yours.’ ”

“He did not. Motherfucker!”

I sit there staring morosely at my “single” status.

Gina sits there, stumped because Tahoe thinks her succulent.

She recovers first. “I feel awful for you, but you walked into it with your eyes and, apparently, your legs open, Rachel.”

I roll to my shoulders so I can face her. “Gina, just having feelings for him makes me feel like I’m betraying me and you. We said we wouldn’t do this.”

“And now you’ll have to make a choice, Rachel: the job or the man.”

“There is no choice! If I choose him he’ll fly away like some wild falcon before I can even hold him for long.”

Gina grimaces. “Then pray he ends things soon.”

“It hurts praying for something you don’t want.”

“Then end it yourself. Get it over and done with.”

I sigh.

“Rache, did he really say that?”

“Tahoe?”

“No, his dick. Of course, Tahoe. Well, Tahoe and his dick.”

“Yes, but I don’t want him near you.”

She scowls. “I hope he stays away from me next month—it’s the anniversary of Paul’s dumping me, and I always feel particularly vulnerable.”

I groan and fall back on the bed, rubbing my face. “Gina! What’s happening to us?”

“Man. Mankind. Manwhores.”

Sigh.

“You and Saint.” She studies me dubiously. “You ever wonder if you and he could have an epic relationship?”

“You mean epic disaster.”

“No, I mean”—she shrugs—“he’s excitement, and you could ground him. It could be an epic relationship if he doesn’t fuck it up . . . or you.”

“This from you? I’m blown away right now, Gina.”

“I’m just asking. You have to have wondered. You know. Like a sex fantasy but without sex.”

“I do,” I admit. “I wonder what it would be like to be a part of his life, not just his bed. I know it was me who set up the relationship that way . . . not wanting to be part of public scrutiny. But I also know deep down it would never work. He can’t be had, G.” I shake my head. “Saint will never be had.” And even if he could be, a scenario of what it could be like pops into my head. “Plus I’ll live in fear of every other single woman out there and of Malcolm’s nature to fuck around just because he can.”

“Then just enjoy it, Rachel.” She sighs and pats the top of my head, saying exaggeratedly, “You have my blessing, child.”

“Do you mean that, Gina?”

She smiles. “I wish you wouldn’t, but you’re too far in. Plus, if I say no, you’re going to keep doing it behind my back. Please don’t. I’m your friend, that’s what I’m here for.”

“Thank you.” God, it’s like an enormous weight has been lifted from my shoulders. It’s torture to be on a roller coaster, unable to scream, and that’s exactly how having to bottle up the experience has felt.

I stare blankly at the ceiling, and then just smile because . . .