This afternoon I’ve smeared on a lot of sunscreen, enough to let me get a good tan but hopefully keep me from burning. My skin prickles under the warmth of the sun. I can feel the Lake Michigan air, the wind playing with my hair, the soft rocking motions of the yacht as it glides through the water. The engines hum softly, lulling me to a near sleep. But I’m too aware to sleep—I don’t want to miss anything. The work calls he makes. How he relaxes but still is somehow alert to his business.

Saint’s been dipping into the water all day. I know it’s cold, because I went in once too. He’s been swimming a little and diving in every half hour, regardless of whether his friends are swimming or wakeboarding. I’ve been staying on my chaise, warm and cozy under the setting sun, but he’s always doing something. It’s like he doesn’t relax. He exudes a force; no wonder he’s always active. Skiing black diamonds, skydiving, flying . . . He takes the risks of someone who has nothing to lose. He takes more risks than anyone I’ve ever known.

I’m in my tiny white bikini and hungrily circling an oasis of food when his friends, Tahoe and Callan, join me.

I linger by their sides and altogether try to avoid Saint merely because we seem to have come to a truce, but I’m a bit out of my element. In his space, with his friends.

The interest in his eyes, every time I look around to find him watching me, makes me more nervous than I’ve ever been in my life.

When he brushes my arm with his, I find myself instinctively edging to the side. When he comes to stand beside me, I shrink from the warmth of his touch. I’m unsettled and I don’t know why. He ends up heading to the opposite end of the party. He disappears into one of the cabins—on business, the friends say—until a pair of women go and coax him out to “sit” with them. He drops onto a couch, his arms spreading over the backrest. I can feel his stare on me as if it were a touch.

I try to get into the stories his friends are sharing with the group. But out of the corner of my eye, I can’t stop watching the girls sitting on either side of Saint nearly blabber their mouths off as they try to get his attention.

We stay on the deck sitting area with the group while Malcolm slowly drains a glass of wine. And then another.

We end up telling drinking stories, friend stories, stalking stories about girls who stalk Malcolm.

“His old man never knew what he was going to bring home since Kalina,” Callan explains.

“You brought home a naked girl?” one of his floozies asks him, pouting jealously.

The beginning of a smile tips the corners of his mouth. “She was an artist, and her clothes were painted on. Quite nice, actually.”

I feel my mouth quirk up too. His gaze locks on me and his smile fades, his look growing thoughtful.

“So we missed you at the after-party,” Tahoe says to me.

“I bet.” I steal a glimpse in the direction of where Saint lounges back, aloof, and I notice one of the girls is holding grapes in her hand and is trying to push a grape past his lips. He’s looking at me, watching me. I watch him as he absently opens his mouth to munch on the grape but never, for a second, takes his eyes off me.

“One more,” the girl whispers at his jaw, pushing another grape past his beautiful lips.

His jaw muscles flex as he crushes it with his molars, and I wonder what he tastes like right now. Fresh. Juicy. His eyes gleam as he watches my reaction, and my entire body begins to vibrate with feelings I can’t even process. My cheeks flare with the same heat that spreads across my skin like wildfire. The night only makes him look darker.

Dangerously, primitively darker.

I can’t stand the knot in my stomach, completely merciless when he’s near. I shift to the side and ask his friends, “What did you all do? You’re so famous for your parties, I can’t imagine what happens at the after-parties.”

“I skinny-dipped.” Tahoe grins. “Callan got a bit too far into his cups to remember.”

And SAINT?

“Saint and I had a good time,” one of the women fawning over Malcolm says.

I feel my cheeks burn. Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him.

“We gave him quite a show,” the other says with a little purr that makes my bile sort of rise.

This is golden information. Really. This is the kind of material that the spiciest exposés are made of. But I can’t seem to manage to force myself to stay and hear the rest. The walls of my stomach seem to be caving in, and without being able to stop myself, I quietly get to my feet and ask if I can go into a cabin to rest a little.

I don’t even wait for anyone to assent; I just head around to the sitting area, avoiding anyone’s gaze—avoiding his gaze. Since I’m suddenly craving air, I instead end up heading to the top deck. At the bow, I just lean on the railing and stare out at the lake. At the horizon. At a little piece of moon.

I get my phone out and try to write something. Writing always makes me feel better. Complete.

But I can’t concentrate.

I set it aside and stare out at the lake.

Minutes later, fireworks explode in the sky while the group watches and hoots from below. The sight is mesmerizing. I exhale and watch the lights shoot up from Navy Pier and burst up high. It’s so still right here, on the lake at night. I’ve always wanted to find a nice, warm spot where nothing is moving, where everything is as it should be, and I want to stay here, still and quiet, in that spot. Funny to find that spot when your world is spinning out of control.

I type one word into my phone to feel better. The first one that comes to mind when I see the lake and sky touch at the horizon.

Endless

The wind ruffles my hair, and I tie it into a bun at my nape as I turn to the top-deck sitting area. That’s when I see him. He’s sitting with his torso lightly stretching his shirt, the glow of his phone illuminating his profile. I didn’t hear him approach. Why isn’t he below? Why won’t this stupid knot inside me ease?

“Taking over the world is a full-time job for you, I see,” I whisper.

He slowly stands, the button-down shirt he wears casually falling open to reveal his swim trunks and his smooth, hard abs and chest and neck. He seems taller and larger when he steps closer. The air shifts quickly in temperature, or maybe it’s me, warming and blushing because he was here the whole time. And he is so beautiful. He’s the first beautiful thing I’ve ever seen that actually hurts to look at.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to break your concentration. I’ll leave you to it,” I whisper.