He closes the door.
WAR
Later that night he texts me, Free tomorrow?
I answer this because I want him to tell me what’s going on: Depends on where we’re going or who’s asking. What’s going on? I’ve been anxious, waiting to hear something ever since he took off.
But he ignores my question and instead answers: So it’s a no for everyone except me.
Someone’s cocky! I write back with a laugh.
Wear something comfortable.
With a delighted sigh, I resign myself to the fact that my mystery man will remain a mystery on this night. Whatever he’s up to, I trust he knows what he’s doing, though.
The next day he picks me up in BUG 2, and once he tells me we’re going to a polo match, I keep asking him to tell me what he is up to. But he just chucks my chin and says, calmly and unhurriedly, “Next week.”
His calm makes me relax about it as he leads me into the grounds. He’s wearing skintight white riding pants that hug an ass as perfect as a baseball player’s and a navy blue polo that hugs his torso, riding boots up to an inch below his knees.
Callan and Saint are playing, so Callan meets us and greets us before Saint leads me to a small, round white table with a perfect view of the field, kisses the corner of my mouth, and heads toward the stables.
For hours I sip my mineral water and watch the match, the thundering hooves hitting the ground, shuddering the stands. My hair flying in the wind. All I need is a hat and I’m absolutely in Pretty Woman.
I’m hooked on the game. Saint straddling a black thoroughbred horse, charging across the field, swinging a mallet in his hand, his muscles rippling, sweat glistening on his forehead. His horse has red ankle wraps on all four legs, and between the way it thunders down the field and the way Saint rides powerfully on it, I can’t see anything else.
But I can hear the whispers of the ladies at the tables behind mine, about the guy on the black horse. Who is he?
That’s Malcolm Saint, you dodo.
Shh, his girlfriend’s right there!
Carmichael’s on the white horse . . . do you see him?
I smile privately to myself.
Callan and Sin come over when the match is done. The tables behind me fall utterly quiet. They won 10 to 5, and I kiss Saint on the jaw and congratulate him and then I congratulate Callan.
“Gotta golden swing, this man of yours,” he says as he pats Saint’s back and they drop into their seats. Then it’s “Hey, ladies,” as he greets the girls behind us.
They titter.
We stay talking for a while, my curiosity peaked about the polo game more than ever.
“’Fess up, Saint. Does your horse have four names, like you?” I ask.
“He only came with one.” His green eyes twinkle and his lips curl as he sips his water with a hand on the back of my chair. “He already had a track record when I purchased him at auction.” Then he adds, “Matrix.”
“And Callan’s horse?”
“Swear to god, Saint, if you poke fun at my girl again . . .”
“His horse came with a name too.” Malcolm leans his head to me and laughs when Callan shoots him a deadly look. “Tinkerbell.”
On Sunday, he surprises me by sending Claude to get some Garrett Popcorn—my favorite caramel that I love—and I chomp it down while we both sit and read in his comfy library. After I’ve licked my fingers good and clean and forced a few kernels past his lips, loving how he playfully tries to draw my finger into his mouth along with the popped corn, I curl up to his bare chest as he reads Michael Connelly while I read what stuck to me from his office bookshelf: an Agatha Christie, Destination Unknown.
I keep getting up to change my book for a few other Agatha Christie offerings even as Saint flips his pages.
Settling back down with a collection of Miss Marple stories, I peer into his book and make him share the page with me so I can skim through what he’s reading.
“Why does he suspect his brother’s death wasn’t a suicide?”
“Read it.” He tweaks my nose and tells me, “Get back to yours.”
“I like yours better.”
“No. You like distracting me better.”
“That too.”
We laugh, and I then determine to ignore him, so I pull up my book and shift on the long couch to set my feet on his lap. He takes one foot in his hand and holds his book with the other, reading for another half hour.
Before long, he’s leaning over to peer at my book. “Where are you?” he asks, his voice gruff from not speaking for a while as he skims the page. “Ahhhhh.”
WAR
Later that night he texts me, Free tomorrow?
I answer this because I want him to tell me what’s going on: Depends on where we’re going or who’s asking. What’s going on? I’ve been anxious, waiting to hear something ever since he took off.
But he ignores my question and instead answers: So it’s a no for everyone except me.
Someone’s cocky! I write back with a laugh.
Wear something comfortable.
With a delighted sigh, I resign myself to the fact that my mystery man will remain a mystery on this night. Whatever he’s up to, I trust he knows what he’s doing, though.
The next day he picks me up in BUG 2, and once he tells me we’re going to a polo match, I keep asking him to tell me what he is up to. But he just chucks my chin and says, calmly and unhurriedly, “Next week.”
His calm makes me relax about it as he leads me into the grounds. He’s wearing skintight white riding pants that hug an ass as perfect as a baseball player’s and a navy blue polo that hugs his torso, riding boots up to an inch below his knees.
Callan and Saint are playing, so Callan meets us and greets us before Saint leads me to a small, round white table with a perfect view of the field, kisses the corner of my mouth, and heads toward the stables.
For hours I sip my mineral water and watch the match, the thundering hooves hitting the ground, shuddering the stands. My hair flying in the wind. All I need is a hat and I’m absolutely in Pretty Woman.
I’m hooked on the game. Saint straddling a black thoroughbred horse, charging across the field, swinging a mallet in his hand, his muscles rippling, sweat glistening on his forehead. His horse has red ankle wraps on all four legs, and between the way it thunders down the field and the way Saint rides powerfully on it, I can’t see anything else.
But I can hear the whispers of the ladies at the tables behind mine, about the guy on the black horse. Who is he?
That’s Malcolm Saint, you dodo.
Shh, his girlfriend’s right there!
Carmichael’s on the white horse . . . do you see him?
I smile privately to myself.
Callan and Sin come over when the match is done. The tables behind me fall utterly quiet. They won 10 to 5, and I kiss Saint on the jaw and congratulate him and then I congratulate Callan.
“Gotta golden swing, this man of yours,” he says as he pats Saint’s back and they drop into their seats. Then it’s “Hey, ladies,” as he greets the girls behind us.
They titter.
We stay talking for a while, my curiosity peaked about the polo game more than ever.
“’Fess up, Saint. Does your horse have four names, like you?” I ask.
“He only came with one.” His green eyes twinkle and his lips curl as he sips his water with a hand on the back of my chair. “He already had a track record when I purchased him at auction.” Then he adds, “Matrix.”
“And Callan’s horse?”
“Swear to god, Saint, if you poke fun at my girl again . . .”
“His horse came with a name too.” Malcolm leans his head to me and laughs when Callan shoots him a deadly look. “Tinkerbell.”
On Sunday, he surprises me by sending Claude to get some Garrett Popcorn—my favorite caramel that I love—and I chomp it down while we both sit and read in his comfy library. After I’ve licked my fingers good and clean and forced a few kernels past his lips, loving how he playfully tries to draw my finger into his mouth along with the popped corn, I curl up to his bare chest as he reads Michael Connelly while I read what stuck to me from his office bookshelf: an Agatha Christie, Destination Unknown.
I keep getting up to change my book for a few other Agatha Christie offerings even as Saint flips his pages.
Settling back down with a collection of Miss Marple stories, I peer into his book and make him share the page with me so I can skim through what he’s reading.
“Why does he suspect his brother’s death wasn’t a suicide?”
“Read it.” He tweaks my nose and tells me, “Get back to yours.”
“I like yours better.”
“No. You like distracting me better.”
“That too.”
We laugh, and I then determine to ignore him, so I pull up my book and shift on the long couch to set my feet on his lap. He takes one foot in his hand and holds his book with the other, reading for another half hour.
Before long, he’s leaning over to peer at my book. “Where are you?” he asks, his voice gruff from not speaking for a while as he skims the page. “Ahhhhh.”
